Walking to work this morning, I start to get the strangest feeling someone is watching me. As I look around, I don’t see anyone – but then again, I never see anyone. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way. Paranoid much? Definitely, but fuck it! I have every right to be. I’ve been on guard my whole life.

My home life wasn’t for the faint of heart. My mother drank heavily during my childhood. She was once an enchanting woman, but the years have changed her for the worst. Her beauty is long gone now, and nothing is left except a frail woman who looks far older than her forty-four years.

Drinking has left her bitter and mean. I imagine it’s also left me bitter. Years of taking care of her have been a nightmare. The only time I wasn’t taking care of her was when I was drifting between her and foster care.

It all started either with my teachers seeing the state of my clothing or a neighbor watching me dig through the trash for food. They would then call in the great state of Louisiana to take me from my mom, and off I would go into the system.

Foster care wasn’t any better, but at least it was a change. My mom would go to court begging for my return, making false promises, saying she’d changed. She even showed improvements for the courts. But as soon as I got back home, she was back to treating me like dirt, telling me how worthless I was.

I do have vague memories of a loving mother, though, one who would kiss my cheek and sing me sweet lullabies. Sometimes I think I may have imagined it all, because there is no longer anything sweet about my mother; she truly is as nasty as the poison she drinks.

“Oh shit!”

My thoughts are broken as I nearly fall because of the crumbling cement that makes up the sidewalk leading to Earl’s Diner, where I work. This part of New Orleans is a rough area, and it feels forgotten from the rest of the city. Everything here is neglected. Between the heat, humidity, and hopelessness in the air, it’s all rather depressing.

Looking around my surroundings is second nature. It’s a necessity in this area. Safety and security are a luxury I’ve never had. God knows I never felt safe with my mother.

Thinking of her brings back a memory from when I was younger. I had found an envelope filled with photographs of a younger version of my mother. She was so pretty.

In one of the pictures, she was leaning against a brick building with another girl and a guy. The guy was in the middle and had his arms around both of them. You could see sadness behind my mother’s green eyes, the same eyes I see when I look in the mirror. I spent many hours imagining why at that age she looked so sad. Was her life as shitty as mine?

Another picture was of my mother and the same woman from the previous picture. They were both so glamorous. They were dressed up like they were at a party. They looked happy...well, at least they were smiling.

I don’t remember smiling much. As I got older, my body started to receive more attention than I wanted; my mother noticed it, too. When I was taking care of her, she was fine, but once she saw the looks I began to get, she would tell me things like, “You think you’re something special? Well, you’re not.” As I continued to grow, her hatred and jealousy grew, too. But there were rare occasions when in her alcoholic state she became almost regretful. She would say things I could never make out, things I knew were horrible, things I didn’t want to acknowledge or learn more about. Then she would say things about how she loved me and was so sorry she wasn’t a better mother. The scariest words to come out of her mouth were about protection and guilt. Just like most of her words, they weren’t clear or concise, but I could feel the fear she had.

Well, I’m on my own now, and at eighteen that’s fine with me. She threw me out almost six months ago, telling me never to come back. Being too old for the system anymore left me homeless and scared, but I survived those months and learned I was fine without her.

However, I’m not very far from being homeless again. I don’t have anyone to count on; no father or extended family, no friends, not even a boyfriend. But I guess that’s my fault. I would describe myself as plain, but I guess that’s my fault, too. When I started getting more attention from my mother’s boyfriends, I began to cover my body as much as possible. I wanted to be invisible; maybe if they couldn’t see my new curves, they wouldn’t look at me like they did.

I do know I’m pretty, but therein lies the problem: being pretty in the place I grew up in is dangerous. My face is clear of blemishes and scars. I have deep brown hair, a round face with a button nose, and straight teeth. Many people have told me my eyes are my best feature. They are the palest of green; at a glance, they almost appear to look like glass. Like you can see through them.

But no matter how plain I made myself, she still allowed her jealousy to turn into rage. I wonder if she even cared that I hated all the looks.

Today, my mother doesn’t want to acknowledge me anymore, and that’s fine by me. I’m too old to go back into foster care, but that’s a relief. The last foster home I had been in was a nightmare. They had an older son, who would stare at me constantly. I needed to protect myself as much as a kid could. I got my hands on a steak knife, because I knew he would eventually come. One night I heard him enter my room and I readied myself. When he came near, I stabbed him repeatedly in his arm. I watched as he bled, but I wanted more blood. He had no right to touch me. Of course, I was the one blamed and the incident was all covered up. I was satisfied though knowing he will never do that shit again, not to me. No one will. I am alone, but I am tired of being scared, and I won’t be a victim anymore.

From now on, I will not let anyone affect my life. My mother will not be my problem anymore. Her wants and needs always came before mine; taking care of her had been my priority, but not anymore. I will live as I want, be my own priority, and even if I fail, it will be on my terms.