I'm Glad My Mom Died

by Jennette McCurdy

Would she be okay if I wasn’t perfect?

But I know better than to tell Mom that I got my character inspiration from her erratic and violent behavior.

“Is there any way to make an exception? I’m a cancer survivor, stage four, and sometimes my bones—”

So I do. I imagine it. And I feel bad. I was better in the callback than I was on the day of filming. I failed. I wish Mom would stop bringing it up, but I know she’s just trying to get me to be better.

since her life is in my hands with my annual birthday wish.

Imagine he’s in the hospital bed clutching the sock doll you made him when you were six.”)

The manipulation of the mother is crazy...

The more I can cry on cue, the more jobs I can book; the more jobs I can book, the happier Mom will be.

That part of me screams that I’m not Emily, that I’m Jennette, and that I, Jennette, deserve to be listened to. What I want and what I need deserves to be listened to.

“I don’t want to act anymore,” I say before I even realize I’ve said it.

“Don’t be silly, you love acting. It’s your favorite thing in the world,” Mom says in a way that makes it sound like a threat.

I look out the window. The part of me that wants to please her thinks maybe she’s right, maybe it is my favorite thing and I just don’t know it, I just don’t realize it. But the part of me that doesn’t want to cry on cue, that doesn’t want to act, that doesn’t care about pleasing Mom and just wants to please me, that part of me screams at me to speak up. My face gets hot, compelling me to say something.

I’m not the only one who can cry on cue.

“Come on! Why aren’t you singin’ along, Net?!” she asks giddily, her mood having switched.

The mother acts more like a child than her 11 years old child

“A LITTLE GIRL SHOULDN’T HAVE to worry about her entire family,”

I’m not allowed to go outside alone. Mom says I might get kidnapped and abused and murdered like Samantha Runnion—the girl who was kidnapped three weeks before her sixth birthday and lived just five minutes away from us—so whenever I go outside, someone has to join me. Today it’s Grandpa. He’s been watering the lawn while I’ve been memorizing.

“It’s just… I hope you don’t like writing more than you like acting. You’re so good at acting. So, so good at it.”

Through writing, I feel power for maybe the first time in my life. I don’t have to say somebody else’s words. I can write my own. I can be myself for once. I like the privacy of it. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s judging. Nobody’s weighing in. No casting directors or agents or managers or directors or Mom. Just me and the page. Writing is the opposite of performing to me. Performing feels inherently fake. Writing feels inherently real.

“Writers dress frumpy and get fat, you know? I would never want your little actress’s peach butt to turn into a big, giant writer’s watermelon butt.”

I can’t let Mom know I’m into purple, since Mom prefers pink. She would be heartbroken if I suddenly announce that I’ve switched my favorite color to one that isn’t also hers.

“Everyone loves the story of somebody overcoming adversity. If you mention my ductal carcinoma, you’ll get the sympathy vote.”

Mom always says that we go to the Revlon Run/Walks to support women with breast cancer, which is so noble of her. Dustin once said under his breath that he thought Mom went more for the free cancer merch than the cause itself, but Dustin is a “troublemaker” and also Mom’s least favorite child, which she even told him directly, so obviously Dustin doesn’t know the first thing about Mom or her intentions.

I’m rocking my oversized cancer tee and planning what poem I’ll write for Mom this weekend. Since Mom’s not a fan of me writing screenplays, I’ve taken an indefinite hiatus from those, but she is very supportive of me writing quick little poems about how much I love her, so I keep up with writing this way now.

when I usually wake her up with her morning cup of tea.

Bro???

If I start to grow up, Mom won’t love me as much. She often weeps and holds me really tight and says she just wants me to stay small and young. It breaks my heart when she does this. I wish I could stop time. I wish I could stay a child. I feel guilty that I can’t. I feel guilty with every inch I grow. I feel guilty whenever we see one of my aunts or uncles and they comment on how much I’m “growing up.” I can see Mom’s eyebrow twitch whenever they say that. I can see how much it pains her.

But I always know. I’ve spent my whole life studying her so that I can always know, because I always want to do whatever I can in any given moment to keep or make Mom happy.

