May 27, 2024
Thinking about you today. Not like you're ever NOT on my mind but today especially for some reason. Maybe because my birthday was a couple of weeks ago and I did NOT feel like celebrating at all. Maybe because I realize it's now been 7 months without you. It's getting a little easier but the hurt doesn't lessen. The crying jags are fewer and far between, but they still happen. I'm tearing up right now in fact. I just don't know how I'm supposed to survive for the rest of my life without my heart. And I'm scared about my own health. On one hand, I hope that I am okay and that what's running through my head is not going to become reality; but on the other, I hope it does so I can be with you. Catch-22.
I love you. I miss you. Despite my personal beliefs that there is nothing beyond this life, I hope you're in a place that has a beach and white sand and endless fruity drinks and you're enjoying getting to know your great-grandma & great-grandpa and that maybe even you've met Michael and maybe even convinced your great-grandma to let you dye her hair pink or green. Be happy my baby.
So, it’s the holidays and I just don’t feel like celebrating at all. Thank goodness for my aunt, cousins and sister. We decided that rather than doing the whole presents and dinner and what all, we would go low key with a brunch and game. It was nice and fairly quiet and not stressful. We followed that up with a low key girls movie night.
Loss. It's never easy. The loss of a child, the loss of a parent, the loss of a friend. Loss is a word that can encompass many, many things too. I've lost a child. I've lost children. One through the greed of others and one through the greed of cancer. I've poured out my feelings over the loss to the greed of cancer. Now I want to pour out my grief over the other.
In January of 1990, I discovered I was pregnant. I'd only been married two short months and yet, here we were. I wasn't ready to be a parent, but there was joy. So much joy because I was selfish enough to think that for one moment, I'd finally have someone that would love me unconditionally. Someone who would depend on me and need me throughout their life. I did my best. I took care of myself, went to the doctor, took my vitamins, stopped smoking, never did drugs and generally tried my best to make sure my baby was happy and healthy.
When you were born, I was so happy and you were so beautiful. This little, tiny, scrawling thing that had such a cute little bow mouth and this downy blonde hair. You smelled like hope. Hope for a better world, a better life. And when I took you home to our studio apartment and you screamed and cried because my milk wasn't coming in, I tried to feed you all the time. When we took you to the doctor and he said you weren't getting enough nutrition, I switched you to formula. When you started projectile vomiting that, we took you back and were told to switch to soy, we did and you handled that so much better. But...
We lost our apartment because I wasn't working. The man was trying but not enough so we ended up in a shelter - better than the alternative but not much. When he took you out during the day while I was at school trying to build us a better life, I didn't think anything of it. Somewhere around November of that same year, things were becoming bitter and less joyful. Then, disaster.
A visit from CPS. I was informed that the man had been hitting you. I never saw this and there were no bruises to explain away. The next thing was your nutritional needs. Somehow the medical records had been accessed (this is before HIPPA) and I was accused of malnourishing you. And given a choice. The choice between placing you in foster care or with a relative. I asked what the chances of getting you back were. They said with CPS, it could be a year or more; with a relative, essentially, we could get you back any time. For me, I thought it was an easy choice. Little did I know what would happen next.
So, I bought this book, "Burn After Writing" off Amazon. I'm not sure it was worth $16.99 but it's been pretty interesting. It's a book to write in and it gives you these little prompts so I thought I'd use one and expand on it. Here we go.
Pg. 29. The hardest choice I have ever had to make.
Sending my son to a residential treatment center. I've written about this before but it really was a tough decision. Making the decision took a lot of thought, heartbreak, courage and desperation. I couldn't think for the life of me how I could have raised this sweet terror. And what I could have done to cause it. After holding a knife to his sister's throat, I had to keep both my children safe and this was the only option I could figure out. I hate the events that transpired after, I hate what happened as a result and I hate that I no longer have a relationship with my son. I hate it because he's created this narrative in his own head that I sent him to a psych ward and abandoned him. I hate it because sometimes I find it easier to say, "Oh well" and not worry about what he's doing any longer. I also hate the fact that no matter how much I still love him, I know that he'll never forgive me. I also know that the events that transpired are not my fault and that I can't control the outcome. So all I can do is deal.
That's the hardest choice I've ever had to make.
It's Thanksgiving. My first holiday without you. I'm just sitting here in my house by myself watching movies to try and forget that you're no longer here. This time of year will never be the same again. I hate this holiday now.
Everyone is posting on Facebook and everywhere else about the holiday and how grateful they are for their friends and family and all whatever, but I don't feel grateful. I feel empty and hollow. A shell of a person who no longer has any ounce of gratefulness in her. How can I? My sunshine is gone.
I'm on break. Thanksgiving break. The 10 glorious days between the start of the year educational year and the winter holidays (I don't like to say Christmas because no everyone celebrates). The first real break that educators get for the year because every other time there is a "day off", there are meetings, professional development, planning, and grading to do. It's Wednesday as I type this and I've done absolutely nothing except be alone with my thoughts. Oh, and cuddle with Harry but that's because he doesn't give me a choice.
