sara sullivan

They Say a Picture Says a Million Words

Three years, $30,000+, and a mother who chose a drug-dealing, wife-beating husband over her own flesh and blood fresh out the womb. That's what it took for my dad to get custody of me, and for what? A better life? There is always someone with a life worse off than you, right? That's what they told me growing up, as if it was their way to tell me to just be happy with what I have. Growing up, it was mostly my dad and those around him until my stepmom came in to take the role of "mom." Even then I got the occasional reminder that there was, in fact, another lady I was supposed to call "mom." That term meant shit to me growing up because I never really knew who to call mom. The biological choice was awarded custody of me because in NYS, any mother can get custody of their kids and good luck getting it from them. You could be a horrible mother, crack head of all crack heads, child beater of all child beaters, and you still have custody somehow. It's unbelievable. Trust me. I know because I was the child in the middle for years and years. My Bio mom, whom we'll call Susan for (ID protection of my profile) wanted custody of me for one reason and one reason only: DSS. And for those of you who don't know the abbreviation, it stands for Department of Social Services, AKA food stamps and free rent give away center. To her, I was a meal ticket and free housing. To this day, you'd never believe me when I say she'll admit to that very fact. I vaguely remember the good times, but for some unknown reason, no matter the age, I've always remembered the bad. I remember standing under the doorway and this unknown man throwing dagger knives above my younger sister and I. He thought it was funny as he held a cigarette in his teeth and laughed, throwing another. I remember waiting in the window on nights of school concerts with a "guaranteed promise" she would show up to support me and enjoy what I worked so hard for. I remember being late to those concerts because I was so sure she was coming. I remember being young on Christmas day waiting with my dad at Stewart's Shop for over an hour for her to take me for a holiday and her not showing up. My dad called and called and there was no answer until she picked up only to say she wasn't showing up to get me. Tears in your only child's innocent, yet desperate eyes. How do you fix it? You can't. She's going to remember every single bit of it all. Even the free milkshake the ladies gave me to cheer me up didn't make it better. It merely coated the way back to my car seat for the ride back home. I remember all the promises of spending the weekends with her and "no gas," "no money," and the no to anything excuses for years and years. I remember the anger you caused me and the depression that consumed me over the years. I remember the damage you did to me because you weren't the mom I needed you to be. I needed you there for a lot of things and you weren't anywhere in sight. I fought with my dad to defend you and told his wife she wasn't my mother when all she tried to do was raise me into a proper woman. For years, the fighting went on and so did the oncoming damages that are now what have scarred the only relationships I have left with my dad and stepmother. I fought so hard and so long with someone who could care less I was even breathing.