Gerard Way Is My Dad, and Now I'm A Mom

“Okay,” I said, slamming the phone book down. “We need a lawyer.”

“I’ll do the talking, okay? You just…write down stuff that your mom did that…affected you or whatever,” Frank replied, sliding the book over to his side of the table. He flipped through the pages as I sketched some things down.


My mother, Natasha R. Cash, has affected my life in many ways. Here are only a few of the causes.

• She refused to let my father visit or talk to me during my lifetime.
• When I met my father and began to stay with him, she didn’t keep contact with me or provided anything I needed.
• We didn’t speak for five or six years, not even during the times I needed her the most.
• My one year old daughter died and she didn’t even realize I was a mother.
• When I found her and her boyfriend, Richard, at the park she asked to move in with me.
• She called my house, harassing me, and even showed up one morning yelling at my father, Gerard Way.

I can’t tell you how horrible it makes me feel that she would accuse me of something like this. I admit that I yelled at her, screaming for her to leave my house, but that was only because I was through with everything she had put me through. And I refuse to call her my mother anymore.

Frank hung up the phone just as I set down my pen. He glanced over at my paper, which I slid towards him. I watched his eyes scan over the tattered piece of notebook paper I had tried to make neat and proper. Before I could turn this into a lawyer – or anyone, really - I would need to get some better paper, I decided. I would also need to get everything straight. I would have to think back to my childhood and all through my teenage years.

I could blame her for everything I’ve ever done wrong.

My suicide attempts, my sexual intercourse’s, my lack of religion...everything.

Because it was true.

She really had messed up my life more than I realized before. If she had maybe let me meet Gerard and gone over her mistakes with me when I was young but old enough to realize it was wrong, then I wouldn’t have made so many mistakes. I wouldn’t have even thought about suicide. Maybe if I knew what happened I wouldn’t have lost my virginity to some guy like Brik.

“I like it,” Frank commented and took a sip of his coffee. I hated when things were this serious around our house. It made everything seem worse than it was. “I want to hear more though.”

“More what?” I asked, not fully understanding. “Do you want me to explain everything in detail, Frank? Because if I do, it will be hundreds of pages long.”

“I just want more,” He repeated, simply. I felt a chill run up my spine as I ripped out another piece of paper from the black notebook sitting beside my left elbow. I ran my fingers up and down the side of my ballpoint pen, trying to recall memories. I hated doing this. Memories hurt, not only mentally, but physically too. Frank watched me. I could feel his eyes darting back and forth from the phone and my face. I stared at our table and the pen. I didn’t want to go through everything again. But, I had to.


“I’m home!” I called, running into the house. I slipped off my Converse and dropped my book bag off by the door. I waited for an answer as I made my way to the kitchen. “Mom!” I peeked out the window to see if her car was there. “Oh,” I mumbled. She wasn’t home. I sighed and decided to call Brik.

“Hello?” It was his mom.

“Hi, is Brik home?” I asked, trying to use my innocent voice.

“Hi, Helena. Sorry, he’s not home. He went off to Adam’s house for the weekend. Bye, dear,” I heard the phone click. I would be alone all weekend, I assumed.

It was a Friday in my eight-grade year. Whenever I got home and my mom wasn’t there, she wouldn’t be back for a few days. It was just the way it was. I never thought anything of it. I had no friends at school – besides Brik – so I didn’t know what a real family was like.

I collapsed on the couch, turning on my iPod. I sang along to a My Chemical Romance song and ended up singing the whole CD by the end of the night. This was a normal night for me. I never did my homework as I was expected to or went to the mall. I sat at home, singing.

It was around that time that I started writing Dear. All I wanted was a friend.

I scribbled down on the paper a recollection of more memories. I wrote down about her leaving me for days and only wanting a friend. I yawned to myself as Frank took the paper again. “Wait, I’m not done,” I stopped him. He nodded, understanding. “I’m going to go take a nap. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Frank replied, kissing my forehead. I picked up the dull pen and notebook and carried them back to the bedroom. I laid them on the bedside table and crawled into bed. I gawked, blankly, up at the ceiling, trying to recall my life.


“What you listening to those faggots for?” My mother screeched, pulling my iPod out of my ears. She was back from one of her ‘trips’ and caught me singing to My Chemical Romance. “They are just rotting your mind!”

“Mama, no they aren’t!” I shrieked, taking the headphones back. I ran my fingers, lightly, over the iPod itself. Her cold, pale fingers gripped my own smaller fingers and left a horrifying mark down the side of my middle finger.

“You aren’t allowed to listen to those people anymore! Especially that Gerard character. He’s the worst one out of all those fucking faggots,” She exclaimed. I ripped the iPod out of her hand and ran to my room, slamming and locking the door behind me. I saw my fresh batch of My Chemical Romance photographs torn and shredded all around my room.

“Damn it!” I screamed to no one in particular. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I dropped the music player and headphones, sliding down the white door. I began to sob to myself. I hit the wall, uncontrollably. “I hate you!” I shouted. I kept repeating it over and over again. “I hate you!”

I wrote it down. I was on a role now. I began remembering everything. Everything overflowed at once. I laid the notebook on my knees and held the pen tighter in between my fingers, writing and writing and writing.


I stared at the woman who called herself my mother. She was laying on the ground, surrounded in her own puke. I rolled my eyes, not feeling a bit sorry for her. She let out a helpless moan. “He couldn’t be much worse than you,” I whispered, coldly. The ‘he’ I was referring to was my dad. She always told me how horrible he was. The woman shut her eyes and moved around. My stomach churned and I rushed into the bathroom, vomit spilling from my mouth. The sight of her made me sick. Whenever she drank, she was horrific.

I walked back into my room and locked the door. I sat on my bed and turned up my stereo excruciatingly loud. It was playing Helena. I wanted to bother her. She deserved to suffer then. I told myself that. Some people might say I was just a rebellious teenager. But I wasn’t. I was just a vulnerable girl who needed someone who really did love her. My mom said she did and I tried to believe her. I even told her I loved her too. But, I forgot all our moments when she did stuff like this to me. I took out a notebook and began writing lyrics down.

“Turn…t-turn that s-shit o-off!” My mom demanded in her drunken state.

“I’ll turn it off when I want to!” I screamed back. I slammed my notebook shut and threw it against the wall. “Motherfucker!” I screeched at myself. I didn’t know what I was doing. I couldn’t control it. “Do you even see what you do to me?”

The memories hurt and I was soon crying in the bed. I set the notebook down and closed my eyes. I pulled the blankets over my head, thanking god that it was all over. I would never have to live with this shit again.

I woke up hours later, in Frank’s arms. He was awake and watching me, rather closely. He pressed our foreheads together and gave me a tiny, welcoming kiss. “I read it,” Frank commented, motioning towards the notebook on the table. “You really gave me more.”