I'm Glad My Mom Died(87)

As I chew, I realize that this is a chocolate chip cookie that I never would’ve allowed myself to eat in my anorexic days, and never would have allowed myself to keep down in my bulimic ones. A chocolate chip cookie that I haven’t counted the calories in or had anxiety about eating. I think about how it’s been over a year since I’ve purged and several months that I’ve actually been able to find enjoyment in the food I eat.

Recovery so far is, in some ways, as difficult as the bulimic/alcohol-ridden years, but difficult in a different way because I’m facing my issues for the first time instead of burying them with eating disorders and substances. I’m processing not only the grief of my mom’s death, but the grief of a childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood that I feel I had never truly been able to live for myself. It’s difficult, but it’s the kind of difficult I have pride in.

I hear over my shoulder a booming voice that sounds familiar. I turn and see Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. He looks so nice and Dwayne Johnson–like with his big smile. The man oozes charisma.

I think about going up to him and introducing myself, reminding him of that awards show years ago. Could Dwayne Johnson tell how miserable I was last time we met? Would he sense a difference now? Does he understand all the obstacles and accomplishments that this cookie represents? Is Dwayne Johnson God?

I’m trying to think of something funny or witty or charming to say, but I can’t. My mind freezes in social settings, especially if those settings include The Rock/God. I miss my chance. He wanders off into the crowd. I go back to eating my cookie. Enjoying my cookie.





90.


I’M EATING DINNER AT MY apartment when my phone rings. It’s Miranda. Typically I wouldn’t expect a call from her these days. We’ve drifted apart. It’s a sad reality for me in my late twenties. At the beginning of the decade, the people I was close to seemed like friends for life, people I could never imagine not seeing every day. But life happens. Love happens. Loss happens. Change and growth happen at different paces for different people, and sometimes the paces just don’t line up. It’s devastating if I think too much about it, so I usually don’t.

But I know why she’s calling today. I’ve been expecting this call and just didn’t know when exactly it would come.

“Hello?” I say, while I get up from the table and throw on some sneakers.

“Hey.”

We both start laughing. I can’t remember the last time we spoke, yet the second we get on the phone with each other we start laughing.

I head out the front door so I can walk around the neighborhood while we chat. We fill each other in on our dysfunctional family updates and major life events and then there’s the pause, the little lull before the reason for the conversation is about to be brought up.

“Miranda, I’m not doing the reboot. There’s nothing you can say to convince me.”

“Well I’m still gonna try!” She laughs. I laugh too.

She tells me she thinks the reboot could be an opportunity for all of us in the cast to “get back out there,” maybe get some other opportunities from it. It’s the same spiel I already heard from a network executive a few months back when I first learned about the iCarly reboot.

I know both the executive and Miranda mean well in saying these things. But I disagree. I don’t think a reboot could realistically lead to other opportunities because, if the performer in the reboot hasn’t done significant work in between, the reboot just serves as a reminder of that. It further entrenches the performer in the role that they initially got known for at least a decade prior, a role which likely keeps their career stuck—not flourishing.

This business is tough. And this business doesn’t view a role in a reboot as a career revival—it’s viewed as a career ender.

“But it’s really good money,” Miranda tells me. “I asked if they’d give you the amount I’m making, and they said yes.”

Miranda’s right—the network was generous in their offer—and it was kind of her to encourage that offer.

“I know,” I say to Miranda. “But there are things more important than money. And my mental health and happiness fall under that category.”

There’s a moment of silence. It’s one of those rare moments where I feel like I didn’t say too much, or too little. I feel like I represented myself accurately and there’s nothing I would change about the way I said it. I feel proud. We wrap up our conversation, promising to keep in touch, and hang up. I head back home to finish my dinner.





91.


“HI, MOM,” I ALMOST SAY out loud, but I stop myself because I don’t wanna look crazy to the other mourners around me. Mourner, singular actually. There’s only one, and it’s the same guy I see here every time. He sits in a lawn chair with a sun umbrella over him, playing soft rock from a stereo and staring at the headstone of who I assume to be his former wife.

I look at Mom’s headstone. There are about twenty adjectives on it because everyone in the family had adjective pitches and nobody was willing to forsake theirs.

“We’ve gotta include ‘playful,’?” Grandpa insisted.

“Why does nobody like ‘brave’? ‘Brave’ is a good word!” Grandma wailed.

So we just crammed all the words on there. Even Mom’s place of death is cluttered.