Mom.

So it has been 8 years, today, since my mom OD'd.
Or, well, some say since she "died".
I know the truth, I don't care to argue about it.

I will never forget that phone call.
My sister, "Sissy.... mom's dead..."
Me: "what do you mean, moms dead?"
Her: "She's dead... papa went to see her shes dead."
Me: "This isn't funny Brittany Anne."
Her: -Sobbing uncontrollably-
Me: Put grandma on the phone
Her: -Hands grandma the phone-
Grandma: -Sobbing- "Hello?"
Me: "Hey... whats wrong? What's going on?"
Grandma: "Its your mom Faith, she's passed away."
Me: "Seriously?"
Grandma: "Yes honey. We tried calling her since last night & never got an answer, so today papa went over to check on her, and she had passed away in bed."

I don't remember much after that. I remember giving my dad the phone.
I remember going numb.
I called someone.... but I don't remember who.
I don't remember... anything really.
It is all a blur, between there & the "wake" that was held for her at grandma's house. What a fiasco. I didn't dress in black mourning attire, I wore MY kind of clothes. Clothes that were also remniscent of the REAL BRENDA - before she got strung out. So they all looked down on me, the oldest child, as disrespectful. Like any one of those losers knew shit. Fucking enablers. My sister, was there with her gang banger friends. That was awesome. [not]. My dad gave a beautiful speach, which pissed everyone off.... idiots. I gave a eulogy.... that no one appreciated. I was honest. I told the truth, how life really was. Shared my feelings, my love, my hate, my forgiveness and understanding. But I don't sugercoat life. Or death. That is what they wanted. So once again, I, the preverbial black sheep of the family, who looks just like my mother according to so many, was looked down upon. I had no desire to be there. I almost didn't go... I don't remember what compelled me to go... but I did. I remember being literally 1 block away, not wanting to go, and telling my dad I didn't want to go. It is all so blurry.

So here we are 8 years later. No mom. Her spirit hangs around. Its not the same. I miss her sometimes, I hate her sometimes, I love her sometimes, and sometimes I just wish I had a chance to have a conversation with her that is better than the last one we had - a fight - where she yelled at me, and hung up on me, and that was our last talk.

Right now, I miss her, & I am angry with her. Justifiably.
I have questions only she can answer, only she can't. not really.
I am frustrated, overwhelmed, and overloaded with life and emotions.
Layne Stayley sings me through my bad times, along with Mary Magdalan.

She was 42. Too young to die.
Stupid dope. Stupid heroine. Stupid everything.

Scary's on the wall
Scary's on the wall

Watch where you spit
I'd advise you wait until it's over
Then you got hit
And you shoulda known better


And we die young
Faster we run

Down, down, down you're rollin'
Watch the blood float in the muddy sewer
Take another hit
And bury your brother

And we die young
Faster we run

Scary's on the wall
Scary's on his way

Another alley trip
Bullet seek the place to bend you over
Then you got hit
And you shoulda known better

Faster we run
And we die young