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I barely understand her. It’s hard to breathe, and the wheeze of air through my lungs is too loud. My hands curl into trembling fists like dead bugs.

“What about home?” she says.

I’m not—I’m not like my mother. Not like Dr. Lý is saying. My dad might be a disgusting, filthy monster, the living embodiment of every evil impulse humanity is capable of, but my mom? Mom is weak. She is pathetic, and entitled, and she drinks because she can’t stomach the life laid out in front of her. She is miserable, and instead of doing anything about it, she posts it online for likes and content creator payouts.

I’m not my mother. I’m fixing what’s broken.

I swear to god, I’m trying.

“Is there anyone we can call?” Dr. Lý asks. “Or do we have to get some kind of protective services involved?”

I take a step back, teeth grinding in my skull. If she calls anyone, they’ll get in the way. They’ll mess up the trip to East Early and ruin everything.

“Morgan,” Dr. Lý says sternly when I don’t give her a response fast enough. It’s hard to find words. The world is tilting slightly under my feet. “Listen to me. You’re drunk. Okay? If it was anyone other than me who found you, you’d be in a lot of trouble. We need to get you—”

The automatic doors to the ER waiting room slide open, and a security guard steps out in his dark uniform.

“Ma’am,” he says, “is everything all right here?”

Dr. Lý turns with a jump, then steps forward, between us, putting an arm out as if to shield me. “Oh! I—yes. I’m so sorry. I’m a trauma therapist, and this is one of my old clients. It’s okay, she’s not a danger to anyone—”

No. No. I’m not a drunk, I’m not my mother, and I’m not going to ruin this because I can’t get it together. I’m not going to fail Jane Doe because I’m a piece of shit that can’t do anything right. I won’t let that happen.

Go home. Sober up. Grit my teeth and keep my head down long enough to fix this, the way Mom can’t.

I don’t hear the rest of the sentence. I’m gone.

[Video description: A beautiful woman in her forties, with long dark red hair and a black coat, holds tight to the steering wheel of a car with one hand, dabbing away tears with the other. Text reads, “The most important thing a mother can do is be strong.”]

Liked by wanderheart_84 and 14.1K others

bellamy.slaughter I knew going into this documentary that it was going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done—harder than quitting my dream job as a PR consultant after my daughter Morgan’s autism diagnosis, harder than learning to live as the single mother of a developmentally disabled and mentally ill child, even harder than navigating my husband’s trial. And now that I’m about to face down one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had, it feels insurmountable.

But mothers face insurmountable things every day. We do it for our friends, for our family, for our children. We do it with our heads held high. To face these struggles is proof of the blessing that is MOTHERHOOD, and I am so thankful for it.

XOXO, Bellamy

#autismmom #specialneedsmom #mentalhealth #traumahealing #momblog #momlife #parenthood #selfgrowth #selfcare #relationships #healing #grahamnathanielslaughter #GNS #thedcripper #thebeastof495 #thecharlottesvillestrangler #truecrime #horror

673 comments

wanderheart_84 You are doing your best, mama! Hubs and the littles are praying for your family, and we can’t wait to watch when it comes out.

October XX

Mom doesn’t say a word the entire four-hour drive from DC to United States Penitentiary, East Early. Her purse and her makeup and a change of clothes take up the shotgun seat, so I’m relegated to the back, trying to catch up on the hours of sleep I lost last night. With the way Mom drives, it’s not going great.

If nothing else, I have this: I woke up this morning only mildly hungover, and in one piece. In my bed. No missed calls, no cops, no angry mother demanding that I explain the voice-mail from my old therapist. Just a piercing alarm in the dark. Proof that, for once, I didn’t ruin everything.

Anyway.

For what it’s worth, West Virginia is pretty. As we cross the state border around sunrise, I pick my head up off the window to watch the worn-down mountains go past, the trees turned red with a landslide of autumn leaves. We stop for breakfast in Morgantown, where I force down toast while standing on a café’s wooden porch, looking out over the Monongahela River. Daniel brings me a coffee and points out the hiking trail, asks if I want a jacket, types up some kind of advisor-mandated report so this counts for his internship or thesis or whatever it is.

“Still wish you were a producer?” I ask in the early-morning mountain cold.

“Obviously,” Daniel says.

“Even with all of Mom’s bullshit?”