Name That Psychosis

One of the most wonderful attributes of my mother and family is that they provide endless material for commentary. I always learn new things, even if they are an assault on my intelligence and reality as I know it. I have now crossed from simmering anger to conventional concern to genuine alarm. Something is quite wrong. It never fails. Then I need to take a moment and examine my deepest memories after I am firmly told the opposite of what I know to be true. It is like a noted scientist affirming that the world is flat and if we are not careful that we may actually sail off the edge.

During the course of a bizarre conversation with my mother, she claimed that she had never, in her life, ever set foot in an OTB betting parlor, and that during the 25 years that she made her way back and forth to New York on the bus, that she had actually held a job. She also made a series of other claims, but this is the one that disturbed me the most. I don't mind if she believes that people mistake her for being thirty-five years younger that she actually is, or that she is being vigorously pursued by online schools to enroll in their Ph.D program, so great is her ability and intelligence. I don't mind if she believes that she has interviews scheduled for jobs that don't exist, or that the sweepstakes officials are on their way to her to present her with a check for millions of dollars and put her picture on the front page of the newspaper. What I do mind is the constant altering of the reality that directly affected me and her belief that a blatant lie out of her mouth transforms it into the truth.

I firmly remember the soiled shopping bags that she returned home with, filled to over-flowing with racing forms that she had written her "picks" on. I remember being woken up at 2 am, along with one of my brothers, to get dressed and walk her down a stretch of dark lonely road until we reached a major intersection roaring with tractor-trailers, where a Martz-Trailways bus would pick her up and carry her off into the night. I remember having to get up a few hours later and get ready for school, after having walked several miles in the middle of the night with little sleep.


There may have been brief interludes when she may have held a job, but it didn't last long because OTB was calling. I know what I know. And now I am supposed to ignore what I know and believe in a totally fabricated history of what has happened in the past.

I can't do that. A lie has speed, but the truth has endurance. The truth will outlast all the lies that are or ever will be. A lie is here today, but gone tomorrow. Don't allow anyone to try and alter the truth. It can't be done.

Still.

Andi

In Here

I currently have five chattering girls camped out in my living room, Their regular hangout, (the attic upstairs) has become too cramped for their morning activities, therefore, they must spread out. My daughter, the mistress of ceremonies, really knows how to keep a party going. I have warned them that this is my cleaning day, (isn't every day?) and that they need to vacate the premises no later than 1:00 pm. I have managed to sneak in a tender moment with my husband, and now I am ready, as much as I can, to take on the day. Cleaning, shopping, and holiday baking...perhaps an hour at the gym?


Today I feel like an ordinary citizen, with the most ordinary of lives. I take comfort within my own four walls. In here, I am impervious from the storm that is my mother; from those who wish me harm. You probably think that there is a bit of raging paranoia in that statement, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. In here, I can breathe easy, and do as I please. In here, I am my own woman.

In here, I answer to no one, am blamed for nothing.

The morning marches on, and one by one the girls make their way home, only to return much too soon. My daughter, who has really not slept, makes her way back upstairs, dragging her blanket behind her.

Such an ordinary day. How wonderful!

Andi

Bitter Harvest

Two days ago I mailed a money order to my mother. The plain white paper that I wrapped it in bore no greeting. although I believe the message was clear. Given the circumstances of our past, you may wonder why once again, ( after swearing that I wouldn't) dug deep in my pocket and rushed to her aid. Christmas is upon us, and my only real concern is to procure the awe-inspiring gift for my daughter, and have it safely nestled under the tree on Christmas Eve.

The truth of the matter is that although she is still as demented and destructive as she was fifty years ago, I have no choice but to feel sympathy for this aged, pathetic woman. Don't get me wrong, my extreme abhorrence of her is great, particularly when she calls me feigning concern for my family. I know it is only a prelude to the inevitable question. Could I possibly..... and always the promise of prompt repayment. That has never happened, as I know it won't. It's not even the point.

The point is that out of six children, the one she took delight in abusing, is the one who comes to her aid in times of need. You may think that this is an attempt on my part to gain her love and favor. I do not need, want or desire it. She is incapable of those emotions anyway. I only want to have a clear conscience. We are supposed to feed the hungry and tend the sick, even if they are severely mentally ill, as I believe she is and always was. It does not in any way excuse her behavior. Even though I was stripped of my sense of self, and joy of youth, I still have warm blood running through my veins. I have tried to do right by her even though she did not by me.

There will come a day when we will be faced with the reality of what to do with her. A lonely and bitter senior, who squandered her prime years chasing unrealistic dreams, blaming others for her dismal failures, and crushing the light of her only daughter. It is sad in so many ways.

My husband tells me always to be the bigger person. He says you have to fight evil with good. He is a wise man, and he tells me these things to help me cope. Sometimes my anger is so great, it actually makes me violently ill. I have recovered somewhat over these past few days. I must learn to hold on. There is still much to do. I have not yet found that perfect gift.

Still.

Here.

Andi

The Real Me

I have spent a large part of my life growing into the person I am. I have not always been me, but someone else, a me in the making.. Even now, I battle to remain the person I have become, and not the insignificant nobody my family believed I was.

I have found that in the interactions with my family, I am often told that I am mistaken in my memory of events, that they either never happened at all or that I am perhaps "confused" as to the outcome. Years ago I realized that this was just a cover, a ploy, a simple way to remain blameless in spite of the blinding facts of the truth. For a while I questioned myself, my sanity, my memory. Could it all have been nothing more than mere embellishments on my part, making a mountain of out a molehill?? But then it occurred to me that I was, after all, correct in my memory, because my body and soul told the truth. The soul has a memory all it's own, the body, a link to what has been heaped upon it, over and over again. Even if I chose to close my mind to the sins of what had happened, I would still remember. Like a survivor of some terrible war, the trauma is relived over and over, in dreams at night, and often over lunch during the day. It doesn't matter how many times you say you never did anything to me. Lies have no power here.

My soul remembers. And I will never forget.

Still.

Here.


Andi

Still Here

Yes. I know. It has been a while since I last shared my thoughts and insights with you. The past few months have been spent in deep gratitude and reflection. I have assisted my husband in his physical, mental and emotional recovery after this second heart attack. Each day had been another measure of the goodness of God. I have so often thought of the many different ways that this all could have gone wrong. But it didn't, and for that, I am very thankful.


As normalcy returns to my life, I can once again focus my attention back on my blog, the purpose of which was let you know that you are not alone on your journey towards healing. So often I am astonished, ( as you may be too) that I live the conventional life that I do. It is a testament to our persistent inner strength, all of us survivors; we came out on top, and not the bottom as some had hoped. Leaving the past behind is a formidable task, as much as we labor to create distance between ourselves and what was, we actually manage to hitch it behind fluttering, as we progress forward. It will forever, try as we might to shake it, be an eternal part of us.



The holidays will be upon us shortly. That means shopping, cooking, baking, and the gathering of family and friends. My daughter has insisted we make the same gingerbread cookies we made when she was three, complete with gumdrop eyes and buttons. We will do that and more. Even though her belief in Santa, elves and reindeer is long gone, I will still provide the magic that is Christmas. We are together and nothing could be better than that.



Still here.



Andi

Answered Prayers

Too, too much has happened in the month since I last shared my thoughts with you. I had been on a wonderful vacation to Florida with my husband, daughter and in-laws. We had laughed and drank, and done all those things that families do when they enjoy each other's company. Too soon it was all over and we returned home. I was rushing to get my house in order before the start of a new school year when the unthinkable happened.

