cinderfloof
Official Queen of Trash
[This is really just an uber personal essay I wrote for a creative writing class. It's not very good, but feel free to read and review it if you wish. ]
Sleeping Beauty
My mother was sleeping beauty. I remember waking up at sunrise to see her laid daintily upon the sheets, a picture of grace. Time would pass and the sun reached its peak, slowly but surely. Only when the light dripped through the windowpane and graced her lips did she awaken; true love’s kiss. I looked up to her in a way. Despite our miniscule apartment and crippling poverty, she was able to find happiness. She was a queen and I her princess, two cinderellas waiting on a fairy to come and grant our wishes. In the meantime I drank my tea and she smoked her cigarette, both hanging loosely from two dainty pairs of hands. The swirls of ash drifted in the air as I pretended it was fairy dust. You could imagine our joy when our heart’s wish came true. My father had purchased tickets to the most mystical destination of all, Disney World.
For the next few months she arose from bed before I did, combed her long locks every day and laughed more than she cried. The days ticked by until finally we departed. I remember her determination to drive miles upon miles without stopping, my brother and sister cheering loudly in the back seat. Her newfound motivation made me smile. Finally, she was her old self again.
At most points of our trip, she was more excited than us children were. She moved with such excitement that she never bothered to stop and smell the roses. It was of no surprise that she never stopped to take pictures. The only photograph my mother bothered to take was of the monumental disney sign inviting visitors to enter the park. Perhaps she’d only done it to give her anxious hands something to do, but as I watched her smile and snap the photo I resolved that it didn’t matter.
The fantasy was over far too soon. A week later, my siblings and I huddled in the back seat after a long day of adventure. Mickey Mouse ears laid perched on my head comfortably, perfect memorabilia of my best memories. I felt content, but her happiness had been drained. For the entire ride she had either slept or stared dormantly out of the window. Perhaps her excitement had soaked all of her newfound energy? There was no way she could be sad again, I figured. I was wrong. The day after were returned home, she was screaming. My siblings and I huddled inside the closet to listen closer, the mouse ears seemingly amplifying our sensitivity to sound, but there were only crashes and guttural yells tinged with emotion. Sirens came and left. From midnight until dawn, she laid in her bed trembling with tears. Then, it stopped. I simply reckoned she was asleep. The house was silent and I swore to my younger siblings that the fighting was truly my parents battling monsters as I rushed them off to school.
It wasn’t until 8:15 AM that I found my mother laid in bed. Her face was red and stained, her eyes were open but empty, and whitened saliva spilled from her mouth onto the crisp sheets. Her limbs fell gracefully, but inhumanly still. My only indication as to what had happened was the empty bottle of prescription medicine beside her. Like any good child is taught to do, I dialed 911 and stood in silence. My mind raced with questions. What was happening? Was it an accident? Had I done this? Was it my fault? I almost wanted it to be. At least then, It seemed something controllable.
At 8:37 AM, the ambulance and police had arrived. They found me standing in the bedroom, unmoving. What must they have seen? The rest of the story is just another blurry memory. I didn’t want to remember and forced myself into a habit of pretending. She wasn’t dead inside or sick, she’d made an accident. This was all a nightmare that I could will myself awake from. My father came home and I stayed from school. We didn’t talk about it, as there was nothing to be said.
Slowly, I grew embarrassed by stubborn ignorance. This was real. My parents weren’t perfect, our shoddy apartment was no castle, and my blind eye to mental illness hurt her worse than anything else could. My entire life was an illusion created to protect me. It’s an illusion most children are given, that the world is a place of happiness and sunshine or that adults never feel. My mother wasn’t a character, she was a person. How could I have denied it? Bottles and bottles of medicine stacked on her nightstand, the unwillingness to sleep or eat; all of the undeniable proof was there. 3:00 came quicker than we had imagined. My brother and sister skipped through the doors from school, and I could barely stop myself from forcing a smile. Their question was inevitable.
“Where’s mommy?”
My lie tumbled naturally. She was fine in my fabrication, visiting our grandmother in a far away state. I found my behavior nothing short of bizarre. The illusion my parents had created hurt us all in the end, and yet I so readily continued the tradition. Nowadays I almost mirror my mother’s behavior. Depression regularly holds me hostage in bed just as it did to her. I continue to tell my siblings that everything is perfect, knowing that someday they’ll inevitably realise that nothing ever was. Just months before writing this I was cooped up in a hospital pretending that pills can be overdosed on accidentally, simply because that’s how things should be. It is impolite to not be ‘fine’. I wonder if I’ll someday have the bravery to tell the truth, or anyone for that matter, but I doubt anything will change. Beautiful lies are, after all, far more comfortable than any truth.
