The way my Mom and I look at eachother in this moment, captures our relationship perfectly. However, it did not come without countless battles, abundant tears, under the breath cursing, and sleepless nights for both of us.
To all the mothers struggling with teenagers daughters who "hate" you; please do not give up. Love them when they do not deserve it. One day, their eyes will be open and look up to you again.
For all the teachers, mentors, and adults who work with these hormonal, dramatic, teenage girls, please try your best not to feed their negativity. Gently guide them towards love and understanding. I am forever grateful for my high school teacher, mentor, and friend,
Melissa Bianchi, for pushing my 18 year old drama queen self to write the following piece about my Mother. It created healing and became the cornerstone of the priceless relationship I have with my Mom, today.
Sand Dollar
You ask if you ever do anything right for me, as you look over my shoulder at the angry words I'm writing about you. My immediate response is no, because some part of me still wants to hold it all against you. Or, maybe I had just forgotten:
Me, sixteen years old, planting purple and yellow pansies with you along the front walk just before sunset. Our dirt stained hands work side by side to dig them a bed. We tickle their toes, pour them a drink, and tuck them in for the evening hour.
Me, a fourteen year old victim of depression, waking up the morning of my suicide attempt to see you asleep on the couch beside me. Your eyelids flutter open, and all I can think of is how much I hate you - your insistence that you can prevent your own daughter from killing herself. I see your love for me in that moment... now that I am older.
Me, a twelve year old animal lover, watching you construct a nursing box for my pregnant rabbit. My hand cuts out the green strips of carpet to line the bottom. You staple it down snugly.
Me, a ten year old, burned by a kiss of sun, bare arms nipped by wind brushing across raw skin. I walk the beach with you, small hand in yours, and look down into the tide for sand dollars. I hold them up proudly, my fist full of those beach treasures; you smile your approval.
Me, an eight year old, body on fire with fever. Veins pounding the walls of my head. Your hands lined with oils, rub the bottoms of my feet. You run your fingers along each searing toe, talking in hushed tones as I sniffle my pain.
Me, a six year old sister, fighting over my half of your lap at church with my younger brother. I crave your soft fingers that run over my back as I fall asleep during the Bishop's talks.
Me, a four year old little girl, stumbling into your bedroom at night, curling up in the nest always prepared for me beside your bed. My haven from the grip of nightmares. Your hand reaches down to me and softly caresses my face until I fall asleep once more.
Now, as an eighteen year old young woman, High School graduate, one week from moving across the country, I finally realize...
So much depends on the imperfect mother
Whose bed I crawled into in the middle of the night;
Dream catcher of my nightmares.
Two year old cheek against soft breast,
Tears staining pink, Care Bear pajamas,
And your motherly hand running fingers
Through golden locks of hair,
Brushing bad dreams
From memory.
- Mrs. Akers
