Hunger

For what isn't there

I have been writing for years, but I never found the right space or time to fully arrive as the author I was told I would become. While I have accepted the unlikelihood of acclaim, I have yet to extinguish the need to express my memories and experience of the world with words. I may not be entirely convinced that my writing is intrinsically motivated—I maintain the desire for it to be read by someone whose opinion I care about—but whether or not it reaches an audience is inconsequential to the life-sculpting benefits incurred by using my brain in this capacity.

I have collected strange stories simply by existing as a human for nearly 39 years. Having been raised by a mother with severe Borderline Personality Disorder and a (varied) substance abuse problem, I have felt both imprisoned by childhood adversity and liberated by absurdity to embrace the truth of life. I struggle to say no, so I write about it afterwards.

She took her own life on April 10, 2022. As her daughter, I feel a duty to demonstrate the rich complexity of human relationships, the wickedness of love, and our eternal need to be understood and accepted.

“Hunger”

We first suspected something was wrong when we found avocados with bites taken, from the skin down to the stone, left on her kitchen countertops. Slightly shriveled and brown, it was unclear how long ago it had happened, but the evidence was everywhere: a human had chomped, repeatedly, through the bitter, leathery shell of an expensive, overpriced Whole Foods staple.

I remember staring for a long time, not even trying to make sense of it, but rather trying to imagine what it had looked like. For years, my mom had been defensively maintaining a prescription drug habit that she rarely tried to conceal and often proudly declared as a right. "Some people just need to alter their consciousness sometimes," was a phrase she issued regularly, and one with which I couldn't argue, as we all engage in mind-altering activities now and again. I didn't condone her drug use, but I was appreciative of the stability that she'd finally achieved.

My mom's addiction came as a surprise to her. Aside from adolescent experimentation with alcohol and weed and a few tries with antidepressants, she had been afraid of what the expanded drug world held—perhaps it was because she knew she would involuntarily pledge her life to its promise of escape. An impulsive and volatile creature by nature and upbringing, her relationships were fraught and inconsistent, punctuated by either pain or bliss, the most intoxicating drug being male attention. But due to frequent UTIs and a doctor's over-prescription of Vicodin, my mom agreed to an adventure with much narrower choices.

She was in and out of inpatient rehabilitation centers every six to nine months, filed for bankruptcy twice, served a weekend in the county jail for having multiple DUIs, received shoplifting penalties, had been fired for stealing a felony amount of cash from her employer (an incident she replicated in three different establishments), lent herself to casual prostitution, was on the receiving end of somewhat frequent restraining orders and on a first-name basis with the local police department.

It was a relief that, as she became a more experienced drug abuser, my mom kept to cocaine for nights out and barbiturates for relaxing. There was a strange reliability that came with knowing the pattern of her use. If she didn't answer the phone, it was likely that she was conked out on Somas and not in handcuffs. I was able to retire the fear and pressure of having to save her or, worse, criticize her propensities. I knew she felt like a loser, and while I tacitly agreed, tolerating her drug use was far easier than the alternative: suicide.

But there it was: an avocado eaten like an apple. Then came the ice cream placed in the microwave and the tea kettle in the fridge. More concerning was when my mom began presenting with severely purple bruises and shards of glass that lay barely swept to the side of the hallway floor. However, it wasn't until we stayed at her house for a weekend that I realized my mom might have been in serious decline.

I had seen her inebriated by various substances and was intimately familiar with the progressive slurring of an unrestrained addict. The subsequent escalation of either agitation or lethargy, depending on the combination, a fickle shadow of the future. Those lucky enough to have avoided a confrontation with a stoner (or a psychiatric facility) understandably imagine the uncontrollable giggling, stumbling stupors, and poorly coordinated belligerence when considering the behavior of someone under the influence. But the brilliance of humans is our ability to surprise with novel artistry and a loose commitment to what’s really there.

My mother was beyond delighted to host her daughter and grandchildren for a few days. We didn't often make an effort to spend time in her home, but she was gushing with excitement, "I'm so happy to have all of you here!" Despite my paranoia about cocaine residue coating the furniture and discarded straws strewn about, I was pleased to make her happy. Being alone never suited her, and the liveliness of my children temporarily restored her sense of purpose. To celebrate, she ordered cheeseburgers and milkshakes to be delivered and apparently popped a few pills without warning us.

