A letter to you

Dear Ma,

For a long time, I was angry at you. Not just a, you said something I didn't like, angry or a, I wanted something and you said no angry. But a, you were never there angry. An empty, overwhelming void in the pit of my stomach angry where my abandonment issues developed. I remember one isntance where I was at Donna’s house, sitting up in bed, it was a bunk bed, I was on the top, crying for you and you were nowhere to be found. John, your husband at the time, Donna’s son and my father, or so i thought, was screaming at me to 'Shut the fuck up!". Which only made things worse. I remember him grabbing me ears and holding me against the wall, in trouble like always for reasons i couldn't fathom. Being sick to the point where both ends felt like they were throwing up, alone in the bathroom with only a baiting suit to wear. You both were there physically, asleep in the motel room we lived in. You’r bodies present but your minds were always elsewhere. I think I was 6.

The time tables are funny, it's as if I remember events, but not the order they occured in. Almost like flash photography. Scenes from the past would pop up for an instant, and all it takes is that instant for bits of memories to flow. Sometimes I consider hyponosis, just to try and fill the many holes in my memories. I’ve been advised against it more then once. I was asked if I truly wanted to know. Almost as if its blocked for a reason, but couldn’t that be said for everyone? Aren’t we all on some sort of autopilot till we hit 4 or 5 anyways? Or am I just projecting an excuse to not go through with it.

One of my earliest memories is driving. Just driving. Sleeping under the stars on the beach. In thr trunk area of my stepfathers hatchback, the doors open to the night sky. Another, the Christmas I was 5. Not only did I find out there was no Santa, because gifts weren’t in the budget, but that was also the time I found out the man who I believed to be my father, was not. Just another night in a motel room.

It was not all bad, really. With most of the good times going to see family. You’d dress me up, curl my hair, make me feel pretty, to put on a show that we were doing ok.

I remember when you left us, me and my two younger sisters. I was around 10, and you said you’d come back in three months. I ended up staying with grams, Lacey went with our uncle and Lina stayed with our aunt. It wasn't until cleaning out grams garage when I was in college that I came across a note pad with a story I was not supposed to know. I had always wondered why there were never photos of my grandfather. Why his name was never uttered. Why there were never stories. Well, there were stories, just not the kind a 5 years should have to live through. I’m so sorry mom. I understand now. The mental fragility you dealt with. It broke you. Studies show many ways that a person can deal with trauma, and you responded in the most broken and, in your mind, saftest way to keep some semblance of sanity. You didnt deal, you chose to escape and in doing do numbed yourself to a life less then. Yes, you loved me, but couldnt love yourself, and knowing as I do now the hardships of just existing, I can’t imagien what you went through. I don’t have a kid, much less three. Just a dog, and she’s hard enough to take care of. I sympathize. However, there comes a time where you have to stand up straight and do what you have to do. I am happy now that you are trying to fix your relationships, and I forgive you. At the same time for others in our family, I know it will take some time. You and I now have a great relationship, we talk every day. your involved in my life and we just came from a Vegas trip together. The hardships done to your person, both self inflicted and otherwise, made you loose yourself for a time. I’m proud and very happy to see you finally start living. I love you Ma and happy mothers days.

Sam.