Sleeping Beauty
My mother was sleeping beauty. I remember waking up at sunrise to see her laid daintily upon the sheets, a picture of grace. Time would pass and the sun reached its peak, slowly but surely. Only when the light dripped through the windowpane and graced her lips did she awaken; true love’s kiss. I looked up to her in a way. Despite our miniscule apartment and crippling poverty, she was able to find happiness. She was a queen and I her princess, two cinderellas waiting on a fairy to come and grant our wishes. In the meantime I drank my tea and she smoked her cigarette, both hanging loosely from two dainty pairs of hands. The swirls of ash drifted in the air as I pretended it was fairy dust. You could imagine our joy when our heart’s wish came true. My father had purchased tickets to the most mystical destination of all, Disney World.
For the next few months she arose from bed before I did, combed her long locks every day and laughed more than she cried. The days ticked by until finally we departed. I remember her determination to drive miles upon miles without stopping, my brother and sister cheering loudly in the back seat. Her newfound motivation made me smile. Finally, she was her old self again.
At most points of our trip, she was more excited than us children were. She moved with such excitement that she never bothered to stop and smell the roses. It was of no surprise that she never stopped to take pictures. The only photograph my mother bothered to take was of the monumental disney sign inviting visitors to enter the park. Perhaps she’d only done it to give her anxious hands something to do, but as I watched her smile and snap the photo I resolved that it didn’t matter.
The fantasy was over far too soon. A week later, my siblings and I huddled in the back seat after a long day of adventure. Mickey Mouse ears laid perched on my head comfortably, perfect memorabilia of my best memories. I felt content, but her happiness had been drained. For the entire ride she had either slept or stared dormantly out of the window. Perhaps her excitement had soaked all of her newfound energy? There was no way she could be sad again, I figured. I was wrong. The day after were returned home, she was screaming. My siblings and I huddled inside the closet to listen closer, the mouse ears seemingly amplifying our sensitivity to sound, but there were only crashes and guttural yells tinged with emotion. Sirens came and left. From midnight until dawn, she laid in her bed trembling with tears. Then, it stopped. I simply reckoned she was asleep. The house was silent and I swore to my younger siblings that the fighting was truly my parents battling monsters as I rushed them off to school.
It wasn’t until 8:15 AM that I found my mother laid in bed. Her face was red and stained, her eyes were open but empty, and whitened saliva spilled from her mouth onto the crisp sheets. Her limbs fell gracefully, but inhumanly still. My only indication as to what had happened was the empty bottle of prescription medicine beside her. Like any good child is taught to do, I dialed 911 and stood in silence. My mind raced with questions. What was happening? Was it an accident? Had I done this? Was it my fault? I almost wanted it to be. At least then, It seemed something controllable.
At 8:37 AM, the ambulance and police had arrived. They found me standing in the bedroom, unmoving. What must they have seen? The rest of the story is just another blurry memory. I didn’t want to remember and forced myself into a habit of pretending. She wasn’t dead inside or sick, she’d made an accident. This was all a nightmare that I could will myself awake from. My father came home and I stayed from school. We didn’t talk about it, as there was nothing to be said.
Slowly, I grew embarrassed by stubborn ignorance. This was real. My parents weren’t perfect, our shoddy apartment was no castle, and my blind eye to mental illness hurt her worse than anything else could. My entire life was an illusion created to protect me. It’s an illusion most children are given, that the world is a place of happiness and sunshine or that adults never feel. My mother wasn’t a character, she was a person. How could I have denied it? Bottles and bottles of medicine stacked on her nightstand, the unwillingness to sleep or eat; all of the undeniable proof was there. 3:00 came quicker than we had imagined. My brother and sister skipped through the doors from school, and I could barely stop myself from forcing a smile. Their question was inevitable.
“Where’s mommy?”
My lie tumbled naturally. She was fine in my fabrication, visiting our grandmother in a far away state. I found my behavior nothing short of bizarre. The illusion my parents had created hurt us all in the end, and yet I so readily continued the tradition. Nowadays I almost mirror my mother’s behavior. Depression regularly holds me hostage in bed just as it did to her. I continue to tell my siblings that everything is perfect, knowing that someday they’ll inevitably realise that nothing ever was. Just months before writing this I was cooped up in a hospital pretending that pills can be overdosed on accidentally, simply because that’s how things should be. It is impolite to not be ‘fine’. I wonder if I’ll someday have the bravery to tell the truth, or anyone for that matter, but I doubt anything will change. Beautiful lies are, after all, far more comfortable than any truth.
