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What "Mommy" means to me.

She was my mother and she was hitting me. Screaming at me. I never suspected meth as the cause of her violence. Hell, at twelve years old? I didn't even know what meth was. And that's not the only thing she used. Cocaine, weed, alcohol was a household item. She spent most nights out with Zach or Brad or whatever her lay-of-the-day's name was. They snorted, smoked, drank, then drove. It was three o' clock in the morning when it first hit me that the late nights weren't because she had to cover for Steve at the radio station. The police pulled up to my front door, said "your mom's been arrested." First thought: Not mom. No, there's some mistake. Maybe the van's tags were expired? But no, that wasn't the case. Twelve-year-old me had to wake my four-year-old sister from her autistic slumber to drag her to the police station, then to a friend's house. Turns out she'd been arrested for possession of drug paraphernalia. But the police only found out about the cocaine. Not the meth. Sure, they'd caught her a few times when she was high, but never when she was in possession of it.

She kept the meth in an empty container marked "Loose Makeup Foundation" under the bathroom sink.

Imagine my surprise.

Is that what most mothers keep around the house? I wouldn't know, never had a decent one.

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