I had been home engaged in my household chores. My daughter, still flying high from her vacation, was upstairs with a friend, still desperately clinging to summer vacation. As I chatted on the phone with my brother, out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband as he made his way past our house and down the alley. Moments later he appeared again. I thought it odd that he looked so disheveled. He normally went to the gym and showered after playing tennis, and here he was, standing before me , a wrinkled towel half covering his mouth, his eyes partly closed. "I feel sick," he muttered, and I saw that it was taking great effort for him to remain standing. "We're going to the hospital right now!", I said very calmly, even though my insides had begun to quiver. And so began the unreal reality that comes with unexpected events such as heart attacks and car accidents.

Then came the news of a second heart attack, the hours waiting in the critical care unit, the calling of his family and the bedside vigil that lasted seven days. During that time, we prayed the rosary and read the Bible, and on the third night as I watched the monitor record his heartbeat at thirty seven, I was almost sure that I would never take him home. It was then that I began to bargain with God, as all people who find themselves in situations where they have no control. God holds all the cards, and you pray that he will allow you a chance to win one more hand. And so in desperation, I promised that I would forgive all those who had wronged me, I would forgive myself for things I did and things I had neglected to do. Most of all, I would forgive me mother. I didn't know how I would do it, but I would, for another chance for us to be a family, for another chance to kiss his lips, for another chance to nestle close to him at night. I would do all this and then some.

Four days later, with a defibrillator implanted just above his heart, I took my husband home. I have not yet stopped thanking God, but I am still working on the forgiveness part.

Still here.

Bully

Even though I am of an age that I dare not mention, today I feel like that battered helpless child whose small voice could not be heard. My mother has thrust herself upon me. She has put herself into a rather precarious position, and I in my tights and billowing cape must rush out to save her. Although she is old, she has not changed; her propensity to disrupt and antagonize is as sharp as ever. In the days before her arrival at my house, my head ached and my body felt as if it were on fire inside. It kept me awake at night as I listened to the thunderous snoring of my sleeping husband. When I did sleep it was light, and I awoke groggy and angry. I have made it apparent that I do not want her near me, but she is in need as she always is and since no one else can or will help her, she ignores the signs and elbows her way in, like a thirsty bovine beast shoving its way to the front of the watering hole.


She believes erroneously that the room she stays in when she is here is actually "her room". She has claimed it like the unwavering bully she is, and actually seemed shocked that it was not ready and waiting for her. I will grant her two days. That's more than she ever gave me.


My husband says we will deal with it, but he does not know what I see when I close my eyes at night. She had the nerve to tell me that all she wanted from me as a child was to be a "good girl" and that I was the "greatest kid". In my entire life I had never heard those words uttered about me. I usually heard "slut", "bitch", and "whore", accompanied by a slap, kick, or punch. When did I become the "greatest kid"?


I know one cannot change the past, but the future is a different story. That's why I love my daughter so deeply and fully. When I take her shopping for her new school clothes, it will be just the two of us, and it will be a grand affair. We will shop and eat, and shop and eat till we get tired.
I hope my mother understands that she is only reaping what she has sown. I am not yet capable of forgiving, even though I know it would be healthy for me to do so. In the meantime though, my anger is alive and well. I don't see it dissipating any time soon. Still here.

Mommy Dearest

The first time I remember being snatched and viciously slapped, I was perhaps four years old. I am sure that it had happened countless times before, but this was my first conscious memory of it. I had just spent five minutes with my father who I had not seen in what must have been a long time to a little girl. As I reached up to hug him, I remember how rough the stubble on his cheek was against my face. He smelled of cigarettes and beer, but I didn't care. We lived in one of the old row homes in Philadelphia that was large and drafty. It was after all, the inner city in the sixties. I did not know where my father had been, only that he was in New York most of the time. Seeing him was rare but I knew he was my daddy. I had been told how much I looked like him; the same forehead and eyes. Our similarities did not stop there. According to my mother, we also shared the same degenerate tendencies as though the blood of mongrel dogs coursed through our veins.

I saw that he was getting ready to leave and I remember asking him to get a splinter out of my foot. I happily sat on his lap as he gently pulled the splinter out. It was only later as I made my way around a corner of the room that a violent hand reached out and grabbed me. It was my mother and even now I can still see the henious look on her face. It was twisted with fury as she crunched the bones in my little body. My sin: she was convinced that the splinter in my foot was only a ploy to get my father to look up my dress. How cunning and seductive I must have been at four years old!

This same scenario was to be played out countless times over the next twenty years and beyond. Her obsession with me as a insatiable sexual creature whose appetite knew no bounds. The sadistic beatings, the humiliation, the name-calling, the threats, and the shredding of mind, body and spirit. Throw in the abject poverty, the loss of the sense of self, of who and what you are and why, and I will tell you that sometimes I wonder how I walk upright.

I will say that there was a strength within me that I didn't know I had that kept me going, one foot in front of the other, day after day, year after year, until there came that glorious day that I was old enough to flee. And even though it took years to put myself back together, I often fall apart. I know that it wasn't all me; angels surely guided me in times of extreme chaos and kept me safe from serious danger. However, they could not save me from the horror that was my mother.

I am thankful to have done more than just survive; in some ways I have actually flourished.

Still here.

The Importance of Being Earnest

There was a time when I did not believe in anything. I did not believe in the the promises made by a boy who said he would call the next day. I did not believe in the possibility of miracles so fervently prayed for. I did not believe that tomorrow would make much of a difference in the conditions under which I lived. And I did not believe that "fairness" was a word that I could ever apply to the circumstances of my life. My goal now is to try and be positive in thought, word, and deed. I would also like to say that one of my other goals is to forgive those who took it upon themselves to attempt to execute my spirit. It took years but the instinct to keep my head above the raging waves won out, and I am here to bring to light the evil done in the dark. We never know what we have truly escaped until in hindsight, we look to see the destruction left behind.

I have spent many years coming to terms with the past. It does not go away or become less terrible over time. In my case it has made me mad as hell, and this is part of my way of not taking it anymore or keeping the secrets that held us as prisoners. The past is there to remind us that it can and will happen again in the future, perhaps not to us, but to another innocent whose life is up for grabs. I continue to wonder what I could have possibly done to recieve such treatment at the hands of my own mother. She did not think about the future. That I would remember and count every single moment until I was free of her, and that when I was, I would never never forget. Never.

My mother will tell you she did nothing of the sort. I will tell you she did. And I believe that you will find that my words echo those of others whose mothers or fathers said and did the same. Today I am going to believe that my tomorrow will be better. I will believe that some good will come out of the badness. And I believe that we must learn to never let the light go out. I will keep my goal of forgiveness on the back burner, and tend to it when ready. But not today.

Pillow Talk

This is my most favorite time of the evening: the time when my husband and I lie in bed and talk before he drops off into a dead sleep. Tonight he has me laughing, because on Animal Planet they are capturing an 11 foot alligator in Florida. We are due to leave in five days for vacation in the Sunshine State and based on the program, he believes we are due to find ourselves an appetizer one late night for this prehistoric creature. My husband is many things but brave is not among them. My heart opens and I laugh uproariously because when God made my husband, he broke the mold, which is why I love him so. He is truly one of a kind and we were blessed to find each other when we did. I was walking through Lincoln Center Library and he was watching me through the stacks. The short story is that 21 months later we were married at a church in Brooklyn. The long story is that I never dreamed that I had that kind of luck.

