Graduation Day
She held my hand down hard under the airport kiosk. Don’t be a bitch. I don’t remember doing anything except being myself. Maybe that’s the sass, or maybe my mother couldn’t undo two decades of abuse.
When we touched down in California, I was all Happy Face, the one I make when I’m trying hard to avoid what’s really happening, what I’m really feeling. It’s a wall I put up when I need to decompress behind the scenes, like an actress who has forgotten her lines and needs to regroup alone, away from the crowd.
Perhaps I'll win an Oscar, or perhaps it's not necessary to reward trauma.
When we got to San Francisco, I took a selfie with my parents in the background. We all look like hell. Thirteen hours of travel later and we all need to build walls around ourselves. Walls that include a cigarette break, or maybe a divorce.
My sister waved like the queen at her graduation. My mother gave her flowers, I took the necessary social media pictures. It was precious, like the love and respect we think we deserve from ourselves, but can never fathom feeling when the diploma is handed to you.
I remember everyone’s happy faces. We didn’t know she was an alcoholic too, we didn’t know anything at all about who she really was.
Walls. My family puts them up like air, like the clouds. Blink and they’re different, the shape taking on a new animal, but never a new addiction.