Hello all!
I'm new here so I'm not too sure how this works, but I would appreciate any feedback at all. Thank you so much!!
For those thirty-seven days, I did not exist. My mother's boyfriend told me that I was not allowed to go to school because I was much more valuable at home, here, to him.
After sixteen days, the home phone was stuffed with voicemails from friends asking where I had gone, and teachers notifying my mother about my absences and dropping grades. She did not hear them.
After twenty-eight days, I began to hint to my mother that something was going terribly wrong without making clear that I was being sexually abused; she did not probe further.
After thirty-seven days, I awoke, crying, realizing that I was alone in the house for the first time; I called the Department of Child and Family Services, my body exhausted from the abuse but coursing with determination to free myself from my episode of CSI: Special Victims Unit.
The next day, I went back to school and took the final exams that ended the blur that was my first semester of eleventh grade.
My days immediately after were plagued with police officers, detectives, a vacant mother, and a new, easier course load. I had begged my counselor to let me stay in my AP classes, a request which was not granted; although it was not a welcome change, I decided to embrace it as an opportunity for healing.
This period was cut short when I drove home and found my mother's body being catapulted into a stretcher and rushed into the ambulance blocking the driveway. For six hours, the doctors played poker with me in the waiting room, every hour repeating, "Your mother is in bad condition; we can't tell if she will be okay. Just hang in there."
At 1 AM, I was told that my mother was being taken to the UCLA Intensive Care Unit. She was in a diabetic coma with a blood sugar higher than they had ever seen, and not even the best doctors knew when she was going to wake up. When my brother and I went home that night, darkness engulfed our eyes as we divided amongst ourselves the tasks needed to keep our family running.
Something was different about the morning after. I was both being consumed by exhaustion and racing with energy, an energy that engendered a motivation to conquer the obstacle now presented before me. For the next few weeks, as I waited for my mother to awake, I ran her business, file an extension for her taxes, edited my brother's essays, studied for the SAT Subject Tests, paid the bills, did the laundry, completed my homework, talked to my friends, drove my brother to school, contacted credit card agencies to extend our bill's deadline, volunteered at TeenLine, began a business to help pay our bills, read an epic biography about George Washington, jogged, and still found time to sleep as much as a junior can (which is to say, I did not sleep much at all). Each day now was about keeping my family together while taking care of my needs. I refused to miss another thirty-seven days of my life. This time, I was not going to shut down and wait.
My mom woke up disabled, and in a predictable turn of events, is still dating her boyfriend. It does not bother me, however, because my purpose has grown far from being the girl who gets her mom to notice her.
I have always wanted to make my own mark in the world; now, even in the midst of hardship, I know that I have the passion, experience, and emotional stability to do so.
I'm new here so I'm not too sure how this works, but I would appreciate any feedback at all. Thank you so much!!
For those thirty-seven days, I did not exist. My mother's boyfriend told me that I was not allowed to go to school because I was much more valuable at home, here, to him.
After sixteen days, the home phone was stuffed with voicemails from friends asking where I had gone, and teachers notifying my mother about my absences and dropping grades. She did not hear them.
After twenty-eight days, I began to hint to my mother that something was going terribly wrong without making clear that I was being sexually abused; she did not probe further.
After thirty-seven days, I awoke, crying, realizing that I was alone in the house for the first time; I called the Department of Child and Family Services, my body exhausted from the abuse but coursing with determination to free myself from my episode of CSI: Special Victims Unit.
The next day, I went back to school and took the final exams that ended the blur that was my first semester of eleventh grade.
My days immediately after were plagued with police officers, detectives, a vacant mother, and a new, easier course load. I had begged my counselor to let me stay in my AP classes, a request which was not granted; although it was not a welcome change, I decided to embrace it as an opportunity for healing.
This period was cut short when I drove home and found my mother's body being catapulted into a stretcher and rushed into the ambulance blocking the driveway. For six hours, the doctors played poker with me in the waiting room, every hour repeating, "Your mother is in bad condition; we can't tell if she will be okay. Just hang in there."
At 1 AM, I was told that my mother was being taken to the UCLA Intensive Care Unit. She was in a diabetic coma with a blood sugar higher than they had ever seen, and not even the best doctors knew when she was going to wake up. When my brother and I went home that night, darkness engulfed our eyes as we divided amongst ourselves the tasks needed to keep our family running.
Something was different about the morning after. I was both being consumed by exhaustion and racing with energy, an energy that engendered a motivation to conquer the obstacle now presented before me. For the next few weeks, as I waited for my mother to awake, I ran her business, file an extension for her taxes, edited my brother's essays, studied for the SAT Subject Tests, paid the bills, did the laundry, completed my homework, talked to my friends, drove my brother to school, contacted credit card agencies to extend our bill's deadline, volunteered at TeenLine, began a business to help pay our bills, read an epic biography about George Washington, jogged, and still found time to sleep as much as a junior can (which is to say, I did not sleep much at all). Each day now was about keeping my family together while taking care of my needs. I refused to miss another thirty-seven days of my life. This time, I was not going to shut down and wait.
My mom woke up disabled, and in a predictable turn of events, is still dating her boyfriend. It does not bother me, however, because my purpose has grown far from being the girl who gets her mom to notice her.
I have always wanted to make my own mark in the world; now, even in the midst of hardship, I know that I have the passion, experience, and emotional stability to do so.
