Maree

(add your comments) to Maree’s rant about what to do when you’re really mad…

Maree:

What to do when someone yells at you and you didn’t do anything!….

“key” your leg so no one sees

punch yourself in the stomach

get drunk smoke dope forget

eat a bowl of Phish food with whipped cream

eat another bowl of Phish food with whipped cream

yell really loud in your car

yell back!

tear a notebook in half

run around the block

run up and down the stairs over and over

count to one thousand

look at your hurt face in the mirror

swear a blue streak, whatever that means

go to your room and chain-smoke

get some fresh air

dig your toes in dirt

take a nap

cry cower run

          away

Maree

Maree, still frustrated by her adoptive family (see OGW 1/8, 11/19, 1/7), seeks her birth mother out on Facebook.  The Facebook search really happened, to me!

Maree:  In my room, I ::weep:: on Facebook to all my friends about my horrible adoptive father, my horrible life, my adoptive mother who doesn’t care about anything except that I call her Mom, my sisters who think I’m weird and probably a little more than stupid –-  “Who on earth besides Maree doesn’t believe in God?” 

“God, Maree, you’re so dumb,” says Marigold before she storms out of the room, crying “Daddy!”

Who on earth besides Marigold is named Marigold?

I get up from my desk and go lock the door.  If my so-called father comes pounding, I guess I’ll have to open it.  But at least he won’t take me by surprise.  It was worth it to make my snotty little sister cry.

Putting my head down in my hands, I reach under my glasses with my fingertips and rub my eyes.  Who on earth does God hate as much as me?  If there were a God, I mean.  I wipe away a stray tear.  I’m not a mean person.  I want a family, complete with a weepy little sister-bug.

I just don’t want this one.

     Taking a deep breath, I shake my hair and my head out, and it’s as if I can see my thoughts, all criss-crossed and laid out like Pick-up Sticks.  OMG, there’ one I never thought of before, OmyGod OhmyGoddess Oh My Whomever, it’s fucking genius!  I think and grab for the idea, hold it in a fist over my heart, then quit playing and get serious.

     Facebook.  It was the place I courted, landed and lost Chris Hazelton.  It might be the place where I find my real family!  My real mother!  Facebook!  My heart is a blur of quick beats, and my hands are shaking as I type into the search box, “Wilhemina German”.  I pause.  I press return.

     My real mother’s not there, or rather she might be, but there are eighty-six of her.  Eighty-six possible Mommy’s. Breathing in and slowly letting the air out, I glance at my bedroom door, still safely locked.  I get up to make sure.  Then, I get to work.

     “RU My Mother?” I type as the subject line in a message to the first woman who appears she might be old enough.  I look at her profile pic and think she kind of looks like me.  I tilt my head, look harder.  Untilt, press send, and go on to the next Wihemina German, not knowing whether she’s married now with a different last name.  Not knowing much of anything.  Wondering why I don’t just know when I see her face, why can’t I just know?  Huh?  God, if you’re there, if you’re real?

     Sudden pounding on the bedroom door doesn’t even make me pause, because it’s too small to be my father, and I know it’s only Marigold.  “Maree you let me in!  What’re you doing, playing with yourself?  I’m telling Daddy!  Daddy!”

     The mouth on that girl.  And she’s only nine, but she does believe in God, or at least in Daddy and his belt.  I keep typing, RU My Mother, RU My Mother, RU My Mother, RU My Mother…

     Suddenly a warning appears on my screen:  “You are engaging in an activity that others may find annoying.  If you do not discontinue this activity, you may be cut off from performing this activity on Facebook for a period of hours or days”

     What the—

     I slam my mouse finger down on okay, and then return to scrolling through names, Wilhemina German, Wilhemina German, Wilhemina German, Wilhemina German, Wilhemina German—

     “You are engaging in an activity that others may find annoying.  If you do not discontinue this activity, you may be cut off from performing this activity on Facebook for a period of hours or days”

     Oh fuck off, I think, because suddenly, there she is!  I know it!  I click on raven-haired, sloe-eyed Wilhemina German King, and type in RU My Mother in a blur.  My heart is going to shimmy out of my throat in a moment!  I click send!

     The Facebook gods send me a box with this message now:  “You have engaged in the same activity too often in too short a time, and Facebook will not allow you to continue.  Your message has not been sent.”

     And then the real pounding starts, my fucking adoptive so-called father at the door.  Maybe the Facebook team called him.  Shutting down my page, I think, Wilhemina German, where RU? 

     I open the bedroom door and the real world presses in, his belt already off and swinging in a loop in his hand.

     You see Marigold?  I told you there wasn’t a God.

Maree

Maree:  Appearing first in OGW 10/8 and 11/19, Maree is becoming increasingly frustrated with her adoptive family. 

Maree:  A sort of clanging knocking -- the sound of metal being hammered into place – rises from the basement through the heating vent in the kitchen.  Assuming that sound goes both ways, I realize that Bill – my adoptive father, down in the basement working on the furnace – can probably hear everything I say.  I’m in a hurry to finish this conversation anyway, and it’s not just because I don’t want to upset him. 

But I also really, really don’t want to upset him.

“Let’s just forget it,” I say, almost whispering.

“First you tell me what I ever did to you,” Renee says.

“Nothing!  I mean nothing bad.”

