Getting Physical
Feeling it...
The next morning, I find it hard to roll out of my sickly pink bed, onto my sickly pink carpeting, and stare at the bruises that cover my arm and the side of my face.
They remind me of the attack.
I don't like to be reminded of the attack.
There is a knock at my door and I know, that even though it's 4:30 in the morning, my mama will be standing on the other side of it in her retro bathrobe, large pink rollers in her hair and all.
But my mama does not work.
My mama dresses up everyday, hair and make-up and all, and sits around her house.
Her blonde hair is teased up about nine inches above the top of her head, and her eyes are bright and blue with her large fake eyelashes glued on.
My mama wakes up every morning at 4:30 in the morning and comes into my room to tease and curl my hair for school, because apparently, at fifteen years old, I am neither old enough to decide or fix the styles of my hair.
"Come on in, mama." I say as I rub my eyes in-front of the mirror.
Maybe I'll be tired enough to let mama do my make-up today.
But then again--
Maybe not.
"Good mornin', sweetpea!" Mama yells in her all too cheerful voice for four a.m, and I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. "Well, aren't we a sour puss." she makes the hissing noise like my cat, Lacy, does when she's pissed off.
"Mama, why do I have to wear this sh--" I stop quickly and smile up.
My smile fades and I close my eyes as my mama lifts the cover-up and powder to my face. "You're beautiful, Alyssa Rae--"
"Stop calling me that." I say as I move my face away from the blush brush. "You have no idea what I am."
Mama stops moving and stares at me like I'm that paper-slim piece of cake from dinner the night before.
Like she's seeing me for the first time and wants to move away.
"Now, Alyssa Rae, you're beautiful, and don't you try and tell me any--"
I shake my head, "Would you stop!" I yell in a fit as I smack her hand and stare at myself in the mirror, tears coming into my eyes. "I'm not beautiful, or smart, or fit an trim like you wish I was." Mama opens her mouth to protest and I slam my hand down.
She jumps and looks down at the floor and I can tell that I'm looking at her like she's that piece of cake and I don't care.
"I know what you wish I was, mother! I know you wish that I was head of the cheer committee or whatever in the hell it's called, or prom queen, or twirler or drill team, and don't give me the bs about how you don't, because, mama, you know you do! You wish I was everything that I wasn't! You wish I was you!"
I can feel it now, the tears running through the fresh base make-up that my mother has applied on my face, and I do not care.
And surprisingly, my mother does not scold me.
She stands with her shoulders slumped for the first time in her life, and I wonder if it's from the weight of the words that I am saying to her.
"I can't be you, mama." I say, more to myself than to her, as I stare at myself in the mirror.
I am me. I repeat in my mind.
"I don't know how to be you, mama. I'll never be a size three, and I'll never be voted most popular and I'll apparently, I'll never be able to make you happy."
I am speaking to myself now, and my reflection speaks back to me.
Through the tears.
And hurt.
And years of never saying anything about my attack.
My reflection speaks through it all.
"I'll never be perfect, mama. But--damn it--why do I have to be?"
I turn and face her, and I see now who it is that my mother really is.
My mother is a divorced woman with bright blue eyes, who covers herself with make-up to hide her insecurities, who downplays her intelligence, and a plays up her breasts.
My mother is vain, because my mother sees herself the way that I see myself.
She is not vain like she says she is.
And she is not stupid, like she thinks she is.
My mama is beautiful, and strong, and smarter than I thought she was.
I look down at the floor now, because I feel ashamed of myself suddenly, and I do not know why.
Why am I ashamed of myself?
Mama's hand comes up underneath my chin and she lifts my head up until our eyes meet. "I don't want you to be me, Alyssa. I want you to live. I know how smart you are, and how beautiful, and how special you are. I can see all of the things that you can't."
Her left hand is under my chin and her right hand is touching my left cheek.
"I see you, Alyssa. Bruises, scrapes, and all of the hurt that you feel. And I know that I can't cover all of it up the things that I can not fix with make-up. I feel your hurt, baby. I feel it." She says, and I can feel that she means them.
Even though I do not think that I am beautiful, and I do not think that my mother thinks that I am beautiful, I know that both she and I know, deep down, that I am beautiful.
