Page 23 of Don't Let Me Break
“And I haven’t had a chance to answer. I’ve been at work.”
“I thought you weren’t scheduled for today.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I hang my head and pray for patience. “I decided to pick up an extra shift.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Well, that’s nice. How was work, baby?”
“It was fine. The usual.”
“Well, it’s good to see you working so hard.”
“Thanks.”
“But are you having fun?” she quizzes.
“Fun?” I wipe some dust from Mia’s dashboard as the cold seeps in from outside. “What’sfun?”
“You know what I mean. Putting your books aside every once in a while. Hanging out with friends. Letting loose…”
“You’ve got to be joking.” I shake my head and breathe onto the cold window, drawing a sad face in the fog with my index finger.
“You know what I mean,” my mom repeats. “Relaxing. Spending your Fridays without your nose stuck in a book or your hands juggling other people’s orders. Actually having fun instead of distancing yourself.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Hmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Now. Did you take your medicine?”
I snort. “Subtle subject change, Mom.”
“I try,” she teases. “And I’ve noticed you haven’t answered me yet. Did you forget to pick up your prescription? I told you to put a reminder in your phone.”
“I did put a reminder in my phone. And I would’ve picked it up before work, but I lost track of time.”
“So you don’t have it?” she demands. “Baby, you know how important it is to take your medication every day. And I mean every. Single. Day.”
“Yeah, I know, okay?”
“Honey,” she groans. “I swear you didn’t used to be this forgetful. What’s going on?”
Used to be.
It’s one of my mom’s favorite terms. She doesn’t say it on purpose, and she has no idea how much it hurts. The way I used to be. The reminder of who I was and how I used to act. I’m not that girl anymore. Haven’t been for a long time. But being a bit forgetful is better than having seizures, isn’t it? And it is. Even she can’t deny it. However, the reminder of how I’m not entirely who I used to be because of said medication? Because of said diagnosis? It freaking sucks.
With my elbow on the center console, I press my phone to my ear and relax my weight onto my arm, exhaustion creeping over me. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Don’t lie to me. I’m your mother. You used to––”
“Yeah, I know. I used to be responsible. And on top of things. And I had straight A’s. And I could concentrate. And I could be the perfect little girl you always wanted me to be. I hate to break it to you, Mom; I’m not perfect.”
“I’m not saying you should be, baby. I’m saying you need to remember the importance of taking your medication every day at the same time, or else it could throw things off, and you could wind up––”
“I know what can happen,” I snap, shoving my fingers through my hair and tugging at the roots. It’s so frustrating. How she treats me like a child. And what’s even more frustrating is the fact that I get it. I get that she doesn’t mean to. I get that she wants––no,needs––to make sure I’m safe. To make sure I’m okay.
Sometimes, I envy Mia. How her mom trusts her. How her mom gives her space while still loving her. Even when she’s caught in a bind. Even when she could use her mom’s help. Her mother waits for Mia to reach out instead of sticking her nose into her daughter’s personal life.
Because this? The relationship I have with my parents? Sometimes, it makes me feel like I’m suffocating.
Scratch that.