A Mother and Daughter

Reflection can come from within or without. My mirror has been this blog; my internal struggles and grapplings with my past, and actually seeing my thoughts and feelings on screen. It's like I've worked out a math equation on a chalk board, and although I may be graded, just knowing that I was able to work out the problem for myself - whether the answer be wrong or right - makes me feel good inside. I have been apprehensive about writing about certain topics; and truly the real bombshells will not come until the end of this blog, which will likely occur in 10 days. This particular entry, dealing with my relationship with my mother is troubling. I know, it's normal for mothers and daughters to have complicated relationships, but how do I talk about all of the anger and joy and love and hate in a couple of pages? How do I sum up a relationship I've had my whole life? How can I be truthful with myself and honest about my feelings when I want to filter the view all of you have of her? How do I talk about my mother?

Early in life, my mother was my world. She loved me; I knew it because she danced with me, she laughed with me, and she cried with me. I knew how she felt, I was in tune with her heart. I knew when she needed a kiss or a hug. I knew when she needed a laugh. But, my mother was always busy; busy with my younger brothers, busy with work, busy with school, busy with friends. So, our time was precious, and sometimes our time was short, but the bond was never weaker for it. It was only stronger and better appreciated.

When I was five, there was an incident that changed something in me regarding the opinion I had of my mother, and although the love was there - floating on the surface - there was planted a small seed. One of hate and anger and disgust (details on this will be my last blog entry). After this incident, nothing was the same, and as I got older, that small seed grew. An undercurrent of distrust and hurt washed over me like waves crashing against a rocky beach, every day, every hour, every minute, every second. Waves, pounding the shoreline of my soul.

In my teen years, there was a particularly sharp downturn in our relationship, this time on her part. She trusted me less; I found myself being punished for writing "crush" letters, and hanging out with friends. Verbal abuse was piled on me; the words "slut", "stupid", and "jackass" were used frequently. I didn't understand why; unlike my friends, I wasn't having sex and had no desire to do so at the time. I would stand there, quivering, as she lectured me in front of my brothers. Tears blurring my vision, my hands sweating, and my mind questioning. I was constantly told, that although I thought I was better than everyone, I was not. I felt so misunderstood; I never felt like I was better than everyone - in fact I felt like I was lower than dirt - this led me to withdrawing from people. My self-esteem was almost non-existent.

When I moved out, I was happy not to speak to my mother for 4 months. I couldn't take any more berating. My contact with her during this period in my life was minimal, and I was grateful for it. We began speaking regularly and unguarded again when I left my boyfriend and moved into an apartment on my own. She even explained to me that her relationship with her own mother had been strained and she was learning how to raise her only daughter when I was younger. It was history repeating itself, I thought.

During this move, I discovered that she had used my name and social security number to rack up debts blemishing my credit and preventing me from getting a phone and making it impossible to get an apartment in my name. Once again, I stopped speaking to her. Who was this woman that could do these things to me? Where was the mother I danced with to Heatwave's Always and Forever?

For years we struggled through; I learned to deal with her as an adult, and not entirely on her terms. I was no longer a cowering child waiting to be chastised, I was a woman who wanted to be respected.

The worst though, was when I reconnected with my husband. She never liked him. She would constantly tell me he didn't love me, that he was not meant for me, that I could do better, that he was not on my level. I could over look that, after all, parents worry about their children and want what's best for them. But once we were married, she constantly disrespected my marriage with her words, and also by "joking" about setting me up with other men who were doctors and lawyers. I explained to my mother that I had dated successful men, millionaires in fact, but my husband was who I wanted. So when I finally got pregnant, I was hesitant about telling my family and my mother about my news. When I told my mother I was pregnant, she did not respond the way I hoped. No joyous shouts, no excitement, just a very plain and dull congratulations.

I guess it should have been no surprise, that as my mother, husband, and I walked out of my OBGYNs office the day I found out my fetus was not viable - as I was bawling in the middle of the street - that she would say, "maybe this is for the best." The last thing I wanted to hear from my own mother were those words at that moment. It was the ultimate betrayal for me. She knew my struggles with infertility, she knew I loved (and love) my husband; I couldn't understand what would possess her to say those things even with the undercurrent of animosity between us.

