Mommy Dearest

Perfection is irrelevant to the rest of society, but not to me. Ever since I was a little girl, there was only one person I feared: my mother. The reason being, she never let me experience mistakes. Perfection was everything for her. She never understood that I was not her and that I would never be. I did everything for my mother and nothing for me.

I remember the first day of kindergarten. Every other student was smiling, but I was not. My mother walked me down the colorful hallway and grabbed my hand. Her eyes burned into mine. She told me that I had to be the best I could be. When most parents say this, they usually want the best for you. They want you to be happy and push yourself to your fullest potential. She just wanted a daughter to be proud of. I simply nodded, not really knowing what was to come. Not knowing the surprises life had in store for me.

A surprise came: his name was Christopher and he was really funny. He made me laugh all the time. We used to laugh at everything. One day, our teacher had enough and she told us that we each had to sit in the time-out chair: separately. She had our parents come in. Of course my mother was there, putting on a show as a high lady. She nodded and told my teacher that she will talk to me and explain when I should talk and when I should not. When she looked over her shoulder, I was in her viewpoint. I simply hung my head. She flung her pocketbook over her shoulder and gave me her hand. I simply grabbed it, I was five years old.

That night, she taught me what perfection really meant. When we got home, she grabbed her favorite belt; the one with the diamond studded buckle and the fine genuine leather. She then told me that she was going to teach me how to behave in public and how to listen. I was forced to take down my pants and flash my naked buttocks. It happened quickly, but it felt like it took forever. The leather made a snap when it hit me. My father was coming through the door and he saw me. He simply looked down; he knew my mother was not going to stop until she was done.

The next day I came in sore, but I did not limp or anything. My mother knew how to hit and how hard in order for no one else to know but me. I slowly sat down next to Christopher. When a kindergartener gets hit because she laughed with someone, they usually would never want to talk to that person again. My mother's deed was complete. I did not talk to Christopher for the whole year. He moved the next year.

My life pretty much stayed the same until freshman year of high school. I was that girl in the back of the classroom. I did not talk, but I had ideas. I did not know if they were good or not but inside was constantly at conflict. In high school, I cared about my grades more than anything else. I really did not have a social life because of my mother. My father died when I was in the fourth grade so I was left with my mother.

Then in freshmen year, it was mid-term season in school. I've never taken a mid-term. In my middle school, we did not have mid-terms. I studied so hard as my mother watched me. She told me to study harder. Even when I was neck deep in books, she told me I was a slacker. One time, my friend called because she needed help with something...my mother yelled at her and told her that should not be talking on the phone. I gave her a look of disgust and she did not even look at me.

No matter how hard I studied for it, English was always my bane. I hate English and I hate the teacher and I hate Shakespeare with his confusing words. I was usually good at writing; I always wrote stories on some little teen website. People recognized my writing. I received a ton of messages about my stories. So why did I hate English so much? I always ask myself that. I think it happened when the teacher gave me a C- on the summer essay. My mother took no excuse. "Ace that class as I expect you to." That what she said to me when I complained.

"You're always writing those stupid, idiotic stories that make no sense. About gym teachers getting killed and a student loving her. Are you a lesbian? Are you a murderer inside? I saw what you wrote about how you wish to kill your English teacher. What about that stupid story dedicated to that stupid game...that attorney game? Don't you have better things to do?" These questions and more were the "motivational" phrases Mother said. I did not bother wasting breath on her.

No matter how hard I had studied for that English mid-term, I received a D-. I started to cry in front the whole class. Imagine a ninth grader crying in front of her class. My English teacher told me to go to the counselor. I tripped on a chair as I went out. I felt so embarrassed, but I knew what would happen. Anything lower than an A- was not acceptable. The counselor was no help at all. She made it worse, telling me that we should call my mother together and explain it to her. I yelled at her and said she was nuts for suggesting that. I grabbed my books and left in a huff.

