Watch Over Me Read Free

I stated.
    "Well, you're a teenager. You think everything is weird. And you dress funny, so really,
     you have no say in the matter. I blame you anyway. You're the one who started buying
     snowmen for me."
    "Hey, it's not my fault the Secret Santa shop at school sucks. And I was nine. You
     can't hold that against me," I complained as I got down on my knees and started looking
     through one of the open totes.
    "Oh yes I can. That's the joy of being a mother. I can blame you for whatever I want
     because I'm the adult," she said with a laugh.
    "I can't wait to have my own kids so I can torture them like you do me," I told her
     as I pulled a snow globe out and held it up in front of me, watching the snow swirl
     gently around the snowman inside.
    "Oh believe me, I can't wait until you have kids either. I curse you with a daughter
     just like you so you can feel my pain and I can sit back, point, and laugh."
     

     
    A sharp pain shoots through my chest when I remember how many times my mother and
     I had that same conversation about children. According to her, I was a monster as
     a baby. I never slept through the night, I had colic, and I was just an all-around
     pain in the ass. This of course only intensified when I became a teenager with PMS.
     She delighted in the fact that one day she would get to watch me live through the
     same hell with my own children. But that would never be. She would never coach me
     through childbirth or give me advice on what type of food to serve at a first birthday
     party. None of that matters now since I'm never going to have children. It's hard
     enough living day in and day out without her; I can't even imagine the pain of doing
     it with children who will never meet their grandmother.
    I immediately shut off my mind from the memories. I can't think about her. If I do,
     I'll fall back down the rabbit hole and never be able to surface. I know it's not
     healthy to use this on/off switch as much as I do, but it's the only way I know how
     to survive. The only way I can wake up each day, put one foot in front of the other,
     and keep going.
    With a sigh, I flip on the light switch in the kitchen and get to work preparing the
     dough for the next day's cookies and the batter for the cupcakes. While I mix and
     stir, I think about the holiday coming up next month and wonder if my dad, on his
     fifth trip to rehab, will still be sober when that date rolls around. I feel a moment
     of shame when I remember that day at the cemetery. After ten months of therapy, I
     still can't say the words out loud to anyone. My therapist tries over and over to
     get me to relive that day's events, but I refuse. Instead, we talk about coping, living
     your life to the fullest, and how to overcome the grief that can swallow you whole.
     I put on a good show of acting like I'm "cured" and that I'm ready to join the land
     of the living. I prove to her that I'm better and that thoughts of death and darkness
     don't consume my every thought anymore.
    She will never be privy to my dreams at night, though, and she will never know how
     many times I still wonder if I would be happier away from this place, away from the
     pain and despair of trying to go on with my life when the most important person in
     my world is no longer there to help me.
    As I crack an egg into the big mixing bowl, the faint, jagged scar on the inside of
     my left wrist gives me pause and brings the memories I hate to think about, but ones
     that will never leave me alone, swirling to the surface.
     

     
    "Hi-ya mmo-om," I slurred as I plopped down on top of the dirt below her headstone
     and crisscrossed my legs. The handful of pills I swallowed with a sip of coffee on
     the drive over were starting to work their magic. I felt like I was floating on a
     cloud, and the thoughts in my head were fuzzy.
    I stared at the small, oval circle below her name that held a picture of her at my
     cousin's wedding the previous October. I hated headstones