I'm Glad My Mom Died(36)

My body is shifting a bit. My nipple buds have become very tiny breasts, and it’s getting harder to hide them with my undershirt-pulled-through-underwear-legs technique. My skin is breaking out a bit too, which is new and weird and embarrassing. This past year, I’ve started wearing makeup on set, and even on my off days. I used to hate makeup, but now I want to wear it. To hide behind it.

I recently started shaving my legs, too—well, Mom does it for me, because she still showers me even though I’m sixteen. I didn’t even know shaving legs was a thing until I heard a co-star’s mom making fun of my “hairy legs” to my co-star, and then she laughed in a way that has haunted me every time I’ve shaved my legs since.

So now, even though Mom isn’t as stressed about bills or my body, my legs are smooth and my nipples are past bud stage and my skin is red and bumpy in places and all of this feels awkward to me.

The show has progressively grown in popularity. Susan keeps throwing around terms like “cultural phenomenon” and “global sensation.” The more the show’s exploded, the more my fame has too. I’ve been on countless red carpets for fancy events and award shows and movie premieres. I’ve done talk shows like Good Morning America and The Today Show and Craig Ferguson and Bonnie Hunt’s new one.

I can’t go places anymore without being recognized. I no longer go to Disneyland, my favorite place, because last time I tried, I was walking down Main Street and so many people came up to me that they had to stop the Christmas Fantasy Parade midway through. Goofy looked pissed.

The kind of fame I have now is causing me a level of stress that I did not know was possible. I know everybody wants it, and everybody tells me how lucky I am to have it, but I hate it. I feel constantly on edge whenever I leave the house to go anywhere. I’m worried that strangers will come up to me and I get very anxious when interacting with strangers.

They’ll shout things at me like, “SAM! Where’s your fried chicken?!” or “Can you hit me with your buttersock?!” A buttersock is a prop my character frequently uses, and it’s exactly what it sounds like: a sock filled with butter. My character carries it around to “beat people up” with.

Whenever someone shouts at me about chicken or socks, I’ll laugh like it’s a good one even though it’s not a good one. I’ve heard this good one thousands of times, and it was a bad one from the get-go, but it only morphs into a worse one with each time I hear it. I’m shocked by how many people think they’re original and say the same thing.

I’m so unimpressed by people. Even irritated by them. At times even disgusted by them. I don’t know exactly when this happened, but I know it’s a relatively recent switch and I know fame had something to do with it. I’m tired of people approaching me like they own me. Like I owe them something. I didn’t choose this life. Mom did.

My anxiety causes me to be a people pleaser. My anxiety causes me to take the picture and sign my autograph and say it’s a good one. But underneath that anxiety is a deep, unearthed combination of feelings that I fear to face. I fear that I’m bitter. I’m too young to be bitter. Especially as a result of a life that people supposedly envy. And I fear that I resent my mother. The person I have lived for. My idol. My role model. My one true love.

This complicated feeling crops up when I take a picture with a stranger and I see Mom standing off to the side, mirroring the smile she wants me to have.

It happens when she tells the person taking the picture to “Get one more! Or two more, just in case!” when she knows how much I dislike this whole thing.

It happens when she has me practice my autographs and tells me “It’s getting sloppy. Little C, Big C, U-R-D-Y. They need to be able to read every letter.”

It happens when she pitches me on what slogan to write to accompany my autographs. “See ya at the movies!” is the current winner, and Lord knows why. I’m not even in movies, I’m on TV. And kids’ TV, at that—which, if anything, almost guarantees the fact that I will never be in any movies. The transition from child stardom to a legitimate career as an adult in the entertainment industry is a notoriously tough one—even for young actors blessed with roles in credible films with credible directors. But for kids who start out on kids’ TV, it’s a career death sentence. There’s something about the one-dimensional, overly glossy image combined with the extent of the public recognition of that image that makes it nearly impossible to overcome. The second the child star tries to outgrow and break free from their image, they become bait for the media, highly publicized as rebellious, troubled, and tortured, when all they’re trying to do is grow. Growing is wobbly and full of mistakes, especially as a teenager—mistakes that you certainly don’t want to make in the public eye, let alone be known for for the rest of your life. But that’s what happens when you’re a child star. Child stardom is a trap. A dead end. And I can see that even if Mommy can’t.

Fame has put a wedge between Mom and me that I didn’t think was possible. She wanted this. And I wanted her to have it. I wanted her to be happy. But now that I have it, I realize that she’s happy and I’m not. Her happiness came at the cost of mine. I feel robbed and exploited.

Sometimes I look at her and I just hate her. And then I hate myself for feeling that. I tell myself I’m ungrateful. I’m worthless without her. She’s everything to me. Then I swallow the feeling I wish I hadn’t had, tell her “I love you so much, Nonny Mommy,” and I move on, pretending that it never happened. I’ve pretended for my job for so long, and for my mom for so long, and now I’m starting to think I’m pretending for myself too.