A Mother for Mother's Day

God, this week. Really the last two weeks, have been intense. Everything around me feels like chaos. Things spinning this way or that, the world moving forward while I'm stuck in one place—it's insanity. The only thing I can give as an example would be the seen from the original Poltergeist, with all the children's stuff flying around the room. That's how life is for me right at this moment. Which is. . . super annoying.

I say annoying because I'm sick of these rough patches, of saying “this time of year is rough for me.” At this point I'm pissed off because what time of the year isn't rough for me? What do I have left if not awful memories? And I find myself teetering between complete dissociation—numbness—and full acceptance that growing up my life was. . . in a word, fucked!

Old, bad, habits have come out in me these last two weeks. I've hurt myself and the little whisper of suicidal thoughts have kicked in. I'm not proud of either, I truly thought I was past all this but I'm starting to realize I may never been past it. My diet has gone to hell, I'm sleeping an average of 12 hours a day. I have no will to do anything I love doing. I avoid anything that brings me joy, and I'm apologizing every damn second of the day for things that are not even my fault. I'm back in hell.

No, this is worst than hell. This is reality, pure ugly reality. The truth of what a childhood of bad parenting can result in—what our society allows to happen to innocence. For those that know me, even if only online, I know this blog has been a shock to you guys. That you had no idea I suffered so much or that someone as 'goodhearted' as you call me, can be this way behind closed doors, but I am. It hinders every aspect of my life.

I hate saying this, but it's true. This time of year is a struggle for me. 3 years ago in April I reached my breaking point with my mother, and I wrote her an email to tell her I no longer waned her in my life. Before you say it was cowardly to send an email think on my reasons for sending it. I broke up with my mom in an email because I couldn't face her. Dani's hold on me was too strong—it's still too strong—and I knew if I stood face to face with her she would talk me down. Manipulate me into going back on my mission to break free. One look, one word and I would bow before her. My hope is one day I can stand in front of her, without crumbling, and say everything I did in that email. At the time, the email had to do.

Nearly a month went by with no response or backlash. I thought, for a moment, she was actually respecting my wishes, until the Friday before Mother's Day when she texted my husband. She wanted to surprise me with a breakfast or lunch or something. My husband thinks it was all a scam to get me back, me. . . I don't know what I believe anymore.

What happened next was. . . awful and heartbreaking.

I texted Dani and told her to stop contacting my husband, and that it was all explained in the email I sent. She stated she never got the email. Funny, since we sent emails back and forth often, and never one did she miss an email. This email—this important earth-shattering email, she did not get.

While at the grocery store, the Friday before Mother's Day, I had to break the news to her for the second time. I tried to explain why it was happening, how neglected I felt but Dani made it all about her. She said I was mental and needed some serious medical help. She said I was sick and wrong. I don't know how I survived the guilt. In that moment I felt like the most self-centered, rudest, coldest child in the world. I wanted to die for the sin I had committed, but with my husband I got through. Doesn't mean that every year around this time I don't feel guilty about casting my mom out right before Mother's Day. Especially since I'm the only one that ever made it special for her.

Seriously, I gave some insanely awesome gifts. My co-workers, who were mothers', were jealous, and everyone wanted to adopt me. Here's a few examples of my careful thought and planning.

The first Mother's Day I had a job, I went out with my friends. Drove all over hell looking for a coffee table my mom loved that my brother and sister had destroyed a few years before. I finally found it, bought the pricey table, took it home, put it together, and then placed flowers and a card on it. Now, I had to leave for work but I left everything set up for her to find when she came home from work.

Another year I pulled together all my resources and bought her a side by side fridge with the freezer draws in it she wanted. It was a black KitchenAid, because Dani loves KitchenAid. The year after I got married I went on the internet hunt for a special crystal butter dish she once had but was broken. It matched her set of nice dish-ware and crystal. Paid a small fortune because it was discontinued item and hard to find, but I got it all the same.

It was never about the price though, it was more about the thought. I wanted something that would mean the world to her, and while these gifts seem like just that. Dani often forgot who gave them to her, or more often than not, she claimed she had bought them for herself. When I heard her say things like that it crushed me. But enough about gifts, you can now see why this time of year is rough on me. This year it's so much worse.

