Can you do self-insemination at home ?
“Wake me up if you see a car coming,” my mother mumbled, her voice slurred, as she parked the truck. The traffic light above us blinked a glaring green, and she drifted off to sleep.
It was late, and we sat in our two-door pickup on a deserted road in rural Texas. My mom was behind the wheel, while I, just eleven years old, sat frozen in fear, watching for approaching headlights. Peering out into the darkness, I felt utterly alone, even with her beside me.
Her drowsiness wasn’t from a long day of work or travel; she had mixed a potent cocktail of prescription drugs that left her nearly unconscious. That night, the thought of headlights piercing the darkness terrified me. If they came, they would shine a spotlight on us, revealing that my mother was incapacitated from too many painkillers. What if a police officer noticed us lingering at a green light? Surely, he would stop to check on us, and then what would happen? I wished we could just move, but fear quickly replaced my frustration. If we drove on, she might drift off completely and crash. Either way, the fear was suffocating—whether we stayed put or continued on our way.
In that moment, like so many others with my mother, embarrassment surged within me. It was a deep, burning feeling as I glanced over to see her head resting against the window, eyes closed and mouth agape. My friends’ moms didn’t do this. I couldn’t understand why mine did.
I often reflect on why this particular scene haunts my memory. It seems mundane, a mere snapshot of my life with my mother’s addiction. I can’t recall if headlights ever appeared that night. At some point, I must have roused her, and we made it to our destination. Yet, I realize now that it marked the beginning of my role as her caretaker, and likely the start of my anxiety issues.
As time passed, my embarrassment morphed into cold resentment. Why was I burdened with worry while she numbed herself with pills? She escaped reality, while I was left to navigate it. Why couldn’t she be a typical mom? These questions festered until, in adulthood, I started ignoring her calls and distancing myself. It was all too overwhelming; often, I simply acted as though she didn’t exist.
Her addiction wreaked havoc on our family, leading to a bitter divorce, a custody battle, her homelessness, multiple arrests, and eventually her death from an overdose in 2013. I spent years fixating on the painful memories. Although I grieved her loss, I pushed her memory to the farthest corners of my mind, allowing only the pain to resurface.
Now, at thirty, after nearly two decades of harboring resentment, I am beginning to feel empathy. I’m learning to release my pain and attempt to understand her struggles.
The truth is, while the bad moments are vivid, the good ones linger, albeit as fleeting feelings rather than concrete memories. A scent, an image, a song—sometimes, unexpectedly, a trigger sparks a memory of happiness I shared with her. When she was sober, my mom was fun, clever, and loving—charming and beautiful. I know there were many good moments, even if I can’t fully recall them.
Like my mother, I battle anxiety, depression, and frequent panic attacks. I’ve worked hard throughout my life to avoid becoming like her; my children will never endure what I faced. Yet, I understand how easy it is to succumb to fear, to feel trapped, and to want to escape.
Fortunately, mental health is no longer as stigmatized as it once was. I have educated myself enough to recognize and discuss my symptoms openly. I don’t think my mother had that kind of support. To many, she was simply the troubled drug addict, and trust was hard to come by.
I often ponder what her life might have been like had her mental health been properly addressed. Perhaps things would be different if the right person had stepped in to help at the right moment. I’m not suggesting no one tried; many people did, including my father, whose financial struggles strained our family. Yet, even when help was offered, she often seemed resistant. I recognize that addiction is a formidable foe and those grappling with it can feel too exhausted to fight.
I love my mom. I always have, even in my moments of anger and embarrassment—while keeping watch for oncoming cars during our traffic light naps. It’s been nearly eight years since her passing, and I still miss her every day. Her struggles with mental health and addiction obscured her from me, and I wish I could have spent more time with the real her. Despite her mistakes, I’m still searching for reasons to love her.
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In summary, my journey of understanding my mother’s struggles has allowed me to process my own feelings and find empathy for her life. While she faced her demons, I am working to reconcile my past and cherish the good moments we shared.