Because I can feel her mean it.
I can feel it.
They remind me of the attack.
I don't like to be reminded of the attack.
There is a knock at my door and I know, that even though it's 4:30 in the morning, my mama will be standing on the other side of it in her retro bathrobe, large pink rollers in her hair and all.
But my mama does not work.
My mama dresses up everyday, hair and make-up and all, and sits around her house.
Her blonde hair is teased up about nine inches above the top of her head, and her eyes are bright and blue with her large fake eyelashes glued on.
My mama wakes up every morning at 4:30 in the morning and comes into my room to tease and curl my hair for school, because apparently, at fifteen years old, I am neither old enough to decide or fix the styles of my hair.
"Come on in, mama." I say as I rub my eyes in-front of the mirror.
Maybe I'll be tired enough to let mama do my make-up today.
But then again--
Maybe not.
"Good mornin', sweetpea!" Mama yells in her all too cheerful voice for four a.m, and I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. "Well, aren't we a sour puss." she makes the hissing noise like my cat, Lacy, does when she's pissed off.
"Mama, why do I have to wear this sh--" I stop quickly and smile up.
My smile fades and I close my eyes as my mama lifts the cover-up and powder to my face. "You're beautiful, Alyssa Rae--"
"Stop calling me that." I say as I move my face away from the blush brush. "You have no idea what I am."
Mama stops moving and stares at me like I'm that paper-slim piece of cake from dinner the night before.
Like she's seeing me for the first time and wants to move away.
"Now, Alyssa Rae, you're beautiful, and don't you try and tell me any--"
I shake my head, "Would you stop!" I yell in a fit as I smack her hand and stare at myself in the mirror, tears coming into my eyes. "I'm not beautiful, or smart, or fit an trim like you wish I was." Mama opens her mouth to protest and I slam my hand down.
She jumps and looks down at the floor and I can tell that I'm looking at her like she's that piece of cake and I don't care.
"I know what you wish I was, mother! I know you wish that I was head of the cheer committee or whatever in the hell it's called, or prom queen, or twirler or drill team, and don't give me the bs about how you don't, because, mama, you know you do! You wish I was everything that I wasn't! You wish I was you!"
I can feel it now, the tears running through the fresh base make-up that my mother has applied on my face, and I do not care.
And surprisingly, my mother does not scold me.
She stands with her shoulders slumped for the first time in her life, and I wonder if it's from the weight of the words that I am saying to her.
"I can't be you, mama." I say, more to myself than to her, as I stare at myself in the mirror.
I am me. I repeat in my mind.
"I don't know how to be you, mama. I'll never be a size three, and I'll never be voted most popular and I'll apparently, I'll never be able to make you happy."
I am speaking to myself now, and my reflection speaks back to me.
Through the tears.
And hurt.
And years of never saying anything about my attack.
My reflection speaks through it all.
"I'll never be perfect, mama. But--damn it--why do I have to be?"
I turn and face her, and I see now who it is that my mother really is.
My mother is a divorced woman with bright blue eyes, who covers herself with make-up to hide her insecurities, who downplays her intelligence, and a plays up her breasts.
My mother is vain, because my mother sees herself the way that I see myself.
She is not vain like she says she is.
And she is not stupid, like she thinks she is.
My mama is beautiful, and strong, and smarter than I thought she was.
I look down at the floor now, because I feel ashamed of myself suddenly, and I do not know why.
Why am I ashamed of myself?
Mama's hand comes up underneath my chin and she lifts my head up until our eyes meet. "I don't want you to be me, Alyssa. I want you to live. I know how smart you are, and how beautiful, and how special you are. I can see all of the things that you can't."
Her left hand is under my chin and her right hand is touching my left cheek.
"I see you, Alyssa. Bruises, scrapes, and all of the hurt that you feel. And I know that I can't cover all of it up the things that I can not fix with make-up. I feel your hurt, baby. I feel it." She says, and I can feel that she means them.
Even though I do not think that I am beautiful, and I do not think that my mother thinks that I am beautiful, I know that both she and I know, deep down, that I am beautiful.
Because I can feel her mean it.
I can feel it.