By Eden Vander Zee
As I sit swaddled in my pink-and-white Barbie blankie on the brown wrinkled couch in the sun room of my suburban home, there seems to be nothing but a perfect world that surrounds me. I see my mother singing in the kitchen, the sun warms my skin as it gleams in through the stained-glass windows, and the smell of homemade brisket makes its way to my content heart. My young life seems to be all so perfect.
But little did I know—I was pretending the whole time.
When she wasn’t the “mommy” I knew, I’d find her unconscious on the cold bathroom tile, lifeless and estranged. Addiction held her hand tighter than anyone I’d ever seen; before I even came of age I knew what chaos filled the little orange pill bottles that lay strewn across the floor. At an early age, I knew how to get up, get dressed, fix myself breakfast and run to catch the bus just as my mother awoke from her pill-induced haze.
It wasn’t her fault, however—that part I want to make clear. My mom struggled with her addiction, but don’t we all have some demon within us that we fight so hard to defeat? I grew up quickly—there’s no denying that, but in some ways I am glad for the hardships that have come my way because they have only made me stronger.
My father held a corporate job at an aviation company. One that entailed white collars, steak dinners and three to five-day business trips that to me, seemed like weeks. I grew up in St. Louis, a city to which my mom referred to as “Gotham City.” That it was. The memories I have are foggy from the overcast shadow of prescription pills. They are the inconvenient blur obscuring what good I try to recall. I was a timid child, always afraid to branch out and make new friends, but I remember being told that I was special by every adult I met, and perhaps they were onto something. That part I’m still trying to figure out.
I remember my dad coming back from his trips. I would immediately ask him, “Did you bring me something?” I’ve learned that about myself in my adult age—that I am always seeking more from people. That could be the result of a bit of emotional deprivation in my childhood, again, inadvertently. Knowing that about myself, I have learned to never expect anything from anyone—as you will almost always be disappointed.
I reached the age of 16 so rapidly that I still find myself missing the endless amount of chocolate milk drained from countless sippy cups over the span of my childhood. I had to grow up fast; I had no choice. Coincidentally, that was when we decided it was time to move to Texas. I thought that day would never come. I’d hoped a change would be what we needed to be a normal family.
I’d really hoped…
The move to Texas felt fresh, like opening a new can of tennis balls and catching that whiff of ripe excitement. Life was good. It was as if life itself had pivoted on its axis and given my family a second chance at joy. She was happy. I would see my mom out in her vegetable garden tending to her plants and then feeding her deer, which she had each named one by one. Texas had saved her, had saved us—an emotional revival.
Doctors have never been strangers to me. When I was a child, they frightened me because I knew they supplied my family’s distresses. There was one who was different, however, one that nurtured my mom from the ground up and saved her from herself. I remember her saying, “This has been the best four years of my life.” Canning, quilting, gardening, feeding the deer, walking the dog, and watching Bravo TV for hours on end—those were the things that she loved to do, and my heart smiles as I replay the memories of her recent years through my mind.
There has been only one person that has had the utmost impact upon my life. Can you guess who?
She is beautiful. She is thoughtful. She is caring. She is adoring. She smells of Chanel No.5, and she prepares extravagant meals while singing made-up songs with a gleaming smile upon her face. As a child, I adored her—as an adult, I live for her. Playing pretend was something I did well as a child. I played for hours on end with my dolls under the wooden bar in the basement of my suburban home trying to make their life perfect so that I could live vicariously through their plastic, painted smiles. Throughout my life I have tried so hard to put on an act for the world to see, showing them only what I wanted and nothing more. From the outside, my childhood seemed perfect and at some points it was, but in no way was it the Barbie dream world that I longed for it to resemble.
As I sit now, still swaddled in my pink-and-white Barbie blankie at the age of 21, I dream the dream of a fruitful life, but one that promises to never sacrifice my happiness for achievement. A life that is real and transparent, and strictly me. I want to live a life that does not let experiences be the defining factor, but one that is authentically me and not fictitious.
In her last moments she told me in a text message, “Stay strong, go for your goals, and I’ll watch and smile.” I didn’t know that would be the last time I would talk to my mom, but now all I seek to do is stay strong and make her smile.
*Editor’s Note: Eden’s mother took her own life on Aug. 10, 2016.
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