I stayed up all night trying to write an honest piece about my mother. All that came out were questions.
Were you an addict?
Or were you an alcoholic?
Were you both?
Is that why Dad raised us?
Have I inherited an addictive personality from you?
Is that something I should worry about?
Was I depressed from the womb or could you have stopped it?
Why did Dad fall in love with you?
How did you lose it?
When did you stop caring?
Did you ever?
When did you stop bathing?
When did you stop cleaning the house?
When did you look in the mirror and decide you weren’t worth it?
Is that why Dad left you?
Did you lose yourself?
Could you never find her to begin with?
Is it because you were adopted?
Did your real mom supply the void that you passed onto me?
Have you ever loved yourself?
Did you not have enough love to give to me?
Do you see things the way I do?
Do you see what’s been lost?
Do you really think you tried your best?
Did you care that I didn’t go to prom?
Did you know why I slept so much?
Did you know why I couldn’t get out of bed and go to school?
Did you ever realize that I was too embarrassed to invite my friends over?
Or why I didn’t want them to meet you?
Am I really a brat?
Or did you call me a brat because you couldn’t give me what I needed?
Are you ever content?
Are you scared that it’s too late?
Why did your husband really go to prison?
Do you really love him?
Are you too weak to leave him?
Will you ever get out?
Will you ever be as radiant as you were in your wedding day pictures?
Will you ever be brave enough to start over?
Were you me when you were 22?
Were you full of fire and rock n roll?
Will you ever write again?