Lip Gloss

*Please note – This post touches on sensitive topics such as adoption, family dynamics, heavy topics emotionally this post is a reflection piece. A little bit deeper than my older ones. Read if you feel comfortable. No worries if you don’t. My post is meant to reflect on my childhood and how it shaped me as an individual.

It was a rainy day as I got myself together to drive back to my mother’s. The McDonald’s bag crumpled in a pile from last night’s snack. My room a mix of chaos and cuteness. It reminded me of the Dr.Pepper Strawberry and Cream flavor I had for breakfast when I stayed at my moms, ” You know I don’t approve.” I put down the can. The glass table seared with judgement.

When I had slept in my new apartment the first night, I felt peace. I felt comforted knowing I was in a better place. Not the hometown I grew up in, or the same town as my family for once. I grabbed my keys and drove, taking pit stop breaks. Just me and my thoughts. I felt free. The gas station and fast food tied to a memory based on smell . My family drove me back. The hours passed as time rewound. Trees we would zoom by or pit stops where I had taken breaks at.

We sat at a little pizza restaurant in the rain, “So what’s the cheapest price for the meals?” My mother asked. I hesitated and pulled out my wallet. It was 2 slices and a drink for 9 dollars. I could pay for my own meal, “it’s all together for us.” my mother took the stage. I stopped dead in my tracks, “Speak up.” I had told myself. The chance was outruled. Another soda for me, another judged look.

We ate and shopped around. The storefronts ready for another purchase. I headed to Sephora I prefered Ulta but wanted to browse the new makeup. I had been a couple times to various Sephoras, “Would you like to try this Chanel Perfume?” The lady asked me. I nodded not sure what I was commiting to. The floral scent assulted me, I pulled back half smiling. My reaction a viceral memory. Perfumes and colognes would overwhelm me I would feel the lingering effects as I stepped out of the store. I would compare it to being tipsy. I knew I couldn’t handle a wave of fragrances.

For one of my birthday gifts I had gotten a sephora makeover when I was younger. The concept to me wasn’t familiar. I didn’t have an interest in makeup at the time. I sighed my Birthday had always been a sore subject. The makeover had made me feel fake. I so badly wanted to wash it off. With blue eyeshadow and hues that didn’t match me.

For my birthday in elementary school I would get to be on tv and awarded a Birthday ribbon. We would line up behind the camera and wait for the signal to walk up. Two of the school reporters handed us mini blue ribbons.  How could I explain how complex my birthday was. legal paperwork just a date. I looked to the side again. Each birthday a small reminder of the ache I felt of having a day meant for me. Outvoted by the majority. A day trip, a small dinner. “Happy Birthday.” Another day. I wanted to celebrate and recently went to Universal Studios to enjoy becoming 27. I wanted it to be stress-free and relaxing.

A memory tied to the mall surfaced. I was on a Date? He wanted to take me out since I helped his friends get home since the bus was a no show. I drove to an unknown street to drop him off. The car chatter became apparent; everyone was single except one guy. I quietly wrote notes in my head. Why did he lie? It was an akward ride as I had Google maps going. I would later take his friend to the mall only to hold bags and be magically “impressed” by the cologne he chose. He would smile as he talked about the price tag. I sighed, keeping up with him in the mall. “Smell this, it’s good right?” I nodded not realizing I would smell all of them, “Does this one smell good on me?” I winced as the bags I carried weighed.

We would end up at a bar where I chose the least intimidating meal, chicken tenders. The bar TV blasted as he spoke.  Flashes of pixelated neon glare caught me. I had stared into oblivion. He was into baseball, wanting to become better at English he was from Japan. I wanted to go home. Most dates I’ve been on haven’t been the best. Outside the bar told a very different story as a lady puked. We would part ways and never talk again.

I had no father figure growing up. Only my mom and siblings. My mother had dated someone for a bit who I felt comfortable with. One day in middle school I was asked to play golf but I didn’t have any clubs. I hesitated, could I call him? I told the teacher, “Let me call my dad.” Did I just say that? why did I lie? The part that tore open a wound, A father figure. The words slipped.