“You come home and you call me Renee instead of Mom, and I’m supposed to forget it?  Honestly, I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I just want to forget it,” I say at first, but ‘Mom’ sticks in my throat, and I can’t get it out and call Renee that anymore, even though I guess I should.  She wants me to. 

“I mean, what’s wrong with calling you Renee, it’s your name.”

“I mean, I only raised you.  Why should you call me Mom.  I’m only your mother.”

“But you’re not my mother!”  The banging in the basement stops suddenly, and I inhale sharply.  Not fear, not fear, I won’t be afraid… but I am afraid.  I’m quiet.  Waiting for Bill to charge up the stairs, pulling his belt off as he comes.  When that doesn’t happen, and the hammering resumes, I exhale.  I didn’t even know I was holding my breath.  I never know when I’m holding my breath, and that’s part of the problem.  I’m always afraid.  If Renee were my real mother, she would protect me.

My mother will protect me.

I want to – have to – believe that.  My friend Aimee tells me I shouldn’t get my hopes up.  She says she’s afraid for me.  But my hopes aren’t up, I’m just being realistic.  A mother, a real mother, protects.  Renee is just Renee, and that’s why I can’t always go swimming with the other kids in summer and sometimes I don’t shower after gym at school so everyone calls me -- or at least thinks that -- I’m gross.  At least they don’t call me – well, I don’t know what they’d call me, because I’ve never shown my bruises, strips of raised flesh from Bill’s belt.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, defeated.  I give Renee a hug.  She doesn’t hug back at first, but then she does, and once again I haven’t been breathing because now I exhale. 

Everything’s okay.  But she’s not my mother.  Now, more than ever, I’m determined that no matter what Aimee says to warn me, I don’t care.  I’m going to find my birth mother, my real mother, and then, then everything will really be okay.  I will be loved for real.

“I love you,” Renee says as if she read my mind.  She kisses my forehead.

I step back, smiling, not breathing, and then I hurry upstairs just as Bill is coming up from the basement.

Maree

Maree first showed up in OGW 10/8/09.  In this entry, we learn that Maree’s alienation from her family stems from her being adopted.  As Maree’s story evolves, perhaps her birth mother will reappear in her life.  Perhaps Maree will find peace with her adopted family.  Who knows?

Maree:  Everyone thinks I’m Godless, but I’m not.  Even I have called myself Godless, have fought with Julia over Jesus (me:  he doesn’t exist!  You’re stupid!), have told Hannah that nobody in any religion believes God lives in McDonald’s so she better just shut up before the men in white coats come to take her away (Hannah:  Boo hoo bawl cry, I’m telling my Mama). 

But here’s the truth.  I do have a God, a secret Goddess.  In my heart, I call her Mom.

I know it’s crazy.  I know my real Mom didn’t want me and that’s how I ended up with this crazy Christian band of do-gooders I call my adopted family.  But here’s what I do:

I lie down or sit up in lotus position.  I put in earplugs and all I can hear is the steady, slowing pulse of my own blood in my ears.  I go deep, down into my heart, and there is a door.  When I knock, it opens. 

Gently, softly, quietly.

Sometimes there is a bed suspended on a porch by the beach (saw that in a magazine), and I lie down on it.  She lies next to me.

Sometimes there is a velvet couch in a small room full of gauzy hanging scarves, windchimes and purple pillows.  She waits for me there, and I crawl onto her lap.

My favorite is the open room, wooden floors.  I take off my shoes, and suddenly I’m dressed in a long, flowing gown of layers and layers of sheer material, and I begin to dance.  She joins me.  She lifts me up, high above her head.  I float, I spin, I fly.  She is with me, and when we’ve finished dancing, she applauds me, even though she did all the work.

She is my Goddess.  I call her Mom. 

Maree

Maree is a newcomer Outsider Girl.  I don’t know where she came from or where her story will go, but I find her to be funny, with an interesting perspective on things, and I expect she’ll be back in later posts.

Maree:

My little sister, eight, believes God lives in McDonald’s, because she says, there he can get a hot meal anytime he wants.

My four year old brother just told me he only likes white guys, like Batman, and Spiderman, Wolverine and Superman, Steve and Joe from Blue’s Clues.  Phineus and Ferb.  I’m worried, because his new school will be ninety percent black and hispanic.  Hopefully, he’ll meet some new Superheroes there. 

My oldest sister, Marla, twenty-two, is a Christian missionary to missionaries. Wrap your head around this -- she helps missionaries get closer to Christ.  She had to raise a whole lot of money to get this job, but I didn’t say anything about how backwards that seemed, and didn’t dare get smart and ask how God’s dental plan is. 

Everyone thinks Marla’s so great, except me.   I think she’s crazy and kind of a bully besides, but then I had to grow up with her lording it over me -- no pun intended (get it?  “Lord”, hardeeharhar).

So then there’s me, in the middle.  Last night I gave my first blow job, in the bushes behind a party, and Christopher, that was the guy, called me an angel, but he hasn’t called today, or answered any of my texts. 

I guess you’d say I’m Godless.  But it’s not like I don’t care.  It’s not like I’m trying to break my parents’ hearts.  I’m looking for God, or something, anything out there that’s not me, but it’s hard, because when I’m mopping the floor, and wiping Markie's boogers, and scraping dried cheese off plastic plates... it seems like there is only me.  It seems like I can only be my own angel.