Heavy, part one
Sit down - this could take a while...
I don't often talk about my past. It's a large part of who I am, but I don't want it to define my future. So I don't often share the details with people. Maybe because I don't want them to feel sorry for me, I don't know. But maybe because I'm reflecting on motherhood so much lately, I feel like the time has come to share some background with y'all. I've chosen to do this in two (or more?) parts, because it's just too much for me to think about this late at night. So here's part one.
Comfy? Good. Here we go...
I grew up in a small town. My parents were drug addicts and alcoholics. I am blessed with a very sketchy memory of my early childhood. I remember bits and pieces, but most of what might have been negative seems to be missing from my memory. I remember spending happy times with my cousins, I remember going to church, to Vacation Bible School, singing in the kids' choir at church, and other little bits and pieces. Nothing definitive. People have told me stories, but I myself have no memory of them. I look at pictures, and that sparks some fuzzy memories, but not anything bad.
I've always put my dad on a pedestal. Through everything, I never doubted that he loved me. But my mother was a different story. Dad always said that she loved me, but it's really hard for me to remember her ever telling me so. Other people have told me that she was so proud of me, but I don't remember it that way. I remember never being good enough, despite trying to prove myself to her time and again.
When I was 11, they separated. I was relieved, because I thought they'd be happier apart than together. What a crock. Mom became more miserable than ever, and Dad - he just drank more, although I didn't perceive it at the time. He remembers finding a letter from me to a bill collector, pleading for patience. I don't remember writing it, but I must have. I know that at 11, I took on more adult cares and worries than any child should ever have.
I became a parent to my younger sister, and I learned that I had to look out for us now, because the adults in our life weren't to be trusted. People might have suspected, or even known, how bad it was. But in that time, you have to understand - you just didn't get involved. I longed for someone to step in and rescue us, to love us as children should be loved. But no one did. And of course, I couldn't tell anyone because I was too embarassed that I didn't have a 'proper' family.
When I was about 13, two things happened. First, my dad got sober. This meant that I had to live with my mother. She and I did not get along at that time, and I was really angry about having to live with her. I wanted to move in with my grandparents, an aunt, anyone but her. But she was my mother, so it was her I went to live with. The second thing that happened was that my mother got involved with my stepfather. I met him once, and then he moved in with us. There was no discussion, no period of getting to know you, nothing. I didn't like him, and to be fair, I didn't know him. That was beside the point. Once again, I learned that what I thought didn't matter. I didn't matter to her anymore.
In high school, I lived a double life. Each morning, I would walk out my front door one person, and by the time I arrived at school, I would try to be someone else. I threw myself into activities at school, so I could spend as much time as possible away from my house. My friends will remember that I cried a lot, and I cried more as the strain of having two lives got more intense. As I got older, and my mother had two more children, I was expected to 'pull my weight' by looking after them. My other friends got part time jobs, learned to drive, went to the movies, and did normal teenage stuff. But I didn't. By 17, I knew how to run a household. My mother and stepfather went on a cruise for 10 days, and left me home alone to care for my teenage sister and brothers. His mother came in the evenings to help, but I planned the menus, I cooked, I cleaned, I bathed them, I went to school. And when they came back? Not a word of thanks. Nothing. By the time I was a senior, not a day went by that I didn't break down at least once.
When I got a role in a play, they wanted to know why I didn't get the lead. When I scored well on my SAT exam, they criticised me for not doing better. I learned the fine art of diplomacy and half-truths at a young age. I told them what I thought they would want to hear, and kept the rest to myself. I often had to choose which parent to invite to school events, because if it was only one night, I couldn't risk a scene by inviting them both. My high school graduation, one of the proudest moments in my life, and my mother wouldn't come - because I invited my father. Because I wanted both of my parents to be there.
As I got older, I think I began to see my mother in a less hopeful, more realistic way. I began to see our relationship for what it was, not for what it should have been. And the more destructive it became, the more I began to crack. Until the day I left home for good, and discovered that what I thought was going to break was stronger than I ever thought possible...
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Tomorrow is my mother's birthday. I think of her often, and wonder if she even remembers that she had a daughter named Sarah. A daughter who would have done anything to please her, to gain her acceptance and approval. A daughter who, despite being cut out of her life, loves her so much. And really wants her to have a happy birthday. Wherever you are, Mom - I hope your birthday is great. - Love, Sarah
I don't often talk about my past. It's a large part of who I am, but I don't want it to define my future. So I don't often share the details with people. Maybe because I don't want them to feel sorry for me, I don't know. But maybe because I'm reflecting on motherhood so much lately, I feel like the time has come to share some background with y'all. I've chosen to do this in two (or more?) parts, because it's just too much for me to think about this late at night. So here's part one.
