What did they expect me to turn out as? I mean all my fuckin life all I heard was “poor white trash this, poor white trash that.” Like was that supposed to make me feel good about myself, some kind of fuckin reverse psychology.
I want to love George. I wish I woulda never tried meth. Shit, I wish I could be the kind of mother to Beth that I want to be.
I look at myself and all I see is trash. Beth looks at me and it hurts because I know that when she looks at me she sees something good, something she loves. When I tried to get myself clean the last time the lady at the place said to turn the picture of Beth into feelings; that if I could just be how Beth feels about me then I could become who she needs me to be.
Well how about I just feel how to pull a million dollar bill outta my ass. These people are so full of shit. You wonder if they really believe what they say or if they just watching the clock, saying any old shit till the damn 50 minutes is up and they can get you outta the office and go wash their hands. That’s what I think they do. Like the whole time I sitting there, she’s thinking what a piece of shit, I hope she doesn’t mess up my chair.
I always make sure I at least that I wash my hair, cause I know, even when I fucked up, that the difference between me with clean hair and not is a stringy mess who looks like the poster child for PWT. When I get cleaned up I look good. I know that–but that’s what got me into this shit in the first place. If I was fat with bad skin, George wouldn’t married me. He would’ve just taken me in like another stray but he wouldna tried to save me, make me be a wife and a mother and a member of the goddamn PTA.
When I’m clean, I’m countin’ the time, the hours, the days. I feel like Ima climb outta my skin. I have a drink at noon. I make myself wait till then, a respectable time to have a beer. If he was comin’ home for lunch, I’d try to hold off cause I didn’t want him asking about me drinkin in the middle of the day and what kind of example and blah, blah, blah. Beth was in the first grade thankfully so no more coming home half days. I feel like all I do, sober and not is count time.
It’s like when I’m on stage at the club and I’m doing my thing, grinding up and down on the pole, I’m countin. I figure I do six dips, five rounds, four spins a few shimmies and then I’m done. Sometimes I hold my breath cause the beer sink is so strong I feel like I might just wretch right there on the platform. That would be some shit; DaShawn would have a damn baby cow if I did that and he’d try to beat the shit outta me, not that he has ever put his hands on me, but I think that would push him right over. He’s a tense motherfucker, that one.