His one lament is that we did not meet each other sooner, so that we could populate our home with six or seven kids. We are blessed to have one. I am in a way the brains of the operation, and I tell him that it was the plan of the guy upstairs that we meet when we were ready for each other. Three or four years earlier and it would not have worked because we were not ready for each other.

I am pleased to get what I got when I got it. My only regret is that we did not have more children. A basketball team would have been more to my liking, but I am immensely happy with the one I have. We were given a once in a lifetime chance, and it all fell into place.

My daughter is well beyond that stage where she waits to be tucked in, and her stuffed animals to sing good-night to her. Right now, even though it is late, she is probably IM ing her friends before she calls it a night. I am still on duty, as mommies always
are, and it is my duty to make sure the teeth are brushed, the doors locked before I can lay my head on the pillow and call it a night. I am always on the case. I like that.

Thank You

I want to thank those of you out there who have recently discovered my blog. Thank you for the reading, the sharing, comments and support. I want you to know that I write because I have to, and I write for those who won't or can't face the hell that engulfed them at a time in their lives. The physical, mental, and emotional trauma that is associated with an abusive childhood never goes away and affects your actions for the rest of your life. You may be an abuser yourself, or care so little about your own existence that you sell your body for a puff on the crack pipe. It was foretold by my mother and one of my brothers that my destiny lay somewhere between the crack-whore and your average run-of-the mill money for sex whore. I became neither. The abuse led me to years of depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and physical and emotional ailments that plague me to this day. I never thought much of myself, and like many, looked for love in all the wrong places. However, I was fortunate enough to find therapy, prayer, and myself at the bottom of the ashes. In two days my husband and I will celebrate 15 years of wedded bliss.

It has not been easy and many times we surely drove each other to the brink of insanity. Our blessing was that we loved each other enough not to take the easy way out, and more importantly, we had God on our side.

My daughter will be twelve in a few months, and I will tell you my greatest accomplishment has been loving and nurturing her. The day I brought her home from the hospital, I wondered how I had lived my life all those years without her. Her birth was like winning a special prize. Now I was complete. I would have a childhood after all with her. My pleasure came from being the best mother I could be. I am grateful that in spite of everything, I chose to live in the light.

For those of you out there who have been down this road, I want you to know that you are not alone. I shudder to think how many of us there are out there. I am not a doctor nor do I profess to know what steps to take to acknowledge what happened to you. The best I can offer is this blog, to begin at the beginning, and do what is best for you to heal your soul and life.

I have been there. And I am still.....here.

Tell It Like It Is

I have been trying to make my way around the blogging world, trying to find and read others' blogs who have been unfortunate enough to have endured experiences like my own. I have not come across too many; perhaps I don't know where to look, or perhaps they are still working through the intensity of emotion that comes with surviving the unthinkable. One blog I came across is Penelope Trunk's Brazen Careerist. I have read several posts on her blog. She is open, honest and very brave. In addition to several other topics, she has no problem telling the world of the host of monstrous experiences she weathered at the hands of her parents. Many of the comments to one post in particular, "How to decide how much to reveal about yourself", imply that possibly she is an attention seeker, crying out to be noticed. I mean, here she is for all the world to see, giving out the raw and uncensored details!


Some of the comments I found offensive, suggesting that hiding the truth is better than saying it out loud. I will say this. There are those of you out there who walk around with unscorched souls, your decency intact, never knowing the savage sting of fist on delicate flesh, or the unbridled fear of absolute abandonment, the apprehensiveness that hunger brings on. You may have your say, but there are some things you should know. As an abused child, your voice is taken from you, and therefore you are unable to cry out for help, or tell on those who stole your innocence. Those of us who have survived have long awaited the moment when we can point the finger and say what it was and where it happened. We are only removing the hand that has been clasped over our mouth. To be able to speak and know that you will not be hurt is awesomely liberating. We speak for those who are still unable to do so for themselves.

I do not dislike anyone for the wholesomeness of their life. Yours was the one I would have preferred to have. I ask you to open your minds as to the reason why someone would be so willing to spill the beans. The cover is taken off for the countless others out there who will read and say. "I am not the only one who endured".

I used to have a friend who would regale me with stories of sneaking out of the house by going through the maid's quarters. Occasionally, he would slip the doorman a few bucks not to be seen. He lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue and being denied to him meant being out of town in the Hampton's and not being able to attend the next debutante ball held at The Plaza. His Holden Garfield existence was what it was. I did not look down on him for it as he did not (as far I remember) look down on me for coming from nothing. We did not judge. We did not choose the hands dealt to us. We just played them the best we knew how.

Family Ties

It would be wonderful to be a part of a real family. I have brothers older and younger than myself, spread out over several states, and hardly is there any effort on any of our parts to get together or see one another. Even though we are well into adulthood, when we do speak, it is as if we were small children again. Even as adults, we remain in the hierarchy that we were placed in as kids. My mother's love for her youngest son knew no bounds. Whatever was his pleasure, it was my duty to provide. Today, he has a flourishing profession, yet he communicates with no one. He did with me for awhile until last year when he kept telling me he had sent my daughter a birthday gift two months late. When I told him I still had not received it, he deduced that is was irrevocably lost in the mail and that he would have to go out and buy another gift card, since it was impossible to trace. I told him not to bother. That was the last I heard from him.

His success he keeps to himself. His greatest fear is that we may ask something of him that he has made abundantly clear that he is unwilling to give. To that, he remains anonymous, hidden from everyone except his wide circle of friends. I do not blame him for his distaste of us.

That is his choice, to be sure. Our mother, who loved (as much as she was capable of) some and despised others, certainly is not counted among one of his chosen. Boys were for the most part, good. Girls, (I was the only one) were whores just waiting for an opportunity to shame the good name (ha!) of the family and to entice all males within whistling distance into lurid sexual encounters. It is interesting to note that when I was about sixteen that I learned that my mother had indeed, had her first child out of wedlock. Worst still, my father was not his father. My father himself told me that he had married my mother when he returned from the war in Europe. The man who had impregnated her was long gone. As awful as we were told my father was, she still managed to have five more children by him.

I never knew any uncles or aunts on my father's side. We were not allowed to know them. My mother told us that my father was deeply involved in a sexual relationship with his sisters and therefore any direct contact with them was forbidden. To say that my mother's preoccupation with the sex act in all it's unnatural forms was revolting is an understatement. It makes me wonder even more deeply about her upbringing, what she may have done or witnessed or worst, been forced to be a part of. I do know however that her mental illness must have been at it's peak by the time I reached puberty. A girl blooming into a woman sent her into neurotic fits of fury. She would make me pay for being young and innocent. Neither state lasted long.

My daughter is currently with her cousin and friend at her cousin's house. It is an opportunity for me to try and get some things done that I normally don't get to. In a few days we will pick her up and I will return to being the taxi available at a moment's notice, the ATM for the mall, the hostess of weekend slumber parties. Then we will all be off to Florida to stay with yet another cousin. We will spend time together, eat, play and most importantly have fun. That's what families do.

Loving Me For Me

I try to remain calm, but over the past few days my anxiety has reached fever pitch. I do not sleep but toss and turn almost the entire night. Last night I downed several glasses of red wine. That along with the exhaustion that my body felt, I fell into a deep sleep. Although it did not last the entire night, it was enough for me to function productively throughout the day. I am used to it now. I have to learn to calm my body for sleep; once school starts, I will be on a very short leash.