Comfy? Good. Here we go...
I grew up in a small town. My parents were drug addicts and alcoholics. I am blessed with a very sketchy memory of my early childhood. I remember bits and pieces, but most of what might have been negative seems to be missing from my memory. I remember spending happy times with my cousins, I remember going to church, to Vacation Bible School, singing in the kids' choir at church, and other little bits and pieces. Nothing definitive. People have told me stories, but I myself have no memory of them. I look at pictures, and that sparks some fuzzy memories, but not anything bad.
I've always put my dad on a pedestal. Through everything, I never doubted that he loved me. But my mother was a different story. Dad always said that she loved me, but it's really hard for me to remember her ever telling me so. Other people have told me that she was so proud of me, but I don't remember it that way. I remember never being good enough, despite trying to prove myself to her time and again.
When I was 11, they separated. I was relieved, because I thought they'd be happier apart than together. What a crock. Mom became more miserable than ever, and Dad - he just drank more, although I didn't perceive it at the time. He remembers finding a letter from me to a bill collector, pleading for patience. I don't remember writing it, but I must have. I know that at 11, I took on more adult cares and worries than any child should ever have.
I became a parent to my younger sister, and I learned that I had to look out for us now, because the adults in our life weren't to be trusted. People might have suspected, or even known, how bad it was. But in that time, you have to understand - you just didn't get involved. I longed for someone to step in and rescue us, to love us as children should be loved. But no one did. And of course, I couldn't tell anyone because I was too embarassed that I didn't have a 'proper' family.
When I was about 13, two things happened. First, my dad got sober. This meant that I had to live with my mother. She and I did not get along at that time, and I was really angry about having to live with her. I wanted to move in with my grandparents, an aunt, anyone but her. But she was my mother, so it was her I went to live with. The second thing that happened was that my mother got involved with my stepfather. I met him once, and then he moved in with us. There was no discussion, no period of getting to know you, nothing. I didn't like him, and to be fair, I didn't know him. That was beside the point. Once again, I learned that what I thought didn't matter. I didn't matter to her anymore.
In high school, I lived a double life. Each morning, I would walk out my front door one person, and by the time I arrived at school, I would try to be someone else. I threw myself into activities at school, so I could spend as much time as possible away from my house. My friends will remember that I cried a lot, and I cried more as the strain of having two lives got more intense. As I got older, and my mother had two more children, I was expected to 'pull my weight' by looking after them. My other friends got part time jobs, learned to drive, went to the movies, and did normal teenage stuff. But I didn't. By 17, I knew how to run a household. My mother and stepfather went on a cruise for 10 days, and left me home alone to care for my teenage sister and brothers. His mother came in the evenings to help, but I planned the menus, I cooked, I cleaned, I bathed them, I went to school. And when they came back? Not a word of thanks. Nothing. By the time I was a senior, not a day went by that I didn't break down at least once.
When I got a role in a play, they wanted to know why I didn't get the lead. When I scored well on my SAT exam, they criticised me for not doing better. I learned the fine art of diplomacy and half-truths at a young age. I told them what I thought they would want to hear, and kept the rest to myself. I often had to choose which parent to invite to school events, because if it was only one night, I couldn't risk a scene by inviting them both. My high school graduation, one of the proudest moments in my life, and my mother wouldn't come - because I invited my father. Because I wanted both of my parents to be there.
As I got older, I think I began to see my mother in a less hopeful, more realistic way. I began to see our relationship for what it was, not for what it should have been. And the more destructive it became, the more I began to crack. Until the day I left home for good, and discovered that what I thought was going to break was stronger than I ever thought possible...
====
Tomorrow is my mother's birthday. I think of her often, and wonder if she even remembers that she had a daughter named Sarah. A daughter who would have done anything to please her, to gain her acceptance and approval. A daughter who, despite being cut out of her life, loves her so much. And really wants her to have a happy birthday. Wherever you are, Mom - I hope your birthday is great. - Love, Sarah
Comments
because...you know why.
I've known your soul forever, and I've shared in your secret. And, despite her ignorance and hatred, she is still your mom, and you WILL always love her.
That doesn't make me not want to slap her still... :) xoxoxox