Sitcom

Sitcom moms are not levelheaded. They assume the majority of the emotions in their hetero-normative partnership, slap laugh lines and furrowed eyebrows onto their resumes. And in order to provide viewers with sugar AND spice, tit AND grit, these characters have wild mood swings which are then blamed on their oh-so-feminine hormones. As both the judge and jury of their children's alleged crimes, their initial sentence is the silent treatment, a punishment easier said than done. Once the dead air has laid thick and placid for an extended period of time, the sitcom mom either begins yelling or crying, unable to keep her exasperation in check any longer. She inevitably says something to the child that she later regrets and/or realizes is offensive. Then, in a turn of events, she purchases gifts to make up for her actions, usually without discussing what happened between her and her child.

My mom is a sitcom mom. My life is a sitcom.

There's a whole series entitled, "The Slap." I was slapped and I was more than slapped more than a few times.

My life is a sitcom.

The first time I watched "The Truman Show," I became convinced it explained my life story.

I was the Truman Burbank of Alpine, Utah,
the twenty first century girl,
4.0 GPA scrawled in Sharpie across my forehead
and expectations weighing down my feet like sleepless nights.

My life is a sitcom.

In "Weeds," Celia is a suburban mom who is focused on reducing her daughter's weight to teaspoons and tablespoons. My weight ebbed and flowed like the tide, and my mother was the hyper-vigilant moon looking down from the sky.

My life is a sitcom.

This sitcom provided a look at a white Mormon family who struggled to hide the mental health problems, eating disorders, emotional and physical abuse, and lack of overall coping skills.

I was the stereotypical blond teenager that wrapped herself in an over-sized grunge sweater to keep the cold away. I wore anxiety on my hands like a matching leather tote. People liked me and people hated me, but there were enough of the two to balance each other out on each side of the equal sign.

My life is a sitcom.

I was the enigma sitting alone in the 500 hall during lunch, and I thought depression was a love song from the devil. If there was a director, he would have killed me off halfway through season 2.

I brought back the fad of disappointing my parents. Just like Cain, I killed Abel. Co-dependence had me by the neck and there are still fingerprints, so God rests assured I don't forget the memories.

I brought Sylvia Plath and suicide attempts back from the dead. I read the Bell Jar back in seventh grade and it still has a place reserved on my bedside table. Blue was the only color I saw for years, and rainbows belonged to Harry Potter and the mermaids.

I was promised Koolaid and forgiveness.

My life was a sitcom.

Reality knocked the denial from my fingers like it was an addiction I could not let go of.

Alpine was not a set.
Dysfunctional families are prime for reality television, but my dysfunctional family was not chosen for the limelight.
My dad was not acting when he shoved me against the wall and I wilted like a flower who was tired of pretending the world was okay.

The bruises were real
and the arguments were real
and the depression was real
and there wasn't a director who was going to resolve every thirty minutes with happy endings for the international fan base.

Today, I sent my father a picture of my new septum piercing.
He didn't respond with, "It looks good on you," or "I like it,"
because my father is not an actor.
He said, "I love you."
And I wouldn't have it any other way.