I search for answers to my issues: my inability to sleep at night, my feelings of not being good enough, the scorching pain in my heart that even the powerful love of my husband has not been able to heal and now I believe that I have stumbled upon one of the answers I seek.

I have to learn to love myself. Not in an extreme selfish way, but in a way that allows me to take the time I need to nurture myself. Taking the time to rest my body and mind, taking the time to give myself what I need to eventually become a complete person, and taking the time to learn what that is. I am always on the run; many tell me that they don't know how I keep the pace I do, but I do.

As a child, it was understood that I must always give up anything that I had for the benefit of the family. But one summer when I was about sixteen, a friend of mine and I hopped into the car and spent the day in New York. We saw a Broadway show and later the show at Radio City Music Hall. We were enthralled with the bright lights of the big city, and I knew that one day I would make it my home. On my return, my mother ranted and raved that if anyone (who might that be) had anything, any money they were keeping to themselves, they had better, "get up off it." I was to regret taking some of my hard earned money and spending it on myself, rather than having it taken away as was usually the case. I felt guilty for the joy I felt that day. Guilty that I was selfish enough to think of myself. After that, it became easy to put others in front. And I have been doing it for the past thirty years.

Now I know it is crucial to my healing. Taking care of me for me. It is only the beginning in the process. Learning to love me.

You Must Remember This........

It is odd how we each remember experiences from our youth. That is a strange word for me to use because I never felt as if I had one. "Youth" is a word associated with purity of home and spirit, and I am certain that those articles never existed in the houses where I grew up.

My memories of my "youth" center on a succession of houses, and apartments, (not homes) steeped in ceaseless turmoil. There was never enough of anything except turmoil and one could only expect more of the same. Hope was something that there was no room for because we were taught that it did not exist. It was fair to say that one could only anticipate doom for it was a sure thing. That being said, someone had to be made responsible for the serious lack that dominated our lives, and that culprit, as I was to hear repeated for my entire "youth", was my father.

In addition to the serious lack, there was a mighty foe that my mother felt that she had to battle against day and night and that was what she believed to be my nymphomaniac tendencies. Even though I was only four the first time I remember her calling me a slut, she was quite diligent in her attempts to beat it out of me. And beat she did. She did it so well and often that she actually elevated it to an art form. By the time I was ten, I knew what to expect so that when I did get my period, I didn't tell her for fear of being beaten. When she did discover it, I was told that I was to get it every month and if I didn't, it meant that I was pregnant, and then she would kill me.

I did have one bright spot in my life, and that was when my mother had safely boarded the bus to New York to gamble at the OTB. I knew that for at least one, two or possibly three weeks, she would be gone. There would be hell to pay when she returned, but the important thing was that she was not there. In her absence, my grandmother, (her mother) took charge. It was her job to hold down the fort until she returned. My grandmother was considered a saint, mainly because the monthly checks she had went to feed us and nothing was ever kept back for her. I didn't know it then, but she was abused by my mother in much the same way I was. Her life was spent doing a chore that I am sure she detested in return for a flimsy roof over her head. When she died, she was very old, and she barely got a hole in the ground.

My mother remembers life differently. She remember putting my brothers and I in the best schools. She remembers working tirelessly to teach us how to be good upright citizens. She remembers sacrificing for us, and even consulting with priests and professors to help get my brother in the right university. She remembers tolerating my father's drunken antics and keeping a home clean and full of plenty. She doesn't remember battering me almost every day of my life until I left her house for good. She does not speak of the years she spent traveling on the bus back and forth to New York, the years she spent gambling; the babysitting money, the paper route money, the Girl Scout cookie money that went missing.

But I remember. My soul remembers the fear, my body the searing pain. And it is because of her absolute denial that I will always remember and never forgive. In honor of my survival, I remember. In honor of my survival, I write. In honor of my survival, I try each day to love my daughter a little bit more. I must remember this.

Stormy Weather

As I sit in my bedroom and try to find a few hours of quiet time, my daughter darts in and out, requesting fervent kisses on the cheek and hugs that relieve me of breath. She is in a good mood as friends are coming over to once again rule the night.

I, tucked away in my room, am left to grapple with ways on how to heal my body, mind, and spirit. Today has been particularly troubling. My anxiety is on full speed ahead and my emotions spring from one extreme to the other. My heart flutters and my hands shake. I'm not quite sure what to make of things. My brain is constantly ablaze with thoughts of what might be, what has happened in the past, and what is going on now; how can I fix/change/pay it. Even though I may sit, and perhaps watch a program on the television, it is hard for me to be in the moment. What is that pain, and did I ever feel it before? What does it mean and will I sleep tonight?

It is at times like this that I have learned to ride out my neurosis like a violent wave; calm will eventually come and then I cruise back to shore, rattled but still on board. My being is just another casualty in the eternal war that is me. I have no doubt that I will get through this dismal series of emotions. I have time and time and time again. As darkness falls I sigh. as I know night will be a long time coming. But come it does and perhaps tomorrow I'll be a bit better than I was today. And so will you.

Andrew

As much as I deal mentally and emotionally with the tragedy that is my mother, I now and then find myself thinking about the man who was driven from his home and never got to know his children: my father. It is no secret that he drank, or even the fact that he had a girlfriend who I got to know in later years and was very kind to me. She was a simple woman and what attracted me to her was that she was soft-spoken and sweet. She never made me feel moronic, never called me names or made me feel ill at ease. I was actually glad for my father to have a companion who treated him well, washed his clothes and cooked his food. My mother never did those things for him.

My mother never had a pleasant word for my father. As far as she was concerned, he was the singular cause of all her troubles. We were taught to hate this man and so we did, to please her as children are wont to do. It was his fault, she would lament to us and my grandmother, that she had just missed winning the Exacta at the OTB because he was too cheap to give her enough money to bet with. That's where she would be camped out for weeks at a time, finally coming home with nothing to show for her time away except filthy shopping bags filled with marked up racing forms. Frustrated, she would take out her anger on me for the alleged sexual trysts she and my grandmother perceived that I had committed in her absence. It took so little.

In spite of all the animosity and all the times she drove him from the house, my father never said a unfavorable word about her. The sad fact is he truly loved this exceedingly crude woman; no matter what he did to please her, it was never enough.


In the years before he became ill, he would often stop by my apartment in the early morning hours and ring my doorbell. I would rouse myself from sleep and run down the five flights of stairs. We would sit in his cab and talk for hours. Sometimes he brought me food; chickens wrapped in rough brown paper, packages of Vienna Fingers cookies. If he could not nourish me as a child, he would do it now. He told me things that I knew my mother would vehemently deny.

One of the stories he told me made me realize all over again how fortunate I was to have survived life with her.

During what might have been called a brief period of prosperity, my father was able to take out a few loans to buy a washer and dryer ( the cord of which she used to beat me with) and a few other household items. I remember a time where there were new sheets and pillows and cases, and at least on the outside, there appeared a degree of normalcy. But it was short lived and my mother insisted that he return to the loan company and take out yet another loan. My father told her it would be too much of a burden to repay yet another loan so it was something he could not do. All she knew was that she needed the extra money for gambling so she gave him a choice. Find a way to get some money or she would disfigure me (her words) and make me swear in a court of law that he had beat and raped me. I could see how much it hurt him to know that my mother was capable of such an ungodly act. My father found the extra cash.

