My Mother Doesn't Know Me

But I wonder what she would think of me, if she knew me now.

My mom doesn’t know me. In the last seven years since we’ve spoken, my cells have regenerated. Not a single one of the old ones remains, a scientific fact. All of that EMDR and meditation has created new neural pathways, rewiring my brain and nervous system so I can live within my skin in a relative state of peace. My hair is longer and kind of blonde, probably an attempt to not see her when I look in the mirror. I don’t use substances to disappear. I changed careers. I’m in my 40s now. Life is tidy and organized. My relationships are healthy and drama free. I wonder if she’d admire the woman I’ve become.

The version of me that lives in my mother’s head is warped and distorted like a funhouse mirror behind a curtain of thick smoke. Black mascara rivers running down my cheeks for eternity. While she witnessed some pretty unsavory behavior from me (let’s be real, I was a hardcore fuckup), how much of that was a reaction to what happened and how much was me? And then there’s the narrative…