When the food arrived, it was placed on the dining table, and everyone except my teenage son grabbed their meal. Although my mother was a slender woman, who had tracked her calories in earlier years to control her weight, she allowed herself to enjoy a good cheeseburger every once in a while, and she joined everyone else in eating one that evening. My son, too engrossed in a video game to find his way to the table, had yet to address his massive quarter-pounder with bacon, cheese, and chocolate shake left in the bag.

As we finished up, my mom was evidently just getting started. Once my son came to claim his food, there was nothing left. Outraged at the suspected incompetence of the burger joint, with her mouth full of ground beef and grease, my mom couldn't stop asking where the food was and asserted that it had not been placed in the bag. Incensed, she hollered, "I can't believe they didn't bring it! Where is it?!" She took another bite and continued her rant, "Someone call them! We should get our money back. Where's the receipt? Look at the receipt!" It was too confusing to suggest that she was eating the missing burger, but it was undeniable what we were witnessing. "They didn't bring the milkshakes either? Oh my god! I'm so sorry, guys!" She drank those too.

Resigned to quiet snickering and sharing dismayed glances with one another to confirm understanding, my teenager and I resumed "normal" family activity, playing with the baby and watching the little ones put on self-directed shows. It was the cessation of her perpetual chatter that alarmed us next. I looked up to locate the cause of sudden quiet only to find that my usually frenetic mother had been replaced by a tired, lethargic figure. Although sitting upright and in motion, her eyes were closed. She was reaching out, arm trembling, for what appeared to be an invisible burger. Bringing it to her mouth, she took slow bites of air. I was riveted.

Over and over, with accelerating imprecision, she eagerly consumed the hallucination. Then she got thirsty. This time she had a physical target: a precariously placed mug of water. As her movements became more crude, and I predicted a future of broken ceramic, I dashed to be of service to the woman. I placed my hand on her shoulder as though waking her from a deep sleep and beckoned her consciousness to arise. "Mom. Mom—do you want to go lie down?" I asked her, without judgment. Her eyes lifted and met mine, and a broad smile drew up into her temples. "You're so..." I expected she was going to say something unkind but let her finish, "...pretty." It was so genuine that I couldn't help but feel flattered, even in that scene of oppressive absurdity. Lacking such inhibition and control of her own thoughts, I trusted that her words, for once, had to have been honest.

I told her I'd help her to bed. Taking her arm around my neck, I ventured to stand, mistaken that she'd support her weight upon doing so. But she melted to the floor, her legs completely giving out, buckling as though she'd never used them before. This was problematic, but I believed I was strong and decided it would be a solid challenge to confront. We tried putting her on my back. She was cognizant enough to hold on, but the dead weight of a 130 lb woman's legs swinging caused me to stumble and drop her. The thump was a little loud but she gave a bit of a laugh, so I figured she was alright. Next up was pulling. I thought I might be able to drag her down the hall. Her pants caught the carpet and began to roll off, plus I was only able to move her maybe two feet further that way.

My children, who had been cheering us on, thought their grandmother was putting on an act for them. Though their chortles and guffaws were endearing, my heart ached knowing the truth behind the exhibition. I told my mom she was going to have to crawl. Like a cat without a cerebellum, she wobbled and leaned more to one side than the other. It took a good twenty minutes of coaching and a few breaks to allow her to rest (or sleep), but she made it to her bed. The sleekness of her sheets made it easy to slide her in, an endeavor for which I was grateful to finally see the end.

My 5-year-old daughter squealed with amusement, "Nini is so funny!" I wanted to protect both her and my mom from the ugliness of the moment, so I concurred, "Yeah, Nini is silly." What had been wildly comical revealed itself to be just as pathetic and sad, and even in the deepest of her high, my mom was embarrassed. "What must you think of me—I'm sorry you have a mother like me," she apologized once I'd taken off her shoes and made sure she was comfortable. I told her I loved her and to get some sleep. Three hours later, she strolled out of her bedroom and asked, “Did you guys ever find out what happened to the cheeseburger?”