Three years after I was married and he knew he was dying of cancer, he wanted to leave New York and return to the mountains he always loved even though he rarely got to be there. My mother would not allow it. He paid a friend to move him to my brother's house in South Carolina and there he died. I got the news and cried for him and for the daughter that would not know him.

Although he was my father, I never called him "Daddy". That was too personal for my mother He was Andrew. And that is how I will always remember him.

Brave New World

We are living in a new era. The 21st century is upon us and nothing is the way it used to be. Children grow up much faster than we did, and it is not uncommon for babies to have babies. Years ago it was shameful for a young girl to have a baby. They were often sent away to have their babies in secret, or worst yet, have an abortion. Now it is different. Our young people follow the example of the stars who have children first and wed later, only to divorce and continue a destructive cycle and we are left to wonder.

Teenagers have a say in all aspects of their own life and are often consulted for their opinion in the many choices they have to make. This is not a bad thing but I wonder where it stops.

I had always promised myself that my children ( if I was fortunate to have any) would never suffer the indignities that I did. They would never be ashamed of who and what their parents were or where they came from. I would never take out my frustration on them in a physical, mental or emotional manner. Their lives would be full of plenty and I would always stand guard, guardian at the gate.

My daughter is only 11 years old and I have remained faithful to the promises I made. There is plenty of plenty and as an only child I indulge her; it is her right and my promise. Tonight she asked, as she had many times, for a girlfriend to spend the night. If you have read my blog in the past you know that at any given time there is a small army of girls camping out in my home, basking in the glow of adolescence, lounging with indifference as only tween girls can.

But tonight I said it was not possible. I said "No". I saw her change before my very eyes, the attitude adjustment, the questioning look, and worst of all, the hand on the hip. Again, this is typical adolescence behavior. But it jolted my heart because I have always said "yes", "o.k.", and "sure". I have fed the masses and taxied them home, to the movies and the park. I have been better than good and she knows that. What happened??

We were able to work through this event and she apologized for her behavior. I went to bed a little shaken but this too shall pass. I tell of this incident because I try so hard to be the "good" mom. To fill each and every need, to go above and beyond the call of duty. What did I do wrong??

I know that parenting is not easy but our children are gifts. Our patience is tried more than often than we care to admit but the difference is we are the grownups and it is our job to take charge in a grownup way. And so I do. And so do you. Tomorrow we will pick up where we left off.

And keep on doing what we do best.

Busting Out All Over

I want to take this time to thank all of you who have been reading my blog and have taken the time and energy to post a comment. It is just the beginnings of something which I hope to be absolute and to help us all heal on our journey towards wholeness. It is a journey that at times I am somewhat hesitant to embark upon due to the dangers encountered on the way. One must examine the hand they have been dealt in this life and find a way to make the best of it. At the end of the day we find a peacefulness of body and spirit that has been a long time coming. Each day we battle for our right to walk among those who have never fought for air in the manner we have. In a way, I feel as though perhaps we have been enlightened and my heart is more open and gentle because of it. It allows me to take a moment and stand back and consider my actions before I commit an unforgivable sin.

There is no easy way to talk about the past but with each other's support and knowledge that we are not alone, we can at least begin the conversation that reaches out and pulls us in. Please continue to read, post a comment and heal. You are not alone.

Ever.

The Final Curtain

I do not usually respond to the news of the day, but today is different. Michael Jackson died today. I believe that Michael and I were very much alike. Longing for a childhood of his own, he surrounded himself with small children and a place where he never had to grow up. Longing for a childhood of my own and safety from the monsters under the bed, I created a world for my daughter where animals talked and reasoned, and became a part of an ever growing loving family.

My heart is so broken because Michael was a gentle soul who looked for love in all the wrong places. He meant so very well but was used by those who saw the answer to their prayers in the simple expectations of a man clinging to a childhood he never had. Michael lived through the children he helped to enjoy a time that is quick and fleeting. Only once are all things so wonderful, pure and filled with joy.

Growing up is easy. It is remaining a child filled with wonder, and a belief in magic that is difficult.

Good-bye Michael. We will miss you for all that you are and have been. My love to you!!

For A Few Dollars More

One of the unsettling aspects of being physically abused by your mother is that it sets you up to be abused by others later in life. Since you have never known anything else, it takes a while to learn that love is not a four letter word and that that all your interactions with others do not have to come with pain and anguish. It took me a long time to learn that my self-worth was not contingent on whether someone cared for me or not. It took me years to learn to stand up for myself, even when it was apparent I was getting the short end of the stick.

Many people saw how broken I was and took advantage of my low opinion of myself. I did not need as much as others, could work longer and harder for less pay, and virtually be forgotten by those who I so much wanted to love and care for me.

Many years ago when I was a starving college student, I was on my way back to my dorm after working some little thankless job that barely put change in my pocket. I was ill prepared for college life. I had never been anywhere, done anything, or been around girls that had trunks full of clothes and personal property that they could actually cart off to another place. I was an oddity and not just because I was black. I arrived with a half filled suitcase that I knew I would have to fill on my own. I did not go to college for any great love of learning or knowledge. I went to get out of the house before my mother killed me. The summer I graduated high school her rage was great. We both knew that it would be better for me if I was not there.

I used to always walk with my head down, and on this particular day it was fortuitous for me because lying right in front of me was a wad of recently lost cash. Just as I bent to pick it up I head a voice demand that I hand it over. Staring at me was the much, much older boyfriend of one of the Resident Assistants of my dorm. In her I saw some of myself. She was very unattractive and mousy and no doubt very grateful for the attentions of this man. I had the money in my hand and I was reluctant to turn it over. It was, after all, mine. I had found it! I could very well use it to buy cigarettes, soda, snacks. He again demanded the money, telling her to tell me that I had to give it to him.

As much as I felt she didn't want to, she turned to me and said, "You better give it to him." I slowly handed him the salvation that I had briefly held. There would be no late night snacks. No feeling that I had something to rely on. I often think about that incident; how boldly this man stole from a girl who so needed it. I do believe that in the righteous order of the universe, he got more than he bargained for.

I believe that I think about this because now, I would and could know what to do. No one could make me give up anything! Or take from me what was rightly mine. We know better now and that feels good.

Do The Right Thing

I try very hard to always do the right thing. By that I mean never going out of my way to hurt or hinder some one else. I always offer help, even when it is not asked for but may make the difference in someone's difficult day. I try to be patient in those moments when it is truly saintlike to be so. Being a teacher it is not easy. I am not perfect, only human, and often fail in my attempts to be as good as I would like to be.

There are times when I do not want kids in my house; my day was long and there is still much to do, yet I allow them to come because it may be better for them to be here rather than some place else and I try to understand that. My acts of kindness are a direct result of my firsthand experiences of a lack of the same. How often I had wished someone might have been kind to me or noticed my physical and emotional pain.

I know that people knew. I know the nuns at my school knew when I limped to class because my body hurt so, but I was not pretty or blond, and therefore I did not matter. I know the neighbors knew. They turned their backs because it was none of their business. These were the sixties and seventies and everyone was busy with what they were busy with. No one had time to see and I was invisible anyway.

I try to do the right thing because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't. I do right by my daughter because I love her so and she is mine. I heal through my love for her. With her head on my shoulder, her hair falling slightly over one eye I heal. It is a long and difficult process and we know it may take a lifetime. Still and now we remember. But we also remember to do the right thing.

