Chapter 3

Today I went back to Iowa to see my family and to see my mom.  I knew I would be writing about the apartment we moved into when my mom married Phil so I decided to drive by and take a picture to share with you.  It doesn’t look 36 years older as I do; it looks exactly the same.  I didn’t need a picture.  That entire building is permanently engraved on my memory.  The smell of wet cigarette smoke so embedded in my mind that I smell it now.   I can see the dark walls of cheap, lead-based paint and peeling wallpaper, the bathroom with no door, and my bedroom directly across from where he and my mom would sleep.  In my bedroom was a large, dark closet where I would often find the only quiet of my childhood.  This home also had a great big coffee table that when I stood on it, I could see myself in the mirror.  Thus began my love for dancing on that coffee table pretending to be Shirley Temple.  Also born was my love for looking at myself in the mirror.  I remember having a nice friend named Michelle and a mean, older girl named Renee as my neighbor.  She would only be my friend if her other neighbor, Donna wasn’t around.  When Donna was around, which was too often for my taste, I would have to settle for Renee’s little brother, Terry.  Terry had a penchant for human flesh and would bite me at every opportunity.  I can only hope he is enjoying “Twilight” as an adult.  I once retaliated by pulling his pants down and laughing.  He had the last laugh when the next day he punched me in the nose whilst holding a golf ball.  I will continue to blame him for the slight bump in my nose for the rest of my life.  One thing I don’t remember is any feelings of love either for or from my mother in my early childhood.  I do recall feelings of embarrassment whenever I was with her in public.  She just was never “normal”.  She didn’t do normal things.  She drank coffee.  Only coffee.  Never Pepsi.  My cool Aunt Peg and Uncle Doug drank Pepsi.  I just wanted her to drink a Pepsi.  She had normal brown hair, which never saw the light of day.  She only wore platinum blonde wigs, which were clearly wigs.  She was not fooling anyone.  And lots of makeup.  She was really a beautiful woman, but it was clear that she didn’t know it.  My mother struggled with eating disorders her entire life.  It is still all she thinks about.  It is the last thing she said to me today as I dropped her off at her residential facility for the mentally ill.  “Debbie, none of my clothes fit”.  Her eyes are filled with a sadness that is difficult to describe.  She is trapped.  Trapped in her own mind with no way out of the thoughts that plague her everyday.  Her eyes long for escape.  “What about the clothes you are wearing, I think you look great” is my only response.  And of course, “I love you” and “I’ll see you soon.”