They don't really listen when I say that despite the fact that I loved her, she wasn't my friend, or even much of a guardian, while she was alive. There was a time when we were as close to enemies as two family members can come. I never felt that safe sort of closeness with her that other people seem to feel around their mothers.
My mother died almost twenty years ago, on February 4, 1987, when I was fifteen, from an overdose of cocaine taken intravenously. In addition to her cocaine addiction, she was an alcoholic, and one of the very few marijuana users I've ever met (and I've met a lot) who was addicted to that herb.
In the year or two before her death, we seemed to fight continuously. I honestly can't say how much of that was the result of normal adolescent rebellion and how much was due to her addictions.
When she died, our daily war ended precipitously, and it was startling how much of a relief it was.
The point of all this is that I hear you, and understand. Of course, you don't know me, so that probably doesn't mean much to you, but there it is.
My mother died almost twenty years ago, on February 4, 1987, when I was fifteen, from an overdose of cocaine taken intravenously. In addition to her cocaine addiction, she was an alcoholic, and one of the very few marijuana users I've ever met (and I've met a lot) who was addicted to that herb.
In the year or two before her death, we seemed to fight continuously. I honestly can't say how much of that was the result of normal adolescent rebellion and how much was due to her addictions.
When she died, our daily war ended precipitously, and it was startling how much of a relief it was.
The point of all this is that I hear you, and understand. Of course, you don't know me, so that probably doesn't mean much to you, but there it is.
If you're interested, I invite you to read the letter I wrote to her on her 53rd birthday.
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