What A Girl Wants

There is a part of me that is full of want. Not wants that are selffish or that can be bought with cash money, but wants that are beyond the grasp of my reach. I see and hear them as I dart about my daily business. My wants acost me as I turn the aisle in the farmer's market, as I edge my way through each very unremarkable day, I am confronted with wants that are no longer possible for me.

My wants lie in a history of what could have been had I been the product of a conventional home; two parents who were unconditionally devoted to one another, a yard with a painted picket fence, a dog, perhaps a cat. Leaping out of bed with the cozy pink comforter, I would slid my feet into fuzzy warm slippers, don my robe and hurry down to a steaming breakfast full of all good things for a cherished growing girl. An affectionate mother nuzzles my cheek as she fills my breakfast plate. Later, standing in front of my closet I choose a becoming out fit to start my successful day at school. Later, she will help me with my homework, give me a bath, and tuck me in smothering me with kisses. Together my parents gaze at me lovingly before turning off the light and gently closing the door. Tomorrow it will be the same, and so each and every day after that. I grow strong, smart and confident. And that is all I ever know.

But it wasn't that way at all. There was no picket fence or cozy pink comforter. There was no smothering of kisses. Instead chaos ruled my world, and my father, when he did dare to venture home his stay was short. He was a quiet and passive man, and no match for the woman whose voice, littered with obscenities could be heard blocks away. When I finally did get to know him, I was an adult. We did not have many years together. He died of lung cancer two days before my daughter was born. I mourned that he never got to hold her.

I wanted to be loved and cherished, and to grow up with the basic necessities of life. I wanted to be protected and get gifts on my birthday and at Christmas time. I wanted to live a carefree childhood, and not to be in a constant state of fear wondering when I would get my ass kicked for no good reason. I wanted to be able to have a conversation with my brothers with out being told later that if I was caught having sex with them, that I would be killed. I wanted electricity and heat, food and clothes, and not to be called names that I didn't understand till much later. I wanted to not feel lost and think that everything bad that happened was somehow my fault. I wanted to not feel guilty for having to eat to live. I wanted my mother to like me and not make that face when she looked at me.

But wanting is not a bad thing It's just too late.

Summertime

It is now June and school is let out for the summer. Although I too am jubilant about this fact ( I am a teacher as is my husband) the prospect of a house filled with tween girls frightens and in some ways delights me. The summer vacation is but a day old and already weekend long sleepovers have been planned; the nail polish and movies chosen, the snacks high and plentiful.



I tell myself that this is the summer of youth, the days long, hot and lazy; the nights cool and full of entertaining talk. It must be wonderful to be young, to embrace each day without a worrisome thought or care. The fridge is full of delicious things to eat and the crumb cake I made yesterday has but a few short hours. The boys who once walked my block unnoticed are now met with a chorus of girlish screams, and a dozen feet scramble from window to window just to watch them saunter by. No, it's not George, Paul, John and Ringo. Just Justin and Xavier, the two coolest sixth graders from the local middle school.


Oh, how I could enjoy this youth if only it were my own! My mind would be filled with the most satisfying dreams of love and adventure. What will I be? Who will I marry? But it is not, so therefore I watch with envy and amusement the carefree moments of my daughter and her friends. I give and then give some more because these are moments to treasure and turn to memories. They will provide a cushion on which to ride into those bumpy stages of life before adulthood. It will prove to be a necessary foundation upon which to build the character and love that a mother carries inside for her children. I want for her what I could not have myself.


Although we have been denied so much, it takes but little to see the power of love. In the blink of an eye the summer will be over, and we will trudge through red and yellow falling leaves as the wind swirls them underfoot. Another school year upon us; another season to dream our very own dreams. And on and on....

The Truth About Truth

I often think about what is the truth of my life. By "truth", I mean to really look at what has happened to me over the years. Statements that people have made to me and what I have thought and felt at one time or another. Desires and dreams never realized. Magic made in spite of difficult circumstances. Sometimes my truth overwhelms me and I find it in places where it does not belong. It makes itself known to me at the most inopportune times like an uninvited guest. Once they are there it is difficult to get them to leave.

During the course of my day I rarely have time to dwell on the past. I like to believe my life is different now. For the most part I have joined the ranks of the upper middle class. I have a profession and two degrees. A house and two cars. But my truth of what I lived before is but a flashback away. They come and they go. They come and often they stay. A blinding reminder that although I have crossed over from one road to another, if I look back I can still see that path littered with the trash of bygone days. Truth does not change. It is what it is and always will be. It may be twisted, revised, but then it become something else. It is not truth.

I like to believe that I have moved on. I know that you have moved on too. All that we know is different, changed from what used to be. We are all grown up now, with children of our own that we treat like children. We tuck them in and paste crude crayon drawings on the refrigerator.

In them we see a life vibrant with possibility.

The past cannot be changed, altered. And that is the truth about truth.

Stranger In A Strange Land

Are there times when you are not sure what you are feeling? Only that you know there is an incompleteness in you that surfaces from time to time? A sensation that perhaps you missed an important event that everyone else attended and somehow you were left out?

There are many moments when I feel this way. A nagging feeling that there is something amiss. I am going along fine, my day no different that any other and then: I am falling off the edge, my balance disrupted, slipping off the side of an uneven slope. Conversations of colleagues make their way into my line of hearing: how beautifully someone has decorated their house, an upcoming weekend to be spent at an elite spa and resort. It is not that these things are out of my reach for they aren't.It is that inside I feel as though I am an outsider. Hustled in through a side door to a gathering where I don't belong, eager to be a part of it but with nothing of value to offer.


It is terrible to feel this way as you know. At these moments, I want to get up from the table and not even excuse myself, as those that are there are surely grateful for my exit. Who and what am I? I find myself in these circumstances, how ever did I ever end up here with these people who are so much better than me?



A few years ago another therapist told me how very low my self-esteem was. No matter what I accomplish, I never feel worthy of any of the benefits. As a child, no one ever stood up for me. I took what I got because there was no other way. I was all the names I was referred to by my mother and grandmother, and I would never amount to anything, an embarrassment for the family. My brother once told me I would spend my adult years drinking beer from a brown paper bag, my legs spread akimbo on a dirty stoop. It was just one of the many predictions made for me that did not come to pass, as I was stronger than them all.



I have been diagnosed with a number of conditions: panic disorder, anxiety, depression, low self-esteem, post traumatic stress disorder to name a few. I am sure there are more. There are other conditions that plague me too: happiness when I can find it, success in my career, security in the love of my husband and daughter, delight in a job well done. When we sit back and take stock, if even for a moment, we realize that we are not those bad things we were told, but women gaining trust in who we are.



Carry on.

Free to be Me.

It is difficult for me to describe who and what I am. When confronted with that question I pause. Who am I?? What makes me me?? Even now words escape me, and as I try to round up the suitable ones to describe me, I can say with certainty what I am not.

I am not evil or cruel. I am not greedy, nor do I find satisfaction in the ill treatment of others. I am not complacent and will come to the aid of those that need me if at all possible. I am not rich and I do not try to present a false picture of myself to others. As I continue on, I would like to tell you some of the things that I am, try to be, and long to be.

I am and always have been and will be, a thinker, a dreamer, a seeker and speaker of the truth. I am the faithful lover of a stirring man, and together we are more than the sum of our parts. Our daughter is the product of a profound and sincere love, and I am not complete without him or her.

