archive
guestbook
slambook
profile
linkers
cast
rings
notes
image
Design
dland
link me
strawburygrl feels
strawburygrl feels
Part One: Wherin I have Abandonment Issues
One morning when I was about 10, while I was getting ready for school I got in some tiff with my mother. I don't remember what it was about. I just remember refusing to kiss her goodbye that morning because of it, and walking down the yard to the street thinking, "Mark Twain never had to put up with this kind of stuff." Mark Twain was my favorite author. Little did I know at the time that Mark Twain had a pretty hard life himself.
I was the first one home that afternoon. Mom wasn't there, which was unusual. I don't know why, but I checked the closet, the dresser. Her things were gone. She was gone. We found out that night that her car was found at the airport, but she was not. She was gone. She had left me. And she didn't tell me. And I didn't kiss her goodbye.
My mother was my best friend. My confidant. My goddess. My everything. It was us versus the world. The other times she had left my father, we had gone together. This time, she abandoned me. I never got over that.
Ever since, it's been very hard for me to say goodbye. Especially on the telephone. In person it's easier, but only because I insist on kissing & hugging the person I love. Every time. Every day. My husband knows that I will freak out immensely if he doesn't wake me up in the morning to kiss me goodbye on his way to work.
I think I was about 23, living in Seattle with my Sweetie, not yet married, both of us still in college. My father called me, which was quite unusual. He wanted to know where my mother was. He begged me to tell him. I freaked out. Because once again she had left my father & skipped town & not told me a thing. I immediately called my Grandmother. She said not to worry, Mom was in a shelter, but couldn't be contacted there for safety reasons. My mother had called her mother. But she hadn't called me.
A week or two after I turned 18, I came home to find our front door locked. I knew something was wrong, because our front door was never locked when Mom was home. As I shakily drew out my keys, my grandmother pulled up in front of our place, and called from her car if everything was alright. That's when I knew something was really wrong. I began to cry as I called back that I didn't know. I ran into the house, ran to her room. She was asleep on the bed. She didn't wake up. Gramma came in, and together we woke her. She ignored me. She kept apologizing to her mother. I sat in the backseat of Gramma's car as the three of us went to the hospital. She continued to groggily apologize to my Gramma and ignore me. I was in shock. I was numb. I wanted to cry and couldn't. She had planned to abandon me again.
As far as I know, this is now the 3rd or 4th time that my mother has been in a psychiatric hospital. This is the first time anyone's bothered to tell me while she was actually in the hospital.
When my sister told me about this Tuesday night, I reacted the same way I did that day years ago when my dad called me. I was pissed. And terrified. So terrified that this time, this time it could be for real. I may never see her again.
And I hate her for that. For once again not giving a shit about what her actions do to me.
She would leave my father & always come back. And look where that's gotten all of us. We're all severely mentally scarred because she couldn't stay away from that man.
And once again she couldn't care less if her suicide would hurt me. Anything to end her suffering, but far be it from her to actually do something productive, like leave my father, and/or turn to her daughter for help.
So all my life, I've had to tell myself that it doesn't matter if no one else cares. But when they do, I realize just how much it does matter.
So much so that when these people who have shown themselves to care abandon me, it hurts like a bitch. Like when my #1 cheerleader removed me from his favorites list. Or when my sister left me a Happy Birthday message, but didn't call back to let me know about Mom being in the hospital. Or when none of my Diaryland buddies wished me a Happy Birthday. Or one of them admonished me for my feelings.
I hate needing people.
When I was about 8 or 9, I did a terrible thing. I was happily living in Washington with just my mother & my baby sister. But after a phone conversation with my brother, I demanded to be sent to Hawaii to live with him & my father.
I never told anyone why. No one ever knew that it was because my brother was being spoiled rotten by our "rich" grandmother, and I wanted my fair share. I could care less about my father. I wanted all the junk food I could eat and $20 a weekend to spend at the arcade. No bedtime. No discipline. Just beaches & arcades & movies & getting fat, fat, fat.
The day my father was set to arrive to get us (somehow my little sister got thrown onto the tab too), I knew my mother was upset and anxious. I wanted to get out of the house to play. Mom demanded that I take my sister with me. I don't remember exactly why, but after a while at the apartment complex's playground, I got bored and went home. Alone. When my mom asked where my sister was, I told her she was still at the playground, and she didn't need me with her, because we could see her from the kitchen window.
That's when all hell broke loose. I got The Belt for the first time in years. When I was small, I learned quick not to really tick off the parents. Or you got The Belt. A paddling was one thing. The Belt was an entirely different beast. My brother, sadly, never learned that. I watched many a time from the sidelines as he got his licks. But me, it had been so long, I didn't even remember it ever actually happening to me. Just that I didn't want it to.
So the appearance of The Belt was a shock. The transformation of my mother was too. The sting of the belt over and over and over was too much. I tried to get away. She followed me, now wailing on my bare legs, leaving stinging welts all over. I was screaming and crying and terrified. Because she was insane and beating me. And I didn't know if she was ever going to stop.
And then she did. She fell on me, sobbing and begging my forgiveness. I've never forgotten that day.
But it was only this weekend that it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't that emotionally out of control just because my father was coming. maybe she was distraught because I was abandoning her. Maybe, just maybe, I let her down first.
So despite the hurt I feel at that guestbook entry, it also makes me feel something else: guilt. Guilt that he's right. Because I can't hate her. She's my mother. And also a person. She deserves and needs my love, despite the times she's hurt me. And because she's human, she makes mistakes. And she's always loved me, no matter what I did.
And I've been thinking about R. alot. Fantasizing, to be exact. What's wrong with me? I have a wonderful husband, whom I adore. The other night I forced myself to remove everything from my head and just focus on that for a minute. Just for a minute. Because that's all it took. He's perfect for me. I love him.
And I'm a giant Poop Head for thinking noone at Diaryland likes me anymore. Because Gwen is a treasure, always knowing what to say. And Vixey and That Girl Called Trouble are just as sweet as pie. And Chanter actually likes my words. And then there's that person who sent me an e-card. Only, I can't pick it up. "Specified server cannot be found"?!?! Bah!!!
Anyway, today is my hero's birthday. Or rather, it's the day we celebrate the birth of the man called the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. So here, I've spent my yearly piece of time reflecting, and I've shared it with you. Kind of like Paul Buchman and his glass of port. Does anyone else miss Paul & Jamie? :(
I think I'll go call my mother - it's her birthday too.
PS to Sir: will you send me a snowball??? It refuses to snow down here in the lowlands. Oh... and... er... sorry to single you out. I still love you though.
PPS: talked to my Mommy, and she's doing just fine. We had our longest conversation in... probably years. Love to you all.