Anyway, while I sit here, I decided to start writing at least once a day. Kind of like my therapy before I actually go to therapy (I've got an appointment in January). It's actually helping (thanks sis!) and I think I'm going to try to continue after work starts back up. So, on to today's story.
Yesterday, I wrote a modified version of life after I "left" home. I left a lot of details out because I didn't feel as though they were necessary. But today, I feel like airing out those details. If anyone sees this, know this is MY truth.
So I grew up in a household where I had two parents that didn't love each other and it was pretty apparent from the time I was young that resentment was the major feeling. My parents got married very quickly for reasons that they think are vague but are pretty clear to my sister and I. I was the reason. My mother trapped my father (in the 70s, that's exactly what it was) into marrying her because she got pregnant and my father was (is) a decent man and "did the right thing". It's pretty evident to me that it wasn't an ideal situation but he made the best of it and he loved me, mostly. To my mother, on the other hand, I was a prop to be used to get what she wanted.
From the time I was a very young girl, my mother wasn't kind to me. She didn't love me the way other mothers loved their children. She treated me as if I were a little doll at first, dressed me up in cute clothes to show me off, made sure I was always clean and had my hair all done up, but that's what the world saw. Within the four walls of our home she called me names, smacked me around and generally treated me with disdain. From the first time I can remember I was fat, ugly, stupid, and no one would ever love me. And this is when I was three. My cousin came to visit once, and told me this story. I don't remember it but she told me about it when I was older. I wanted some milk and my mother wouldn't - or couldn't - give me some so I decided to get it myself. Of course, being three, I spilled it all over the flor, and my mother went batshit. Started yelling and screaming at me, with those words and made me clean it up on my own. Again, I was three.
When I was seven, a girl I was friends with dared me to write a "nasty word" on the side walk in front of a neighbor boy's house. He was a bully and I didn't like him - I also didn't know what the word meant so I agreed. I wrote, "Wade L. is a bastard." right on his front walk. That ended in me, seven, being beaten with a wooden paddle until it broke, then being sent off to school like nothing happened. I couldn't sit down for several days and had bruises from the top of my butt to the tops of my knees for two weeks. That's the last time she beat me but not the last time she hit me.
Most of the abuse wasn't physical, just emotional or manipulative. She was great at the manipulation - people call it 'gaslighting' today. She would say one thing but another really happened and she'd accuse me of lying. She'd pit me against my sister and force me into things I didn't want to do. OR she would not allow me to do things I wanted because of the being fat, stupid and a big screwup thing. I remember when I was in my young teens living near St. Louis, my sister was modeling in a mall fashion show (they had those back in the 80s) and I was asked if I could model for one of the stores. She said she didn't think any store had clothes that would fit me. This is the kind of thing I lived with for years.
Other things - reading my diary, going through my room, "cleaning" out my closet and drawers to look for something that she said I'd taken (I hadn't but that didn't matter) and not allowing me to go to prom or homecoming just because I didn't have a date (or was too fat and ugly to get a date in her words). In fact, the reading the diary thing was the reason I got kicked out of the house.
I stupidly created a journal from a three pronged folder thinking that would deter her from reading but it didn't. She read it and found out that I was having sex (gasp!) and that I did it in my bed (stupid) and decided that it was time I lived elsewhere. I didn't have a place to go, no friends to crash at, but that didn't matter. To further this humiliation, she body checked me to make sure I didn't take anything that wasn't "appropriate" and didn't belong to me (i.e. money, jewelry, cigarettes - yes I smoked, etc.) then set me on the way down the road with my suitcase. I didn't know where to go. Fortunately, there were some neighbors that saw me, invited me in and helped me get in touch with my church pastor who took me to Covenant House.
I'm sure there are many, many things I'm leaving out - OH! I just remembered the ski trip! Damn, that's a nothing thing.
So, my dad took my little sister, my half-sister, and I on a ski trip to Colorado one spring break. No mother thank goodness. It was going to be 7 days of freedom from her. Anyway, I wasn't athletic by any means and though we had lessons, I wasn't a great skier. One day we all decided to ski as a group (we were with my dad's friend and his family) and set off for another day of adventure. Unfortunately, I fell, a lot, and the others were getting frustrated. So I told them to go ahead and I'd catch up. Except I got lost. I ended up going the wrong way and taking an expert slope instead of an easy one. And it was bad. Racing down slopes going way too fast because my brain didn't remember what I was supposed to do, and I ended up falling again. By this time, I was well and truly lost. I took my skis off and started to walk down the mountain. Did I say I was lost? I was extremely lost. And in my mind, I though, the best path between two points is a straight line so I cut through the woods. Lost even more in the trees. But finally, finally found a path and followed it to the trails where there were ski patrols who had been looking for me and took me to the bottom.
My dad and the rest of the group was waiting. I'd never seen my dad cry before but when he swung me up into his arms, I saw the tears. At that moment, I felt more safe than I ever had in my entire life.
Later that night, we called my mother to tell her. Boy the yelling coming out of that phone. How could I be so stupid? How could I be so fat that I couldn't keep up with the rest of the group? Was I a moron? No concern for my safety, no "I'm glad you weren't seriously hurt". Some mother, huh?
Again, I'm sure there is a ton that I'm leaving out but needless to say, this is what I wanted to get out today.
