I'm Glad My Mom Died

If Mom really didn’t want what was best for me, or do what was best for me, or know what was best for me, that means my entire life, my entire point of view, and my entire identity have been built on a false foundation.

Oh. So we started going to church when we wanted something from God?” I asked.

“No.” Even though Mom was laughing when she said it, she sounded kind of nervous, maybe even a little annoyed.

I find it strange that we’ve stopped going to church since my career has taken off and Mom’s health has normalized. I tried to broach the subject gently one night when we were driving home from work, but Mom started screaming and saying she was losing control of the steering wheel and that I was causing her tremendous stress that was putting both of us in danger, so I quickly learned to never bring up the subject again.
But now, in this moment, as I’m looking down at her sleeping, I’m starting to accept for the first time that our church days may very well be behind us. I guess Makaylah was right after all.
I used to think going inactive was a terrible thing, a sin to be ashamed of. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a sign that things are going right.
Maybe people go to church because they want things from God. And they keep going while they’re wishing and yearning and longing for those things. But then maybe once they get those things, they realize they don’t need church anymore. Who needs God when you’ve got clear mammograms and a series regular role on Nickelodeon?

Fame has put a wedge between Mom and me that I didn’t think was possible. She wanted this. And I wanted her to have it. I wanted her to be happy. But now that I have it, I realize that she’s happy and I’m not. Her happiness came at the cost of mine. I feel robbed and exploited.

fear that I’m bitter. I’m too young to be bitter. Especially as a result of a life that people supposedly envy. And I fear that I resent my mother. The person I have lived for. My idol. My role model. My one true love.
This complicated feeling crops up when I take a picture with a stranger and I see Mom standing off to the side, mirroring the smile she wants me to have.
It happens when she tells the person taking the picture to “Get one more! Or two more, just in case!” when she knows how much I dislike this whole thing.
It happens when she has me practice my autographs and tells me “It’s getting sloppy. Little C, Big C, U-R-D-Y. They need to be able to read every letter.”
It happens when she pitches me on what slogan to write to accompany my autographs. “See ya at the movies!” is the current winner, and Lord knows why. I’m not even in movies, I’m on TV. And kids’ TV, at that—which, if anything, almost guarantees the fact that I will never be in any movies.

I can’t let Mom know I’m into purple, since Mom prefers pink. She would be heartbroken if I suddenly announce that I’ve switched my favorite color to one that isn’t also hers. It is an honor that Mom cares about me so much that something like me having my own favorite color would devastate her. True love.

Plus, who wants to read a review from someone who takes the time to write a review? Can’t trust ’em, too much time on their hands.

h my God, his voice. It’s my favorite thing about him—quiet and gravelly, probably from his two packs a day, but that’s fine, we can deal with the lung cancer later.

“So what do you say? You want to act? You want to be Mommy’s little actress?”
There’s only one right answer.

The fragility of Mom’s life is the center of mine.