Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Tricia was her name. She is my mother. My parents separated on 11 September 2001. My father blamed it on her alcoholism and cheatin' heart. Even though I didn't want to admit it, I knew they were unhappy. My little sister and I were to live with my dad. Tricia was to go off to my grandparent's house until she could get a place of her own. Fast forward three or so months of akward every other weekend vistits, Tricia rolled her little Ford Espire over. Everyone in the small town where she lived was shocked that it was due to alchol. My grandfather kicked her out and told her that she had to go to rehab. She went to a rehab center about an two hours away from where I live. My little sister and I visited every other weekend with the supervision of the counslors there. I hated my mother for making me visit her here. I hated how she made cry myself to sleep. At eleven, a girl needs her mother. During that time, I was rasing my sister with the help of my father. Tricia would pop up every two or three months with a letter or phone call. During one of the first days of summer after my seventh grade year, she called. I remeber cursing at her trying to figure out why she was calling me. Tears were rolling down my face faster and faster. My dad told me to go to my room. I did. I closed the door behind me and all I hear are screams from my father. I decided to call my grandfather. That event changed me and within a few weeks, I decided that she was no longer going to make me cry. It took me a while to get over the whole ordeal but, I feel stronger because of it.