The Secret Life...

3

Mom had two smells. One was a flowery, feminine scent which I associated with her being happy. It was quite aptly referred to in my own head as her 'happy smell'. I know now that it was the perfume she liked to wear. I never did find out the name of it – I wasn't at home for long enough - but I realise now I'm older this meant that mom was in a good place. Mom's 'bad smell' was very different. I couldn't have described it to you at the time, but now I know it was a pungent smell of vodka, stale and recurrent. This usually meant she'd spent the best part of the day drinking and was now feeling emotional.

I was watching 'A Bug's Life' on the TV when she came and sat down next to me on the sofa. She put her arm around me and pulled me close into her chest, and there it was, the bad smell. All I knew at 4 years old was that mom acted different when she smelled like that. This time, she sniffled, and when I glanced up I saw her eyes were wet. I thought that meant she was upset but I was frightened to ask why. Moms aren't meant to be upset. They're meant to make you feel better when you're upset. Mom said "I love you" between her crying and I said it back as an automatic reaction. I thought that's what I was supposed to say.

Mom always said things when she'd been drinking. She said them like she really meant them, as if she would never say them again.

"I love you."
"You're my perfect boy."

"Don't forget how much I love you, Ty."
"I'm not good enough for you."

I always felt scared when mom said these things. She sounded so sad, as if she was telling me her last words. I worried that I'd never see her again, despite the fact I had no clue about suicide as a child. Everything she said sounded so final, that's all I could pick up on. Sometimes I wondered whether she would run away and I'd never see her again. I wondered how dad would be as a parent on his own. He was barely home as it was. Would he spend more time with me if mom wasn't here? Would I be left on my own?

Most of my childhood was spent in a state of anxiety. I'd lay in bed wondering where my parents were, who they were with, if they were hurt, if I'd see them in the morning. It was like a dull ache constantly in my stomach. I worried constantly, always feeling alone once the light went off in my bedroom. The light was a lifeline. As long as it was on, there was hope. The darkness plunged a knife inside my knotted stomach and twisted it. Sleep was just something else I didn't get enough of.