London

In a world of shadows and deceit

A tale of twisted paths I now repeat

My mother’s whims led us to London’s embrace

But she twisted the truth, putting me in a dark place

At 14, innocence still held its sway

But she bought me a beer, leading me astray

Intoxication became my nightly friend

A week of drunken haze, a journey that won’t mend

She found amusement in my intoxicated state

Capturing pictures of my vulnerability, sealed by fate

As I vomited, my boyfriend held my hair

A scene of degradation, a moment of despair

Leaving behind the touristy lights of the city

We ventured to Wales, where shadows showed no pity

Left alone with a stranger, abandoned in despair

She sought solace in a bar, leaving me to bear

Returning home, forced into the walls of AA

Shattered image, a role model gone astray

But through the darkness, a glimmer of light

A strength emerging, ready to take flight

For in the depths of pain and despair

An ember of resilience began to flare

From the ashes of a broken past

A new narrative emerges, a story to outlast

No longer defined by the choices she made

I’ll rise above, breaking free from the charade

In my own journey, I find solace and grace

Rebuilding my world, finding my own rightful place

 

At the age of 12, I encountered a boy in a Yahoo chat room. Our connection was instant, and we swiftly agreed to become boyfriend and girlfriend. He resided in Wales, and our mothers permitted us to take turns calling each other. I had the opportunity to speak to him on the phone twice a week, for two years. Although, it proved challenging to comprehend his accent!

Skipping ahead to spring break in 1999, I was then 14 years old. During this time, my mother and I had plans to travel to New York. Unexpectedly, she approached me with an offer to fly to London and meet (name kept private) instead. She claimed that the package deal for the rental car, hotel, and flight was more cost-effective for this option. Later on, I overheard her telling others that I had pleaded to go to London instead, painting me as manipulative, spoiled, and always getting my way, but I didn't care, because I was going to get to meet my boyfriend! Interestingly, she conveniently left out the detail about (name kept private) even existing.

This incident occurred before the widespread use of cell phones. Our flight was located two and a half hours away from our home, prompting us to drive to my uncle's house, located near the airport, for assistance with transportation and a place to leave our vehicle to avoid daily parking fees. Upon reaching the airport, we were informed that our flight had been cancelled and that they had attempted to contact us. In a display of assertiveness and frustration, my mother managed to secure us seats on an alternate flight, as she rightly pointed out that they had called us a mere 30 minutes prior to our arrival.

Our intention was to rendezvous with them at the hotel in London. The second flight landed a mere 25 minutes following the original schedule. Upon our arrival at the hotel, we were met by (name kept private), his mother, and brother waiting for us. It was a surreal moment for the both of us. Following an hour of conversation, (name kept private)'s mother and brother bid their farewells, leaving (name kept private) to accompany us at our hotel. His stay was supposed to be brief, as he was set to return home in just three days, by use of train.

While at a bar, my mother purchased my first beer for me, followed by several more pints. (Name kept private), equipped with a fake ID, also indulged in the alcohol, as the legal drinking age in the area was 16. (He was also 14) Despite being aware of our nightly drinking escapades, my mother did not intervene or discourage us. On the contrary, she continued to supply me with more drinks, resulting in me being inebriated for the majority of our week-long stay. The consequence of excessive drinking led to bouts of vomiting, with french fries and other food scattered across various locations in London.

I have vivid memories of spending countless hours vomiting into the toilet at one point. (Name kept private) was there, holding my hair, while my mother snapped photos and laughed uproariously. There are even pictures of me, completely hungover, lying on (Name kept private)'s lap. Later, my mother made a scrapbook featuring that photo and wrote about how "tired" I was from the flight and time difference. In my drunken haze, she also allowed me to get my belly button pierced and convinced me to send a postcard to our local small town police department, allowing them to believe that it was my idea, and continuing to paint the picture of her "crazy" and "out of control, mentally ill" daughter.

(Name kept private) and I were also intimate on multiple occasions, which my mother knew about because she would make derogatory comments towards me. She would often roll her eyes and cough or sigh, letting me know she was irritated and disgusted, (maybe even jealous), but never intervened and allowed the intimate relationship to continue. This all took place before the next phase of our trip, which she still allowed, knowing what she knew.

(Name kept private) and I persuaded our mother's to allow us to go to their home. So, we all boarded a train to his home, leaving the touristy city of London. We spent two days there, with our mothers heading to the bar upon arrival, leaving (Name kept private) and me to continue our adventures. We were allowed to sleep in his room, unmonitored. It was a great experience meeting all of (Name kept private)'s friends and exchanging accents. Of course, I had a blast. I was just 14 years old, just a kid, and she was the parent; my role model... I can't tell you how many times I was called a, "dirty disgusting slut" on this trip.

As the poem suggests, when I came back home, my mother insisted that I join Alcoholics Anonymous. She informed all my medical professionals that I had a drinking issue, attributing it to my father's (she conveniently left her drinking shenanigans out) family history of alcoholism and undiagnosed bipolar disorder-not true.

This narrative captures the essence of my upbringing - the uncertainty, my unpredictable actions, and the true nature of the mother I knew behind closed doors.