As a small child I was confused as to my gender. I wasn't sure if I was a girl turning into a boy, or a boy turning into a girl. When puberty struck, my confusion turned to panic. To relieve myself of the worries, I identified myself with a comic strip character, a hillbilly by the name of "Snuffy Smith". That was my picture of myself. I cannot tell you why. Perhaps because there was nothing explicitly sexual about him, an unattractive loudmouth that could not be told the difference between right and wrong. That was me, I was him.

Today, I identify myself with me. I am unlike anyone I know. It has taken quite some time for me to be free to be me. I am a reader of good books, a woman of little importance except to my family and small circle of friends. I am a mom who finds it difficult to watch her daughter grow up because one day I will have to let go. In time. I am a work in progress, still evolving, free to be me.

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to all of you out there. I hope this day brings peace, comfort, and a sense of having all that we need!

My Mother's Day was spent like any other day; I cooked and cleaned and baked and cooked and cleaned. My daughter made me a bracelet of plastic multi-colored beads and flowers which now adorns my wrist. I recieved calls and texts of well wishers and made several of my own. A beautiful card from my husband. I lamented that once again I did not make it to the gym but promised myself (and my thighs) that I would surely get there tomorrow.

I had dinner with my family and friends and a cocktail that I now believe was much too big for my own good. I am sure that many of you spent the day in a similar fashion. Yes, it was just a normal day.

I had everything I needed.

And that was the part I liked the best.

The Chair

Over the years I have seen a number of therapists. I can honestly say that most have been a help to me in releasing some of the numbing pain that has built up inside me. The woman I see now has been my therapist for perhaps three years. She has been extremely supportive and never hesitates to prompt me to look deeper into who and what I really am and not the labels that was slapped on me as a child. On my first visit to her office, my pain was so great that I promptly dropped my head into my hands and wept as I told her the story of me. I was embarrassed by my tears but I returned because there was a comfort there in the chair.

I don't believe that we can live through the experiences we have had and never seek therapy or some sort of help to heal the injured body and spirit. We are like broken dolls in need of fixing by a caring hand.

There in the chair I understood that as broken as I was that I would mend. There in the chair I looked around and found a safe harbor where I could state the facts as they happened. I would not be questioned about their veracity, I would be taken at my word.

There in the chair.

The Making of Memories

Not too long ago as I was driving my daughter and a few of her friends to the movies, I began to think about the memories that she will carry with her through her life. In the back seat, their chatter hung in the air like weightless clouds, one brief conversation spilled into another, and their excitement at life's possibilities of the next few minutes grew.

I have tried (and with great success) to build a cache of amusing and tender moments that she (and I) can look back on that will one day bring bursts of laughter and tears of joy. To know that a life has been filled with as much joy that any human can fill it with is a gift as great as any prized possession. To intentionally take away simple joys and pleasures such as those that may be experienced by a child is truly an act that will earn that person a direct ticket to Hell. As forgiving as our God is, there are also acts that are shameful in His sight. My daughter, whether knowingly or not, shares the delights of her youth with me. As wonderful as it is, it would have been nice to have my own.

My elderly neighbor who just passed away used to always tell me there was no point in denying yourself anything in life. Use the good china, take the exotic trips, love now in the moment. You will reach that point in your life where you have been relegated to the armchair, your only vehicle. It is then that you can reach back into those memories and remember a time when there were no limits to what you could do.

I am building those glorious memories for us. One day her children will giggle at these stories, their eyes sparkling and chubby little hands clasped gingerly over their mouths.

Another memory in the making.

The Keeper of Secrets

I used to be a keeper of secrets. Perhaps you were too. There were things that happened in secret that we were not supposed to speak about. To do so meant there would be severe consequences. Worse even than what had happened before. So the secret was kept and in the place of truth lies were told.

"I fell off the bunk bed."
"My cat scratched me."

I never told about how my lips were split. Or where the welts came from on my legs and back, the pain so great that they caused me to limp to school. I never told about who tried to engage me into sexual encounters. I was told no one would believe me, and all he had to do was to deny it. That was all there was to it. The crushing weight of secrets was great, yet we bore them in silence.

I am no longer a keeper of secrets. I speak my truth loudly and with conviction. We no longer fear fists or other objects of abuse for now we are our own protectors. We are bold in who we are. We stand straight and know that we have come farther than some.

I find that there are more of us than one would like to think. Our victory is in our survival and in the normalcy of our daily lives. We mother our children with sacred intent, and we know how precious and delicate they are. They help us to heal a spirit once broken.

And we keep moving.

Forward.

The Miracle of Motherhood

The Lord works in strange and mysterious ways.

So many of us long for connection, that one special link that bridges us to one another and keeps us together forever and ever.

A few years ago when I transferred my daughter from private to public school, I received a notice from the school district that the parents could (in the event of the unthinkable) have identification cards made for our children. It would include all the usual information. I promptly filled out the application, and in anticipation of receiving the card, paid for extras. One for me, one for my husband, one for my daughter to carry in her little girl wallet, and another to keep on the bookcase. It would be there for me, as I dusted and perhaps looked for a book; my daughter's smiling face would gaze up at me as I went about my chores.

Weeks went by and I eventually received a package from the school containing the four i.d. cards for my daughter. I scanned the cards and looked at all the identifying features. Apparently the person who took down my daughter's information found something that I had not. She had a beauty mark between her index and middle finger at the base of her left hand. When she came home from school that day I marveled that this little person that I cherished and loved had a mark that I was unfamiliar with. I thought that I knew every precious inch of her. I was wrong.

A few week ago as I was smoothing lotion over my very dry hands, I looked deeply at my right hand. What was that between the index and middle finger on my right hand?? A small dark mark. I tried to scrap it away with my fingernail. It was still there!
It was a beauty mark, the same as the one my daughter had, but on different hands.

It may not seem like much to anyone else, but my heart burns with the joy of that connection to my daughter. Yes, she is mine and yes, it may be slight, considered a coincidence by many. But to me it signifies something greater. I am the mother, and she is my daughter; flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. Nothing can ever change that. We are one, and always will be. A million miles away from her and I will know if she is happy or sad, sick or well. In silence we can call to one another and I will always hurry to her side.

A mother always will.

The Lost Weekend

Oops, I did it again.

The weekend can not end soon enough. I pray that in my fury that I do not suffocate her in her sleep.

She is my mother ans she is old. She is not weak but she surely does not possess the vigor of bygone days when she was capable of rearranging my face and breaking my bones. My bones have healed but there is a larger part of my being that has not. In a way, I could almost see myself forgiving her. We are told that forgiveness is the first step towards the healing process. There is that one great boulder that stands in my way: her inability to acknowledge her treatment of me.

When I confront her, her thin lips curl into a malicious smile, as if she would like to humor me but cannot. She states, and rather firmly that she did nothing of the sort, and by the way, where did I ever get such an idea??

My sisters, do you know what I am talking about? Do you hear me?

It is her mental illness, her borderline personality disorder that allows her to believe her own lies with such fervor. Her belief in her own greatness is unshakable and I am amazed at the strength of her conviction.

It will take me a few days to recover from the physical, mental and emotional effects of having my mother in my home. I purify my environment by burning sage. It will dispel the negative energy and cleanse the air. Tomorrow is another day and I move on. I have too.

I'm a mom.

The Money Tree

The voice on the other end of the line was meekly faint, like that of a timid child asking for the forbidden cookie an hour before dinner. I had listened to the entire message before I realized it was my mother, calling to ask me for a phone number.

