I like to believe anyone can change if you believe in them hard enough, if you give them enough chances, but my mother isn’t going to change. She’s got no interest in changing, in growing as a person. She’s got no interest in me or our relationship or fixing things between us.
She’s selfish, and this is it.
This is the end of the line for us.
This is the part where I walk away from my childhood, where I walk away from the woman who raised me, where I leave the past behind.
This is the part where I accept there are some things I can’t change and I move on.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Mom,” I tell her. “And I’m not going to apologize. I’m not going to fix this. Mandy got herself into this mess and she can get herself out. I know you don’t love me or want me around. I know I’m just the fuck-up to you, and you know what? That’s fine, but I don’t have any interest in being the person you blame for everything. Not anymore.”
For a second, I think about telling her she can call me when she changes her mind, when she decides to change, when she pulls it all together, but I don’t.
I whisper a soft “goodbye,” then I get in my car and I drive away, leaving my mother standing at the edge of the parking lot looking confused, looking weak, looking tired.
But she also looks angry, and I know I made the right choice.
I hope I made the right fucking choice.
2
Melody
I’m not a pretty crier.
Some girls can cry for hours and never mess up their makeup, never get frizzy hair, never get swollen eyes.
That’s not me.
When I cry, I cry ugly, so I pull into a rest area, turn off the car, and have my cry. I let out everything I’m feeling, everything I’m going through. I let out everything and I just cry and cry and cry.
I’m not sure how long I’m supposed to cry for. I feel like I shouldn’t cry for a long time. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes is enough. That’s long enough to get the tears out, but not so long that my crying becomes ridiculous.
After all, it’s their loss, right?
It’s easy to say, but harder to live with. It’s difficult to be able to say, “Yep. I fucked up. I should have severed ties with these people a long time ago.” Part of me wonders why I didn’t. I know why, though. When I really, actually think about it, I know why. They’re my family and I can’t stand the idea of hurting them. Then again, I don’t think this really hurts them.
In order to be hurt by someone, you have to care.
They don’t.
They never have.
They care about themselves, and maybe they even care about one another, but they certainly don’t care about Fat Melody. They certainly don’t care about the elephant in the room.
That happens to be me.
I made my choice, though. When I return to Morris, I won’t have to deal with them again. My family lives far enough away that they would never stop by for a social visit. They’d plan anytime they wanted to see me. After today, I’m guessing that will be exactly zero times. Zero visits. Good riddance.
Finally, I dry my tears, turn on my music, and set the GPS. It’s time to get back home. It’s a three hour drive from Centerville to Morris, and I only drove for twenty minutes before pulling over and giving in to my tears.
It’s already getting dark, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a storm brewing. The last thing I want is to get caught in a storm on the mountain drive back, so it’s time to leave. I take off, singing along with my favorite bands. The Violet Burning and Brave Saint Saturn take my mind off the way my heart feels like it’s drowning. I can’t even really explain why this all hurts so much. I don’t want to.
I just want to be done with it.
When I get back to Morris, I can throw myself into work. I have a presentation on Monday morning to discuss ways we can improve the call center I work at. I’ve come up with several strategies to reduce call wait time and improve the productivity of our agents. While everyone works really hard at my office, I firmly believe in worker smarter: not harder. With a few minor changes, everyone can relax a little bit while experiencing improved performance.
At least, that’s the goal.