My mother tortured me the worst way possibly...mentally. She told me to sit down. She yelled curses at me and would not leave me alone. She called me a jackass, an asshole, a stupid girl that is going to end up living off of welfare. She made me look at her and say that I was a stupid asshole that might as well be an immigrant. She said I was an illiterate, that I might as well live in Mexico with the stupid people. She then got physical and smacked me in my face. I sat there and took it.

I knew what she did to me was illegal, but believe I tried telling someone and she ended beating me to a point I could not go to school the next day. Nobody would care or believe me anyway. My mother was too well known. It was my word against hers. So I took it and did not say anything. Every day I went to school with a smile on my face. Nobody would guess what really happened to me.

My new social studies teacher used to work with my mother in the prosecutor's office. Her name was Genevieve Alden. I've never heard of her before, but she apparently worked with my mother. She told me that if I was just like my mother, this would an easy class. I simply smiled and told myself that I should just let that comment go.

Ms. Alden taught me many things in that class. I felt as if I was becoming stronger when I was in her class. Even after the mid-term fiasco, I felt like I still could be my mother's dream child. I was doing better in school and I finally got some friends. I was really happy since that mid-term fiasco but my happiness was short lived. A weakness in English class proved to be the bane of my happiness. Mrs. Connors was my executor. That day, she lowered her ax on my head with a big fat F. My life right then and there collapsed on me. I lowered the paper with shaking hands. No one, not even Ms. Alden could convince me to smile that day. My stomach was sick and I did not eat lunch or talk to any of my friends or anything that day. All I did was wonder how my mother would punish me.

When I got home, with the F in my pocket, I could not bear the thought of my mother's screams. My grandmother was in the living room and her warm smile was the last thing I saw as I climbed the steps...climbed the steps to my death. My mother was there, typing something on the computer. Taking out the paper, I winced as I put it down on the table.

"You are the stupidest person I have ever met. You are not my daughter. You are some asshole that claims to my brood. You fool, you ignorant fool. Jackass, are you not suppose to know the English language." I simply let the tears run down my face, and then I taught about my dear social studies teacher. She taught me how the people of the United States did not let the British push them around. It was time I did the same. I got up and smacked her in the face. She looked at me in aghast; I could not believe I just did that.

"Fourteen years, for fourteen years you have been pushing me around. I'm not your puppet. I'm not you and I'm tried of trying to be. Why don't you just leave me alone bitch. Leave me alone; leave me alone, LEAVE ME ALONE. I hate you! I hate you so much it makes me sick." My mother's expression did not change. She remained silent. "Answer me, you've tortured me enough. Answer me, ANSWER ME!" I started to cry on the floor. At that moment, my grandmother came up to see what the racket was all about.

My grandmother walked slowly in the room and then she saw me curled up. She immediately sat next to me. “What just happened here?" She looked at me frightened. I kept crying.

"Mother, she won't leave me alone, grandmother, she does not let me have a normal life." I was shaking as I looked at my arms. My mother had hurt me for the last time.

"Honey, it's all in your head. Your mother is gone my dear. She died two years ago, don't you remember? She's dead. My dear, it's gotten too far. You keep hurting yourself when you fail. My dear, you don't have to be perfect. I love you no matter what." My grandmother kissed my head as she try to control me.

"No grandmother, I have to be perfect. Mother will yell at me, she'll hurt me." I stared at my mother, her expression not changing at all. Around her was shattered glass. How could my grandmother not see her? She was right there. I was looking all around. My grandmother was crying and then she was reaching for the phone.

My grandmother tried to pull me up to my feet and my mother smiled. "Do what she says and don't make me break out my belt." I pointed to my mother so my grandmother could see her. My grandmother did not see her and shook her head as she continued to drag me.

My mother had the last laugh. All I could do is go with my grandmother and look at my mother. "I'll listen, don't worry, I'll listen, mommy dearest."