Three months ago against my better judgement but driven by forces larger than myself, I had brought her to my hairdresser to get her hair done. Of course it was at my expense and after three days of regretting my decision, I promptly took her to bus station where she would make her way home.

Sometimes I like to believe that somewhere in the past, there was a connection, a history of spontaneous mother-daughter shopping trips or tickling games that led to out of breath laughing sessions, a bond that time or distance could not break.

Everyone tells me that that's my problem. I want what never was and can't now be.
I decry that theory and tell them that I am trying to do the right thing in the eyes of God. Honor her even though she has not earned this right but only gained it by virtue of my birth.

My mother likes to pretend that she could have ruled the world if it had not been for the likes of those who constantly foiled her plans. Her greatness denied, she has spent the last half century blaming everyone who has crossed her path. She believes she had been wronged in so many ways and takes no responsibility for her own actions which have placed her squarely where she is today. Rather than admit her mistakes it is easier not to recall them at all, as if they had never happened. This includes her brutality of me as a child and adult.

As I gaze at her in her old age I wonder if she ever saw this day coming. That one day I would grow up and remember. Remember every vile word and the numbing pain that ruled my existence. That one day perhaps she might need me for a bit of entertaining conversation.

I don't believe she did.

Time Out

Yes, I know. It has been a while. Lately I have been dealing with some mother/daughter issues that many of us face. My beautiful daughter is at that rebellious stage where she wants to pull away and assert her independence. She shudders when I tell her that her stuffed animals want to talk to her and snuggle at night. She reminds me that we did that when she was eight (ten really) and now she is too big for that. She may be but I am not. I knew it was coming, not just this soon.

What she doesn't understand is that I did it for myself as much as I did it for her. Making the animals talk and dance, play and fight! What joy for me and the child inside! I needed to be a mommy. I want to be a mommy. Now I'm just "mom", and that's ok too.

Being a mommy is everything to me, and probably always will be. Yes, I do other things and have many other interests. But being a mommy means that I was needed when there was a tear to be wiped away, or monsters to be shooed out from under the bed. Mommies have magic and can do the most courageous things!

My daughter does remind me however, that "Mom" is still very much needed and constantly in demand. "Mom, can we go pick up my friends, NOW???!!!" "Mom, can you make some brownies???" "I love you, Mom!"

I am the kind of Mom that I wish I had had, but didn't. I am the kind of Mom that my daughter's friends love to be around and because of that my job is never done. Even though I have hung up my Mommy cape and tights, I am not retired. I am on guard, as moms are supposed to be. You know where to find me.

Andy

Phoenix Rising

I truely am grateful for so many things. It was a glorious day, still a bit chilly out but the sun was warm and welcoming. I am tired of the winter and look forward to the coming spring and the hot sticky days of summer. I went about my day, immersed in the details of work...planning, thinking....a productive well-spent day. As I drove home I was wholly contented with the joyous normalacy of my life. A pleasant home, a devoted and caring husband, a beautiful and lovely daughter, a complilation of all good things.

Looking back on the chasm that once was I never saw this coming, but guard my gifts with ferocious intent. It is way too wonderful not to. I look back to see how far I have come. I am a long way from where I used to be. As I nestle next to the wide shoulders of my sleeping husband I am again comforted. A simple pleasure but greatly satisifying. Home is finally a peaceful place.

Andy

A Day Late and A Dollar Short

There are many things in my life that I have wished for over the years. Some have been grand and desperately out of reach. Others have been more necessary, a warm hand to hold, the love of a good man. Some things I thought I would never have, and yet came to me unbidden. In some things I have been lucky. I others I have drawn the shortest straw.

Many children, given the opportunity would undoubtedly chose the mother they were given. She makes the best oatmeal cookies, cuts the crust from sandwiches just right, and smells like all good things rolled into one. I would have done nothing of the sort. The mother I was given was none of those things. Her language was course and angry, her temperament distant and cold. She was addicted to gambling and obsessed with the notion that as a young girl, that not only was I sexually active with my father, my brothers or any other male but also that it was her duty to cure me of this ailment by beating it out of me. Although she failed as a mother in all other ways, this was a vocation that suited her well. When she was not destroying my body and psyche, she was attempting to win it big at the OTB. At that, she was a total failure.

Of course nothing was ever her fault. It was others who conspired against her that caused all her failures. I didn't know it then but it was her borderline personality that caused us all so much pain and despair. We have all been injured by her madness, some more than others. We all need help, yet few seek it.

I have been lucky. Surely you have too. I have a warm hand to hold and the love of a really good man. My dreams are bad some nights and others a bit more peaceful. I have memories that will never fall away. There is little I can do about that. I am still lucky. And you can bet on that.

Andy

The Next Step

After I posted my first blog last night, I felt energized, as if I were doing a good thing for myself and all of us.I know it will take some time for you, my sisters and I, to come together, but when we do, we will create a community of sharing and healing. We will know that we are not alone and that the sometimes sinister issues that we continue to battle on a daily basis are not uncommon for the hell that we lived through.

I told you yesterday that I have an 11 year-old daughter. She is at that stage in her life where her friends are the most important thing. Her thumbs cramp up from texting, and no technology is too difficult to master in five minutes. The Jonas Brothers rule; there are dances and parties to attend and sleepovers which always seem to take place at my house. Come Friday at 3:30, I am picking them up and ordering pizzas.They storm my house like soldiers on the beaches of Normandy, eager to continue the dramas that were played out in school today.

I am grateful for her popularity; their laughter as it rains down in thunderous claps. I am happy that she is happy and more importantly, that I can provide that haven for her. I have told her how fortunate she is and I know she understands.

As a child I had no friendds. At school I begged for candy because I had no money to buy any. I dreamed of tall crates of money which I believed would solve my family's problems and perhaps make my mother a nice person. She would not call me a bitch and slut and punch me in my little 6 year old mouth, the salty red blood falling in large drops on the floor.

Tonight I made chocolate chip cookies for my daughter and her friends. The pizza long gone, they grabbed handfuls as they readied themselves to go home. They tell me that I am such an awesome mom, and I am. I really am.

Till later,

Andy

The Bad Beginning

Ok. Here it is. This is for all you women out there like me. Stuck somewhere between 6 and 46. Or anywhere other than here. We are wives and mothers, executives and teachers. We go about our daily lives like everyone else. But we are not everyone else.

I decided to start this blog because I know you are out there. The ones who toss and turn at night because the dreams, memories and flashbacks never really go away. They are always there beneath the surface, ready to interrupt our stability and turn us back into what we were many years ago. As a child I was my mother's whipping post. I don't mean spankings and a slap on the wrist. I mean brutal, near coma beatings that I endured day in and day out from the time I can remember till I fled home at 18. Even after I ran for my life, the abuse continued in ways other than the physical. There was the emotional and mental abuse and I have the scars to prove it.

You see, there is much more to the story than the mere beatings. There was the abject poverty, the constant fear, the knowledge that there was no one to protect me except me, and I didn't know how to do that then. Years have passed and sometimes I am better than others. I have an 11 year-old daughter. As a sweet little baby, I gently rocked her to sleep and sang her songs that I made up myself. Her stuffed animals entertained her with dancing and conversations that came from my mouth but began deep in my soul. She would have a wonderful childhood even if I didn't. She would make it up to me. It was the only gift my mother ever gave me. She taught me what kind of mother NOT to be.

I will return to tell you much more. Perhaps you can tell me about your experiences and we will help each other to be complete.

Bye

Andy