Reflection

I don't see her when I look at myself in the mirror. Thankfully, I look more like my Daddy's side of the family. My personality is more that of my stepfather than anyone else. He was, after all, the most consistent adult I had in my life before age 12. Every once in a while, though, I hear a phrase, or a tone to my voice, and I cringe- those were her words, that was her voice.
My mother used to be beautiful. I remember when I was 5, she used to make sun tea, out of tea pouches, in that big sunflower container, and it would sit on top of the old, broke down cadillac in our yard for a day or so. It was delicious. She cooked, homemade tortillas, enchiladas, meatloaf, fish, so many things.
I don't know when she became ugly to me.
She'd lost her beauty by the time I was 9, though, I remember that much. Maybe it was the cheating that made her ugly in my eyes. Maybe it was when I started seeing the alcohol. Maybe it was just that I started seeing the flaws in the woman who wasn't supposed to have flaws.
I'm 23 now, and I look back on years of stories, of lies, and am only vaguely better at sorting out what was the truth and what were lies than I was ten years ago. My dad simply telling me 'how he remembered it' opened my eyes to the bullshit my mother had been spoon feeding me and my sister- and Heaven knows who else- for so many years. I started trying to seperate my own memories from the stories she'd told us were explanations. I realized there were years of unneccesary anger at this man who'd lost so much just trying to take care of us. The farther I got from her, the more I could question. Surgeries, medications, abuse, injuries... so many lies. So many people taking the weight of her actions because of the stories she told her children about it. Children are so impressionable. I know I was. She was never the guardian angel she made herself out to be, but she'd have been damned if anyone would knock her from that perch, anyway. Lies about so many men, so many incidents... I wonder often if my sister, 16 months younger, has gone down this road yet. I am scared to bring this up to her- she never healed the way I did. I don't know how she would take the things I have learned or the stories I understand. She lives with our mother, I don't even speak to the woman. I think, frequently, that she's doomed herself to die alone. My sister talks about moving away a little too often to stay there forever, though I wonder if she'll ever really get on her feet in any real way. She's one of the smartest people I know, and I think it does her a disservice more often than not. She believes more in standards and tradition than she does in herself. I am so proud of her, but worry so much for her. I don't think she understands enough to worry about the things I do. I still feel like an adopted child trying to peice together my childhood and family, but I know now that nobody can tell me what I'm capable of or not capable of. I've overcome alcohol problems of my own, and more hand-me-down issues than any child should have been given, and here I am, still not satisfied. All I want is more, all I'll accept is better. No, it's not my mother I see when I look at my reflection in the mirror. It's a woman who pulled herself up by the bootstraps in a way most people could only imagine.
And that's beautiful.