My Adventure to The Gold At The End of The Rainbow
My mother is not an evil person. More so than anything, she is a victim of circumstance. She was a victim of circumstance when she was 19 and pregnant with twins with no father figure in the picture. She was a victim when she married, 3 years later, into an outrageously abusive marriage that lasted 5 years. She was a victim right after, when she was a single mother again with 5 hungry mouths to feed and not enough hours of sleep at night. In her defense, she did the best she could. After her divorce, the majority of the domestic responsibilities fell on the shoulders of me and my twin. This was an uncontested way of life for the vast majority of my teenage years. My life revolved around babysitting and cleaning and cooking and laundry and homework and exams. At home, I wore the face of a soldier. I had no emotion, I was a robot built and brainwashed to serve my family and supremely my mother. Defiance and rebellion almost never reared their ugly heads, but when they did it was bad. Consequences ranged from typical groundings to physical cruelty that makes her years of marriage look tame by comparison. I was miserable, I was depressed, and I was hopeless.
At home, I was seen as a responsible little worker drone, but outside of there my personality and lifestyle shown brighter than the sun. I carried out my secret life of happiness for years and years. What was my secret? I’m gay. I could never fathom sharing this secret with anyone, especially my mother. She grew up in a time where this lifestyle was unacceptable. Her homophobic mentality centered on a legitimate fear. When her brother, my uncle, was 24 he was shot to death by an abusive ex-boyfriend. This accident tore apart my family, to this day we have all never been able to truly fix the relationships between all our family members .When I still lived at home, I was ruled by the fear that my mother might find out my dark secret, but I was motivated by the fact that I had finally found one part of my life that she had no control over. When I was in high school, I slipped up. On three separate occasions, I was found with evidence that illuminated my secret life to her. Once, when I was in 10th grade, I was walking along the outskirts of my high school, holding the hand of this girl I had a crush on at the time. Much to my surprise and dismay, I looked over to see my mother in her car driving slowly and angrily parallel to the sidewalk on which we were walking. My heart sunk down below my belly and I was petrified. Another time, that previous summer, I snuck some girl into my house during the day while my mother was at work. Unfortunately, I was not aware that my younger brother and sister had direct orders to inform my mother of all my activities, and once they caught onto my mischief they immediately delivered their report. I was terrified when she called me on my cell phone and began threatening me in every way. And yet somehow, on every occasion, I managed to talk her in circles around and away from the obvious truth. I lied and spun stories that were so evidently false. I realize now that I was so lucky to get away with all my little adventures. My mother’s denial during these years was too intense; she forced herself to believe these lies rather than face reality and have to deal with my sexuality. Even though she never found out my secret, I often still faced indescribable consequences as a result of her discoveries. However, I dutifully held strong through each and every one, because it was better than her discovering the truth. I lied like my life depended on it because in my eyes it did. I created false aliases and friends that I didn’t have to cover up the calls in my phone. When I had relationship drama and would cry at home, I would simply claim to have done poorly on a test. As I got older and began to socialize more, I would maintain that I was just at a friend watching movies when in all actuality I was running around the town with girls my mother didn’t know and would have never approved of. Little did I know these years would be the highlight of my short life.
Most people get a heads up when before their lives fall apart. Generally speaking, you don’t wake up one day being poor. Decisions and subtle signs like frivolous spending and not saving would have indicated the possibility of financial problems. If your boyfriend has been acting strange and sneaking around for a few weeks then abruptly dumps you, the strange acts would have served as a good warning. I got a heads up too. My life crashed not even 2 months after I turned 18. The calamity that occurred this fateful May evening would be the icing on the cake of 6 months of tragedy which most recently included the unexpected and heart wrenching death of my grandfather. My sister called me as soon as it all happened. I was at work, not anticipating the turn for the worse my night would be taking. It only took two words, and those two words were the most dreaded, most terrifying word combination possible in the English language, “She knows.” Following these two words began the rushed story of what had led up to this catastrophic event. My sister quickly informed me that various little annoyances she caused ultimately led my mother to confiscate her cell phone. Shortly after this confiscation, my mother read all her text messages. And that was it. Silence ensued and with the phone still pressed firmly to my ear, panic and anxiety began to develop at an astonishingly fast pace, starting in my heart and flowing through fill every pore of my body. Sadness and fear followed in suit, though much more slowly. We disconnected the call immediately, she needed to call someone to calm my mother down and prevent the very possible homicide that may occur. My inner eternal optimist attempted to battle these devastated emotions. Hopes and prayers rushed through my head, hope that I could talk my way yet again out of a compromising situation and prayers for my poor body and soul if I couldn’t. The remaining minutes of my work shift ticked down and trickled by more slowly than ever.
I walked out of the store where I worked with my feet dragging. I inched my way to the car and reminded myself to inhale exhale inhale. I opened the car door, set down my big brown purse and climbed in. I buckled my seatbelt before I brought the car door to a close. The moment it clicked in its lock, the interrogation began. My mother fired questions at me with a rapid fire speed, not giving me enough time to breathe let alone comprise some inkling of the truth or some twist of a lie. “How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me? How could you completely disobey me? What were you thinking? I have enough to deal with; I don’t need this on top of everything.” Each question was rhetorical, and they were all shouted as her face grew more and more red. She calmed for a moment, and looked almost serene as she gathered her composure. Part of me believes she wanted me to lie to her at this point. After all, she’s ‘caught’ me numerous of times before and I always managed to convince her that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. This time? This time I told her the truth. I shared every detail about my secret life. I cleared up every lie. I gave her the rundown of all my past girlfriends and flings and crashed parties and fake friends. These stories, I revised and repeated with the information that fit the life my twin sister had been leading. The minute the words left my mouth, I knew I had sealed our fate. There was no resurrection, no penance I could pay, no more lies, no more cover stories. She knew the whole truth. Time stopped for a moment in that car ride home, when I sighed the smallest sighs of relief. I wasn’t aware of how draining it was to keep my front up when I lived at home. Each lie and story and fake emotion had to put out had dwindled my energy levels to below low. There was an invisible weight that was lifted from my shoulders, a weight that was much heavier than I had realized. And not it was all over, she knew. I would never again have to lie. I would never have to hide who I really was. My mother sat there, feeling the tension. She replayed my words in her head over and over again. When I got home, I had the order; my mother not surprisingly decreed that we could no longer live under her roof. My sister and I packed our bags, and slowly trudged out of the last place we would ever call home.
From there, I began my adult life. I had a job, and I was still in high school. I had a typical teenage life but had the added pressure of grown adult responsibilities. I had to learn to budget, to discipline myself enough to focus on school and work. I had to push myself harder than hard to accomplish the simple task of graduating high school. Once again, I was miserable. But this time, I was truly free. I faced daily hardships and responsibilities, but it was worth the freedom. I escaped a lifetime of physical and emotional abuse, I escaped my double life. I paid the highest price for these freedoms, but I can stand today and know it was worth every moment. I’m not rich, I don’t have a great job, I struggle to get by, but I am without a doubt proud to be where I am. I’m fully independent. My own two feet are all I stand on. I’ve learned to be the strong girl I’ve always had inside of me and to never let anyone try to change who I am. I had to hide myself from me for o many years. Nothing will ever compare to that moment in my life, and I’ve learned to appreciate what I have as result.
