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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is the true story of living with my mom when i was younger, and how she used to be my savior. please read and comment, thank you.

Submitted: November 06, 2013

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Submitted: November 06, 2013




Shes the reason why I'm here today. And she was always there for me. Well.. at least I thought she was. When you're little, your mom is supposed to be your world, your savior. And to me, my mom was. i remember looking up to see the most beautiful woman in the world when i was nine years old. Seeing those amber eyes full of excitement. The pretty pink lipstick sticking to my cheek from my mothers worn lips, as her honey sweet soft hair gently brushed my face. Her faded freckles on her nose looking like constellations in the night sky, and her cheeks that were full of life with that ready rose color i always loved. i remember reaching my tiny hand up to interlock with the steady, soft yet worn fingers that always had her favorite nail polish, Perfect Plum, painted beautifully on each nail. She was perfect to me, and no one could've changed that thought, except for Melissa. On a cold night in November, my mother was arrested for the possession of cocaine. i was in 5th grade, and only 10. At that very moment, the image of my savior was changed forever. Since then, I've come to see who the "person" really is. Shes a liar, and cares for no one but herself. She runs away from her responsibilities, and cant even answer the phone when i try to call. As I've gotten older, I've realized that image i had for so long of the 'Perfect Mom" was all my imagination. It was what i wanted to be there. At 9, you don't want to see dark, lifeless amber eyes that you secretly hope will recognize you. The sloppy globs of rusted red lipstick oozing down your face, and the dingy dull brown hair that scratched your cheek. The faded freckles being clumps of uneven makeup, and cheeks that gradually sank in each day, slowly going deeper and deeper. The hands, that are supposed to make you feel safe, instead, are hot. Sweaty. Constantly moving and shaking, with uneven chips of that Perfect Plum color. This woman, this person who was supposed to protect me, wasn't there. I try to forget the weeks when she'd disappear, and no one would know where she was. The days i spent sitting in front of a T.V. screen while she lay passed out on the couch in the dark damp apartment, hoping my dad would come visit so i could get something to eat. but how could i forget the times that my own mother took me to the dealer's house, and made deals right in front of my curious, innocent face, not knowing whats going on at all? Thinking about that now disgusts me. 5 years later, and i know my moms not on drugs anymore. Shes trying to build a relationship back up with me. But when i look at her, i cant forget. i know what happened is in the past, and that i should forgive her, but i cant. i just cant, because no matter how bad i wish she was, shes not my savior anymore.

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