Jessica Bell
Author|Editor

(A work in progress)

A memoir about being the only child of a talented drug-addicted mother.

When someone says to you ‘You're so normal!' with utter surprise, you wouldn't quite know how to take it, I'm sure. Is that supposed to mean that you're uninteresting? Perhaps in your case, that is how you would take it. But in my case, I've learned that it's quite a compliment. And you know how I respond? I say, ‘Thank you.' Because that's the polite thing to do – my mother taught me so – all the while thinking, ‘Well … not really.'

I haven't grown up to be anything remarkable, mind you. I haven't become an inspiration for womankind – yet. Perhaps one day I will – wouldn't it be nice. I spend my days, my weekdays, because I insist on having weekends off despite my job so easily lending itself to sitting in front of the computer day in and day out, freelancing for English Language Teaching Publishers. I edit, or I write – whichever falls in my lap first. As long as I get paid and can manage to keep up to date with my mortgage, I'll take the job. I enjoy it. Yes. But the reason I enjoy it isn't because I aspire to provide the world with outstanding teaching aids and learning tools, it's because I like to sit alone. Alone at my desk; Alone in my own mind where I can fantasise about the type of world I want to be living in; a place where I can justifiably say ‘I'm busy. Shoosh!' without feeling guilty about asking for peace and quiet; a place where I can use work as an excuse to shut everybody out, while I try to convince myself that I have a wonderful life, and try to cognitively psych myself out of breaking down into a fit of tears later in the day.

Non-Fiction

We're Not Ordinary People

 
 

I like my not remarkable life despite my tendency to feel depressed. I like not having to answer to anybody else. After all, that's exactly what I've spent most of my life dying for – the freedom to make my own decisions; freedom to put myself first – freedom from the guilt instilled in me from childhood for caring more about how someone else's burden is affecting me instead of them.

As far as I can remember, my early childhood was pretty much the way early childhood should be. Aside from the fact that my school teacher's couldn't quite figure out who to direct their feedback to during parent teacher interviews – my mum (hereby known as Mum), my step father (hereby known as Dad), my biological father (hereby known as John) or John's wife (hereby known as Mary). Sound like a contract? Well it is. It's a contract of life (and other people's lives I'm trying to respect the privacy of so I'm not going to mention real names). And aside from the fact that I'd occasionally get to sing on Mum and Dad's albums or appear in music videos dressed in my neighbour's red sparkly callisthenics costume regardless of the fact that the clip was being filmed in black and white. And aside from the fact that … ok, my early childhood wasn't normal either, but I was happy. I was happier than any other kid at five. I did after all have four loving parents to take care of me.

But. As time heals all wounds, time can also create them. I'll never forget the day I realised we weren't like everybody else. I think I was about seven years old. My mum came to pick me up from school and I could see her thick black gothic eyebrows walking up the street before I could actually see her. I could also see everybody staring. It hadn't ever occurred to me before, that not all mothers drew their eyebrows on. I also came to realise that most women want to make their eyebrows thinner, not thicker, which posed another question that I needed answered at a later point. As she bent down to give me a kiss and take my school bag to carry, I said, ‘Please don't wear your eyebrows to school again.'

That's the day things stopped being simple and my happiness began to represent a struggle. Of course, now that I look back, I realise how much Mum loved me and wasn't out to embarrass me. But kids at that age can only see what's on the surface. And what I saw was not the pair of sparkling blue-grey eyes that oozed with delight and pride at the sight of me waiting for her patiently behind the school gate, what I saw, and continued to see until my early twenties, was the pair of embarrassing black lines above them. We're not ordinary people, Excerpt, (Chapter 1)

<< Back

 
 
Website Construction and Design by www.ithacagreece.com
(C)2010 Jessica C. Bell. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction is strictly prohibited.