My past was complex; I was adopted as an infant raised by my solo mom. (not bio mother.) The akward days would come when it was Father’s Day in second grade, “Mrs.Holly who do I write this too? I don’t have a dad.” I said it matter-of-factly as if I was an anomaly. The kids colored their ties with word of love. Bright blue hues and reds. “Happy Fathers day!” “I love my dad!” I looked down at my blank paper tie, “Are there any males or father figures you look up to?” I shook my head not understanding the concept. She leaned over, “How about the principal?” I nodded and drew. “What I love about my father and then the words I put in to fill in the blank?” um.., ” respectful, kind,caring.” wait how many words am I supposed to put?

My memory faded as I ran to the car. My tight socks and shin guard rubbed against my leg, “I don’t want to go to soccer. I quit.” I had pouted as my mother pulled me aside, “You can’t quit that’s not an option.” I swung my legs as I sat in the back of the Subaru. I had taken Gymnastics, Figure skating, soccer, and ballet. My mother looked at me, “You can’t quit.” I huffed, “All the kids run faster than me.” I scowled I wasn’t as good as them. The truth was I had suffered from my asthma. As I ran, my throat would swell up and hurt. I didn’t have the emotional capacity to explain my throat was on fire. As I ran the turns and passes caught up to me. The soccer goal loomed in front of me. A goal? Won by someone as we took a break. The classic orange barrel full of water and orange slices that got stuck in my teeth.

Most times my mother wasn’t there. I coughed and wheezed as I sat down. A family friend, a babysitter, would pick me up from practice.

My preschool memories stung, “where’s your mom?” I shrugged as I watched the other kids leave with their parents. The teachers kept an eye on me, the last to go. She smiled, ” Sorry I’m late come on, let’s go back to the shop.” My mother had owned a retail shop. A tourist shop with vibrant gardens, fresh produce. I held her hand as I looked back at my preschool. The gates closed as the teacher waved, “Bye!” I smiled knowing the teachers needed to get home too.

On the weekends, I would call up my childhood friend Cass. Cass lived downtown close to the sea. We became close, building forts her mom driving us to the farm and dumptique. We would walk to the post office and go through recycling bins to find mini treasures. She would show me her fake plastic cards she acquired, “What how did you get those?” I eyed the wallet, “the bins. at the post office.” My jealousy spoke to 7-year-old me, who wanted to be like her. Day trips walking downtown became an adventure, “whats that?” I asked seeing the littlest pet shop. I was curious it would form the way I would gamble.

The cute little bat packaged behind thin plastic. I wanted it. My allowance was 12 just enough to buy one. We would buy them every other weekend. Her collection was growing. I suggested we bring them to the beach, “We could take them to the beach and play pretend in the sand dunes.” She hesitated. Was it too babyish? With every ounce of imagination, I tried to cling to my childhood. Her glare told me everything. We went to different schools, and slowly we would drift.

The rift sparked and emotionally charged I yelled, “At least you had a Dad!” It was true. I won’t get into specifics but her mom had a partner, and he had passed. I had blurted out the one thing I should have never said. I crossed the line without meaning to. My pent-up emotions suffocated my frame. I could feel the echo as I yelled and cried.

Most days I would sit at my mothers garden center on the bags of peatmoss and soil. To me they were floating islands. I would jump down, climb up and watch as cars drove past, “Please get down.” I shook my head. The employees were worried that I could fall. I climbed down and went to look for my mother, “MOM!!” She was at the cash register with a customer. I tugged at her, “Mom I’m hungry.” I would get some cash for a small snack.

I would walk to the local snack shop. The grease would suffocate my thoughts. I saw many men watching tv. Yelling at it as they scratched down numbers. The counter was higher as I stood on my tip toes, “Grilled cheese please.” They nodded and gave me change as I picked up my order I headed to the table. I sat as the men chatted. I had no clue they were gambling. The numbers they promised away to a game I’d never understand. I ate quietly and left. The bell rang as I exited.

The chapter would shut as my memories were locked behind scenes only I could see. Each door held a very specific time loop. The hall of doors each timeline, each smell, each emotion. When I would look back through memories and play them the scene would build.