(no subject)

It creeped me out that Mom could still find ways to get to me. I didn't want to see her, but I couldn't tell her that, couldn't hurt her feelings. So that's what makes me uneasy if I think about her. She always found a way. Leaving packages sitting there on the front steps or hidden in the garage, for me to find, just me. Get right at me. Sending cards in the mail with no return address, but I always recognized that curlicue handwriting, and that good mom-perfume-smell that always made me feel sick and flushed, dread, and why did I always open them? Yeah. On more than one occasion, the phone ringing in class was for me: "Aimee, someone is waiting for you at the front office." And I walk into the waiting room kind of excited--maybe Aunt Ginger wants to play hookie? Spur-of-the-moment camping trip?-- And sitting right there is my crazy mom, what was I expecting? Standing up with presents in her hands and I have to make up some excuse, can't don't dare hurt her feelings, and then I run all the way home where warm Grandma is there and I feel grounded again. So I don't remember much of when I was living with her-- I remember all of what it's like with her when I'm living with my grandparents. And all those times I pick up the phone and nobody answers. Grandpa always talking bad about Dad. Jeez, give it a rest, I don't remember it and I already forgave and it has nothing to do with our lives. He's not an evil man, nobody is. Mom comforting me one night after a normal, homey fight with the grandparents (I just *had* to go to *her*, right?) and then filling up with righteous motherly anger that was just wrong and taking it upon herself to go up a defend me. And me kind of almost wanting her to. Cause I used to dream about her being my hero, coming to rescue me and living happily ever after in a cottage in the woods with lots of flowers. Then I just wanted to push her out of my mind when I came to the conclusion that there must be distance, and that although Mother by name, I couldn't let her do motherly things. She could give me all the free makeup samples and stuffed animals and Goodwill clothes she wanted, but I'll only smile distantly and give her a hug and some handmade present in return. She takes good care of herself unless she can't, and I think she'll always be out there somewhere, wandering around, my vagabond mom. With her walking stick that she uses to look old and undesirable to strange men. She's resourceful, my mom. She did steal $1,000 of Grandma's social security, after all. How she managed to convince that bank to transfer the account to a bank in California, using Grandma's own phone, I'll never know. I feel uneasy about being bitter, though, because she loves me so much (too much) and she gave me part of her inheritance, after all. And she never gave me too much of a guilt trip for not telling her where I go to college, after all. So hopefully she's changing for the better. Ha, and I know better than that. It always gets better, but it always get worse again. All I can do is enjoy her when she's good, and cut her off when she's bad. What was that I said about no rehashing? God.

"Picture yourself on a boat in a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies..."

Sometimes like now I just wish I could become a hippie and join a commune and escape everything in a sweet liquidy drug haze. Run around barefoot eating fruit wearing flowers away from problems and from worrying about all the stuff. But then, I don't do drugs.
I gotta do things I should do them but I can't get myself to do anything but let the worrying boil just under the surface. Avoiding it, not dealing with it. I'm gonna flunk everything and be a loser.