How To Lose a Mom, Be Abused, and Still Stand Tall

I am 19 years, 2 months, and 6 days old. I've been thinking of ideas for my first, second, and third tattoos. When I'm not writing or playing the Sims 4, I snuggle with my dog Ben-G and watch as many Golden Girl episodes as I can. If you asked me my favorite food, I'd probably pause, laugh, and confess that I would love anything with cheese on it, despite my lactose intolerance. My favorite color is cerulean. You might be thinking, why am I telling you all of this? Well, I'll tell you — eventually.

My mom died on May 9th, 2015. It was not quite one o'clock — around 12:45 — when she took her last breath on the living room floor as the family she loved struggled to save her. Her death was the one of many in my family that year; in fact, there was a death each month from January up to my mom's passing in May - an aunt, an uncle, my grandfather, cousin, and finally her. Hers was the one that broke me. My first response to finding her unresponsive and cold was one of fear and anger mixed together. How could this happen to me? Why was life being so cruel? Why did God turn his back on me? How could my mom just leave me all alone in a world that was crueler than I originally thought? I was suddenly on my own and in the hands of the state of Georgia. The state ultimately thought that it would be a good decision for me to live with my grandmother. They couldn't have been more wrong.

My grandmother is from a town in South Carolina that no longer exists, a 78-year-old woman with an “interesting character”. Surviving in the Jim Crow era and moving to New Jersey for work, she lived a life that many could not do, an inspiration for some of her church members — one of them even naming his daughter after her. However, she has her ways, some of which I would without a doubt describe as evil or at least malevolent in nature. I currently recognize these as the product of her upbringing, the end result of a hard life. My adolescent self simply thought that she was a bit of a bitch. A control-freak with a habit of manipulating others, lying to people, and despising gay people, my grandmother’s existence made me feel sorry for her children, two of them just happening to be homosexual — one of them, my mom.

I heard horror stories about all of the injustices done to my mom simply because of her sexual orientation. Sadly, I have experienced some of them as well; when my grandmother found out about my attraction to girls, she initially thought that I had forgotten what I had learned in church, having me reread the infamous Bible verse Leviticus 18:22, and suggesting that the next time I come to visit, she would send me to a conversion camp just to “see if they really worked”. To this day, she will still interrupt an otherwise pleasant conversation with me by taking the time to berate me, reminding me that there was a time where I wore dresses and had a boyfriend, without taking the time to recognize that I was simply a confused child that attempted to fit into the norms of society. Almost all of those instances had occurred over the phone, but now I was officially in the hands of a supposedly loving guardian who only made my days with her a living hell. On top of taking whatever insult she decided to hurl at me every day, she had restricted me from leaving the house most days. In fact, there was one time in July 2015 where she had become so upset with me, that she pretended that I didn’t exist. I lived off of snacks and expired food for two weeks because she refused to cook me anything. She failed to mop the floor, or rather failed to tell me that there was spilled water on the floor, and watched as I slipped in the water and fell, badly twisting my ankle; as I struggled to rise, she watched from the living room and did nothing. Just feet from where her own daughter ceased to exist, she sat and chuckled as I fought tears, managing to get up despite my excruciating pain and mop up the floor myself. The house was no longer my own. I accepted that as such. From May to August, I lived in my own personal hell, in a house that was no longer my home. Thankfully, I had eventually stopped hating God and He apparently no longer wanted me to suffer.

My grandmother decided to make my other parent, my mom’s ex-girlfriend, a guardian. She now had parental rights over me until I turned 18. An opportunity had risen, resurrected rather, and I submitted a college application on my 17th birthday. I was accepted. I no longer had to live in hell. The move from Georgia to Massachusetts was a bittersweet one, as I was leaving my family and friends behind. But a chapter was written in my life that I never thought was possible, and I couldn’t wait to see how it would finish.

Now, I am 19 years, 2 months, and 6 days old. My mom’s 53rd birthday was four days ago. I am approaching my third year in college, majoring in creative writing and contemporary critical theory. I had lunch with a professor of mine not too long ago, who realized that since arriving on campus, I haven’t been able to rest or give myself a chance to breathe. I had told her that that was just how I lived, with a quaint smile. In the past year, I was impacted by two more passings in my family. I took a chance and went down to Parris Island to try and earn the title of Marine (I failed). I took a flight down to Savannah, despite breaking my cell phone just days before my departure, and spent time with my big sister. I met my father for the first time. I went back home and spent time with the family I missed, finally kissed and held my partner for the first time in two years. Then, I left and went to see my grandmother. I spent a week with her in the house vibrant with memories, now currently for sale, before arriving back in Massachusetts. So once again, you’re probably wondering why I am telling you all of this. The point is this: to illustrate that I continue to thrive, to grow, to live my life by accepting every aspect of its enigmatic, conflicting customs.

I accepted the fact that my mom was dead two years after she had taken her last breath. I accepted the fact that my grandmother would never change three years after she had wronged me; I have forgiven her and continue to have somewhat of a relationship with her to this day, although it is at times strained — but I have accepted that too. I accepted the fact that there is nothing that I can do to change any of these things and kept on going. Acceptance is the final stage of grief, but it is also a crucial part of moving on. Acceptance for me is having a sense of closure, an opportunity to close the door of one experience and eventually shifting into another — and look at what it’s done for me so far.

I met new friends. I went to a zoo for the first time and pet a deer. A moment of inspiration led to me starting a novel. I write a lot of more poems now. Taking advantage of a sale, I bought myself a golden chain to treat myself. I have a learner’s permit. I’m happy. I’m bold. I’m confident. I’ve become a better version of myself, and this time, I know I’m okay. I accepted that life will knock me down sometimes, but that just means that I can get back up. With certainty for the first time in a long time, I can finally say that I am okay.