I'm Glad My Mom Died(46)

We decide I’ll tell Mom I’m with Colton, my gay friend she approves of because there’s no way his penis is entering me, who will then join in three-way calls to help me out so Mom won’t know I’m lying.

Lying to Mom is difficult for me. Whenever I lie to her to protect my relationship with Joe, I hang up the phone and weep into Joe’s arms from the guilt I feel. I tell him I wish I could be honest with her, I wish she could meet him, I wish I wasn’t scared of her. And Joe runs his hands through my hair and comforts me.

I feel the wedge between Mom and I growing by the day. With every lie I tell, I feel myself slipping further away from her. With every pound I gain, every binge I partake in, I feel myself getting more disconnected from her.

I’m so confused and troubled by this wedge. I’m desperate to feel close with her, but also desperate for that closeness to be on my terms, not hers. I want her to know me for who I’m becoming. I want her to allow my growth. I want her to want me to be me.

But that feels more like a fantasy than a possibility, for now at least. So for now, I lie.

We’re three days into the vacation and the plan is going smoothly. Each day, Colton and I three-way-call Mom to tell her about our snorkeling adventures and off-roading Jeep drives and white-sand beach walks. She laughs along as Colton gives follow-up details that scream I’m-definitely-not-walking-through-a-Burbank-Target-right-now.

But in the late afternoon on day three, Joe and I are paddleboarding on the beach in front of the hotel when he spots it and tells me to duck. I look to see what he’s talking about and there in the distance near one of the banana-yellow cabanas, I see a squat, little paparazzo snapping photos of me and Joe.

Shit. Shit shit shit. This is a disaster. We swim to the sand, dump the paddleboards, wrap some fancy towels around ourselves, and hurry into the hotel’s back entrance. The paparazzo snaps photos of us the whole time.

By the time we’re in our room, I’m panicking, rattling off the list of ways Mom might punish me, disown me, or threaten me. Joe unsuccessfully tries to keep me calm.

Eventually, I’ve been hysterical enough for long enough that I’m completely emotionally depleted. I fall asleep on the bed by six p.m.

The sight I wake up to the next morning is not the beautiful palm trees out the window; or the shimmering, turquoise water; or a young, happy newlywed couple canoodling in a hammock in the distance. It’s my cold, hard iPhone screen with a glaring notification that terrifies me.

Thirty-seven missed calls from Mommy, sixteen voicemails, and four missed emails (we no longer share an account—I recently created my own, thanks to Joe’s encouragement). I open the top email:


Dear Net,

I am so disappointed in you. You used to be my perfect little angel, but now you are nothing more than a little SLUT, a FLOOZY, ALL USED UP. And to think—you wasted it on that hideous OGRE of a man. I saw the pictures on a website called TMZ—I saw you in Hawaii with him. I saw you rubbing his disgusting hairy stomach. I KNEW you were lying about Colton. Add that to the list of things you are—LIAR, CONNIVING, EVIL. You look pudgier, too. It’s clear you’re EATING YOUR GUILT.

Thinking of you with his ding dong inside of you makes me sick. SICK. I raised you better than this. What happened to my good little girl? Where did she go? And who is this MONSTER that has replaced her? You’re an UGLY MONSTER now. I told your brothers about you and they all said they disown you just like I do. We want nothing to do with you.

Love,

Mom (or should I say DEB since I am no longer your mother)

P.S. Send money for a new fridge. Ours broke.



I hunch over and bury my head in my hands, breaking into a sob. Joe rubs my back and assures me that my mother is not okay, but I assure him it’s the opposite. I’m not okay. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve lost my way. Maybe I’m an evil monster.

“You can’t let her get to you like this,” he says.

I pick up my phone and urgently start typing TMZ into my search bar. Joe reminds me we agreed not to look at the pictures—he knows my body image isn’t good—but I don’t care. I need to see them. I need to see if Mom’s right.

She is. I look awful. My body and face repulse me. I do look pudgy. I no longer wear one-pieces but I still wear board shorts to hide my ass, which is curvy and womanly and disgusts me for being those things. Joe tells me my tits look great in my bikini top but I don’t see it. I think boobs are hideous. I hate them. I wish I was flat-chested and curve-less. I wish there was nothing sexual or suggestive about my body.

My tears are replaced by my venomous self-loathing. Joe, sensing a shift in me, nabs the phone out of my hands and tells me it’s going in the hotel safe. I don’t object.

Over the next two days, my phone stays in the safe and my bathing suit stays flung over the bathroom door handle, where I last left it. Joe and I try to make the most of our remaining time in Hawaii by going on hikes and drives and other activities that don’t involve me removing any clothes in public. By the last morning of the trip, I’ve been distracted enough and my phone’s been far away enough that I’ve almost forgotten the paparazzo incident and the vicious email from Mom.

But then Joe and I are packing up our bags and out of the corner of my eye, I see him discreetly entering the code on the safe. He pulls my phone out and goes to tuck it into his pocket. I ask to see it first. He reminds me this is a bad idea and that it won’t be anything but harmful for me if I look at it, but I can’t not. I want to see it. I need to see it.