I don't feel guilt over what I did. Okay, maybe a small amount of guilt because that's who I am. I often feel guilty about things that are not even my fault. This year, more than anything, I feel grief. Loss. . . deep pain.

I've come to realize that I've never had a mother. Yes, Dani provided me with a roof over my head and on most occasions food, but in the times that mattered—those special moments—lessons—between a mother and daughter, I never had her. Instead I learned the lessons of life on my own or by watching other people.

My first period my friend's mom helped me through, and my friend taught me how to shave my legs and under arms. Dani's friend helped me with my acne and makeup, which is probably why I never wear any makeup. Not really sure what to do with most of it. My friends taught me how to drive. Dani tried, but she explained the only way she could handle me driving was when she was taking strong pain pills for a spider bite she suffered. I learned to cook from a variety of Dani's friends, my aunt, and trail and error growing up. And then there is the famous sex talk.

This was Dani's sex talk to me, no lies. This is exactly how it went. While watching a R rated movie there was a suggestive sex scene, Dani says, “Do you know why she puts his dick in her mouth?” I shook my head no because I didn't understand why. “Sometimes you have to suck on it to get it hard so it can go in you.” End of talk.

Yeah. . . Let that sink. I was 11ish at the time.

Instead how I learned about sex. . . well, I would rather not talk about the long list of sexual abuse and rape in my past, but you get the idea. Life is a cruel teacher.

So here I am this Mother's Day, watching daughters—children—thanking their mothers for being there in the special—important—moments. Being there when it counts, and all I can think about is how much I missed out on. The fact that I never had someone take me to salon to have my nails done, (Dani said it would be a waste of money since I had a nail biting problem. She took my sister instead.) Never had a special 'girls day' or felt pretty and like an adult with Dani. I didn't have someone that made me special meals when I was sad, or came by with hot chocolate to smooth a broken-heart. A shoulder to cry on, a woman to confide in. Nor someone to tell me it wasn't my fault when adult men took advantage of me.

Instead I'm remind of how much I was expected to not be girlish at all growing up. It was like Dani gave up on me, and focused on my sister who was far more a social butterfly. More like Dani when she was younger. Instead I got days like my wedding, where I was suppose to be the star. Dani spent more time getting my sister ready for the wedding than me, the bride. I wanted to go get my nails done, didn't happen. I wanted to get my hair professionally done, didn't happen. I had to do my own makeup, put on my own corset and dress. I had to wear a veil I didn't want because she insisted, and when I refused to wear pearls Dani threw a fit. My big day and all I have is those awful memories.

The only time we ever spent together that felt special was five hour long shopping trips when my brother and sister went to visit their father. Dani didn't like being home without them, so we would go to the mall and shop, for my brother and sister. So they would have something nice to come home too. My feet would be killing me, I would be tired, and the stores about to close but I sucked it all up. Never complained, because it was the only special time I had with her. I was a desperate child for any form of affection.

Looking back. . . I can't explain the anguish. My chest gets choked in pain, tears fall without restraint, and the sense of unfairness I feel. . . well, I swear it kills me a little inside.

I'm reminded of a scene from Ever After with Drew Barrymore playing the role of Cinderella who is confronting her stepmother, Anjelica Huston. The only thing she's ever wanted from the woman is a mother's love, and Huston replies with, “How can anyone love a pebble in their shoe.” That line sums up my life, that whole scene is me and Dani.

Ever since I can remember I've always wanted a 'real family' as I often thought of it. A dad, brother, maybe a sister, and a mom I could go to. Talk to, open up to, but I never got it. Not even now. It's the only thing I've ever wanted—what I still want. I would give up everything I own to have that, and here's the most tragic part of this.

I can wish for this every damn day of my life—I can try to make a new relationship with an older female in a mother like role, but it will never work. I can never had the type of relationship I want with anyone, because I'm too fucked up. I don't trust, or reach out when I should. I can't confide in someone like that. So even going forward with my life I'll never have the one thing I've wanted—needed.

Yes, I can try and mend myself, but it will never be what I want it to be. Here I am, suffering through another Mother's Day, thinking about the child I was missing out on having a mom. Knowing the woman who gave birth to me could have given me these things, but for some reason refused.

#MothersDay #NoMom #Mother #Abuse #Lonely Child

~Jax~