We haven't spoken since.

Tomorrow, Cheater. . .

Life In Prison

I've come half way in my journey to find normal; I've come half way in unearthing the bits and pieces of me that resemble other beings. This excavation is tough, for the earth is unyielding and my tools are dull. But the rewards are great. Burdens are being lifted, the fog in my mind clears, my soul unfolds and the ice in it begins to melt. It may be 30 days of rain/tears, but, much like this coming spring, I will soon have the internal climate allowing for blossoming, and when I bear that fruit, I will share it with you as I have shared the persistent desolation that has plagued me. The desolation of tragedy, the desolation of fear, the desolation of life in prison.

Yesterday, in Taken, I described my entry into foster care. It was from the eyes of a 7 year old. Things seemed to happen without reason, or much fanfare. It seemed incomplete, and was incomplete, because in my mind at the time pieces of the story were missing - and pieces that were there were interpreted by a mind without the tools to comprehend such adult matters.

We had been shuttled to an elderly couple who would care for us over the next two years. From the beginning, I knew things would be horrible. We were split up. My youngest brother was given a bedroom on the main floor, while my other brother and I were sent to sleep in the basement. It was a dry well finished basement, but it was lonely, and cold. Worst of all, my brother wasn't with us.

After a few days, we had our first visit with our mother. She came into the agency looking like a broken woman. We cried when we saw each other. We hugged, we held, we held on so tight, we held on to become one with her again, we held on to alleviate the grief - to share the sadness - to heal the wounds. She tried to explain, in her best adult voice, fighting back tears, why we couldn't be together. We spent our hour well, coddling each other, and when it was time to go, all of our hearts sank. We left first; we piled into a car with the woman who would care for us from now on. There was traffic, so it was slow moving. I looked around, and I saw her, my mother - stumbling down the street, clutching concrete walls, tears flowing down her face - and my heart exploded with tears and sobs I can't reproduce this day, but try to - because they come whenever I remember this vignette of loss. The woman who was to care for us looked in the direction where I had my attention focused, then she looked at me, grabbed my chin, and said, "Don't you dare cry for your mother!" I was stunned. Eventually, we began having visits without the woman.

Watching my brothers run to my mother crying out "Mommy!" as she walked through the doors to the agency hurt me as much as being away from my mother. It was my fault we were there. It was all my fault. To make matters worse, we were actually being abused at our foster home.

My 5 year old brother who was about to turn 6, was told to memorize all 50 states. When he couldn't do it he was told to tear a thin branch off of a tree and he was beat with it. Our new caretakers had teenage grandchildren who would come, tie my brothers to chairs and duct tape their mouths while I looked on feeling helpless in that cold lonely basement. Once, the woman of the house beat my brother down the flight of stairs leading to the basement. I watched him tumbling, tumbling, down all those steps and I cried. We weren't allowed to take baths or showers unless it was the day before a visit, other than that we had to use a sink to wash up, which I had never done until then. I didn't know the word then, but I know it now, it was humiliation I felt.

I reported these things to my mother, and she gathered evidence, my soiled underwear, bruises, scars, and she reported the woman. On that day, when we arrived back to our temporary home, the woman met me in the basement, "How dare you tell them I hit you and that you don't bathe!" She snatched me up by my throat and I dangled like a rag doll in her hand. I couldn't breathe. She said more, but I couldn't hear anything except the sound of my heart racing. After a few more seconds she let me go and went about her day like nothing happened. Later that night, I was abruptly moved to a finished room in the attic. Now I had no one to share the long nights with.

Every night, every single night, without fail, for 2 years, I prayed to God. I didn't want to spend my life in this prison. I prayed to be returned to my mother. I prayed that God make our family whole. A few months after my 9th birthday, He did.

This experience, truly prepared me to deal with my nieces situation in Temporary Housing. It's why I couldn't sit back and let them be subject to strangers, who may have hurt them as much, or if not worse, than their parents. I knew what it was like to be in a prison, and I wanted them to be free. . .

Tomorrow, Stalked. . .