I'm Glad My Mom Died(40)
“Where’s your fried chicken?”
“Ha ha, good one.”
“Do you really beat up people in real life?”
“Ha ha, good one.”
My dead-soul smile spreads across my face and I look in their cameras while their mom apologizes fifteen times for not knowing how to operate it.
But other than the work itself, there are two things I’m noticing about this tour.
The first thing I’m noticing is that a part of me is enjoying myself. The part of me that doesn’t feel guilty for enjoying myself in the midst of such unfortunate circumstances—Mom’s cancer and being away from her while she faces it with frequent rounds of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. This enjoying-myself part of me feels fresh and new and exhilarating. I feel free. I’m even able to shower myself.
I’m realizing for the first time how exhausting it is to constantly curate my natural tendencies, responses, thoughts, and actions into whatever version Mom would like most. Without her around, I don’t have to. I miss her deeply, and my heart aches over what she’s going through, and I certainly feel a lot of guilt about the ease I feel these days, but that ease is undeniable. Without her monitoring and weighing in on my every move, my life feels much easier.
The second thing I’m noticing is that I’m eating. A lot. I’ll eat cinnamon Pop-Tarts in the mornings, then I’ll eat lunch and dinner with the band, both meals out. And I’ll order from the adult menu. And rarely salads. And rarely substitutes. Burgers and fries.
Without being monitored by Mom, each bite I take feels rebellious. I hear her voice at every meal, telling me, “Dressing on the side. No more bites. That’s junky. You don’t want a watermelon butt. Mind over matter.” But her voice can’t stop me from eating. I’m horrified by this reality, but simultaneously drawn to what’s on my plate with an attraction that can only be described as lust.
The fullness I feel after my meals is nice. And new to me. But it’s immediately usurped by a deep sense of guilt. Guilt that this is not what Mom would want. That Mom would be disappointed in me. The guilt drives me to eat more—boxes of Cheez-Its and store-bought cookies and pieces of candy or Fruit Roll-Ups or whatever goodies are on the bus—sometimes until my stomach aches and feels like it’s about to burst. I go to bed unable to sleep on my stomach because I’m so overstuffed. I weigh myself in the hotel rooms that have scales in them, and the number keeps climbing, climbing, climbing. I’m horrified with every pound gained but also feel unable to stop. I have been starving myself for years, and now my body is begging for me to stuff myself.
This new relationship to food deeply confuses me. For years I have been in control of my diet, my body, myself. I have kept myself rail-thin and my body childlike and I have found the perfect combination of power and solace in that. But now I feel out of control. Reckless. Hopeless. The old combination of power and solace is replaced by a new combination of shame and chaos. I do not understand what is happening to me. I am terrified of what will happen when Mom sees me.
39.
I DID NOT EXPECT A hampton Inn & Suites to be the place where I have my first real kiss, and yet here we are. Room 223. I’m standing in front of the kitchenette and my lips are touching Lucas’s. He’s holding my chin softly. I can’t tell whether I like that or not, but I do like the kiss. It’s more natural when you like the person than when you’re doing it on-camera.
He pulls away.
“I really like you. Have a good night,” he says, or I think he says. I don’t really know what he’s saying. And I don’t entirely care. I’m too busy in my head, thinking about the fact that I’m eighteen years old and I finally just had my first kiss. Finally.
I watch him walk down the hallway. I don’t like the cut of his jeans or his long hair, but I like his Queen shirt and the shape of his sneakers. I don’t like how much he talks about music, but I like how much he likes me. I don’t like how awkward he is, but I like how nice he is. I shut the door behind him. My vagina feels funny but I figure I’ll worry about that later.
I shut the door and sit down on the couch. I don’t know why in movies women always shut the door and then lean against it after the guy leaves. Couch sitting is much more natural.
I’m sitting here going over it all in my mind. Lucas and I first met a few months back when I had a show here in Nashville. He was hired to be the bandleader and play electric guitar for the show. The other band members said he was really good. The best in town.
We spent a lot of time together that first week while we were all rehearsing. He was very nice to me, and at first I didn’t think much of it, since he’s twenty-seven and I’m eighteen, but then I noticed him looking at me a lot and I started to wonder if maybe he liked me.
By the third rehearsal day, he started offering me rides home, which I took because I was starting to like him. I felt queasy around him in an uncomfortable but good way. On the last rehearsal day, he invited me to come into his house and listen to a Queen album with him. I was so excited.
We listened to News of the World front to back while sitting on his wooden floor. He kept scooting closer to me and brushing his hair behind his ear, which was mildly repulsive to me coming from a man. That repulsion confused me because at the same time I deeply wanted him to kiss me. Or maybe it’s not that I wanted him to kiss me, maybe it’s just that I wanted to be kissed in real life. Either way, he didn’t. He drove me home to the Hampton Inn and dropped me off. And then the next day I left for the radio tour.