Mom is grateful-happy when she feels seen, valued, and nurtured.

“Well, sweetheart, if you really want to know how to stay small, there’s this secret thing you can do… it’s called calorie restriction.”

No.

Now that I think about it, it does make sense to me that Mom’s been restricting. She only has hot tea every morning for breakfast, nothing in it, and a plate of steamed vegetables every night for dinner, nothing on them. I rarely see her eat lunch, and if she does, it’s a salad with no dressing or half of a chocolate chip Chewy Granola Bar. I’m in good hands.

I start shrinking by the week as Mom and I team up to count our calories every night and plan our meals for the next day. We’re keeping me on a one-thousand-calorie diet, but I have the smart idea that if I only eat half my food, I’ll only be receiving half the calories, which means that I will be shrinking twice as fast. I proudly show my half-eaten portions to Mom after every meal. She beams. Each Sunday, she weighs me and measures my thighs with a measuring tape. After a few weeks of our routine, she provides me with a stack of diet books that I finish quickly. I learn the value of eating water-dense fruits and vegetables like jicama and watermelon.

I know this because I weigh myself five times a day.

Calorie restriction has brought me and Mom closer than we already were, which is really saying something because we were already so close. Calorie restriction is wonderful!

That’s not true. Mom has noticed the changes because she’s the one who wanted the changes in the first place.

“Oh, please. What does Makaylah Lindsey know? She’s adopted.”

Scott asked if he could shower himself once. Mom sobbed and said she didn’t want him to grow up so he never asked again after that.

Whether or not Scott’s there with me, Mom gives me a breast and “front butt” exam, which is what she calls my private parts. She says she wants to make sure I don’t have any mysterious lumps or bumps because those could be cancer. I say okay because I definitely don’t want cancer, and since Mom’s had it and all, she would know if I do.

I’m sitting in my booster seat. (I’m fourteen and still in the booster.)

I jump into Mom’s arms. She squeezes me. I’m elated. Everything’s going to be different now. Everything’s going to be better. Mom will finally be happy. Her dream has come true.

But not yours

Mom says this is probably because of my outstanding performance as Sam Puckett, a zinger-slinging, rough-around-the-edges tomboy with a heart of gold who, ironically compared to my experience with it, loves food.

“Sure,” I say, even though I’m never ready. I still get nervous to practice lines with Mom. I thought my being cast as a series regular might help her lighten up a bit, but it hasn’t. She’s still so critical. It’s stressful.

“You’re not getting anywhere near those Milk Duds but that’s very nice of her. Now let’s practice your lines.”

I know fame had something to do with it. I’m tired of people approaching me like they own me. Like I owe them something. I didn’t choose this life. Mom did.

My anxiety causes me to be a people pleaser. My anxiety causes me to take the picture and sign my autograph and say it’s a good one. But underneath that anxiety is a deep, unearthed combination of feelings that I fear to face. I fear that I’m bitter. I’m too young to be bitter. Especially as a result of a life that people supposedly envy. And I fear that I resent my mother. The person I have lived for. My idol. My role model. My one true love.

Fame has put a wedge between Mom and me that I didn’t think was possible. She wanted this. And I wanted her to have it. I wanted her to be happy. But now that I have it, I realize that she’s happy and I’m not. Her happiness came at the cost of mine. I feel robbed and exploited.

I’m tired too. I’ve worked hard lately too. I actually think I’ve worked a lot harder than Mom has. And then I feel guilty for thinking this.

I find it strange that we’ve stopped going to church since my career has taken off and Mom’s health has normalized. I tried to broach the subject gently one night when we were driving home from work, but Mom started screaming and saying she was losing control of the steering wheel and that I was causing her tremendous stress that was putting both of us in danger, so I quickly learned to never bring up the subject again.

Tomorrow there won’t be any 2% milk or Honeycomb or Smart Ones. I’ve been slacking and the slacking needs to stop. I need to get back to anorexia. I need to be a kid again.

in reality I’ve never spent more than a few hours away from her in all my eighteen years.

“Mommy, do you have cancer again?”