Unspoken Privilege

My earliest memory, in which I couldn't have been more than three years old, is of an unknown man getting into my mother's white Pontiac and slowly driving down our road. I was in my mother's arms, wriggling to pry myself from her grip and dash to the tiny community playground a few yards from us. I remember that it was summer and the sun was beaming into our eyes. The combination of sunlight and humidity caused a sticky film of sweat to form on my mother's skin and dampen her clothes. I don't recall her facial expression, so I couldn't tell you how she had reacted or what she truly felt in that moment. But she couldn't have been happy as she stood there, watching the man drive away in our only vehicle--never to return. Long after the white car had been driven out of sight, we stood there in silence. The typical sounds of summer echoing about the small neighborhood around us. The car had been repossessed. My parents had borrowed money on the title and never repaid the debt. Of course, I had not been aware of that then. But that had only been the first instance of my family being left utterly stranded. And unfortunately, it was not the last.

I'm not sure when I first had the realization that my family--namely, my parents--were abnormal in any way. I recall how filthy our many homes were--usually infested with some sort of pest; trash and dirty clothing completely covering the floor. I recall the cabinets and fridge being starkly barren for days on end. And the sheer excitement when our EBT card balance renewed at the first of the month. Followed by the inevitable anxiety when the food had disappeared and the balance was zero after only a single grocery trip. I even recall the notes and invitations for parent-teacher conferences and school events being ignored by my mother. My father not even being aware, or concerning himself, that a note had been sent in the first place. Many a spelling bee, track meet, and softball try-out in which they had not attended, passed by. But I also remember happy moments in my childhood, as far and few between as they were. My parents laughing at my brothers and I as we danced around our apartment or recalled our interesting day at school. Lying on my father's back as he played the PS2 with my brothers. Long summer days spent on my grandfather's farm--days that my heart aches for even now. Silly tea parties with my grandmother. And late nights spent watching The Twilight Zone with her on their ancient TV. I always loved my family. Especially my parents and brothers. Despite everything that happened, I never blamed any of my misfortunes or inconveniences on my parents. Even as they handed our electric and water bill money over to a stranger in exchange for some mystery item that would make them behave unpredictably later on. Even as they gave our EBT card over to one of their friends in order to get a few "sleeping pills”. There was no noticeable turn of events or flip of a switch. One day, I just realized that I was bitter toward my parents. I hated their irresponsible choices. And I hated that they chose their temporary and expensive high over my brothers and I. That our needs were not their priority, and that it was then left up to me to pick up the slack.

It took me several years of being married and living on my own to come to the understanding that my parents were hurting and were in silent distress. Physically, as my mother had been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and arthritis, but especially mentally. It took me several years of absolutely hating and despising my parents to accept that they were struggling with the state of their own mental health and used drugs in order to cope. After this realization, it was easy to see my parents as people in need of rehabilitation. And not through the lenses of distrust and resentment that I had picked up at some point during my early teenage years. Nevertheless, this does not mean that I have fully forgotten what they knowingly put my brothers and I through. I still find myself regretful over the meager amount of innocent childhood that I did experience. I hear my husband and his doting parents happily reminiscing over dinner, and I can't help but wonder how differently my life would have been if I had been blessed with "normal" parents. Would I be more successful? More confident in my abilities? And more importantly: would I struggle with my self-worth every single day? As one of five unplanned pregnancies in my mother's life, combined with seemingly being swept aside by her and my father for so many years, it's no wonder that a battle for identity and purpose is constantly raging in my mind. But just because I understand how I've come to be so anxious, conflicted by every choice I'm faced with, and worried that I'm not enough as a wife or mother, it has not made it easier to permanently change the negative thoughts that have plagued me most of my life. Being the accidental child of two addicts comes with emotional and physical baggage that I will personally struggle with until the day that I die. The honesty of that statement is a hard fact to come to terms with.

Despite feeling like damaged goods, being extremely depressed, and believing that I would be an awkward and miserable outcast forever, my path crossed with a teenage boy that reminded me that life could be beautiful–even for someone like me. I met him after moving schools for the eighth time–one of my parents’ many attempts to escape Child Protective Services’ watchful eyes– and though we only had one class together that year, he completely turned my life around. Despite being born with a deformity that left him with a heavy prosthetic leg, he still laughed and joked at every opportunity. He seemed genuinely happy and it was contagious to everyone around him. When I was with him, I had no time to worry about the state I'd find my parents in that day or stress over what my brothers and I were going to eat that night. For a lack of better words, I was captivated by his sheer positivity and humor. I had never been interested in boys or had any experience with romance of any kind; despite having a school-yard "boyfriend", or two, beforehand that I didn’t take seriously in the least. He wasn’t aware that our interactions were all I looked forward to in my life during those difficult times. I was confused and frightened of the intensity of these new feelings, so I pushed them aside and was content with keeping him as a best friend until the summer after our 9th grade year. At his urging that he was ready to move on with our relationship, and my cousin's insistence that I needed to "grab him before someone else did", I reluctantly agreed to coin him as my boyfriend. I was simultaneously excited and terror-stricken. I had thus far shielded him from the horrors of my home life and was terrified that he would discover something that would turn him away forever. The pessimist in me sat, in wait, for the day that he realized he could do better--or that I wasn't worth the trouble. That day never came. And the pessimist has long since given up and left. We're now married and have a beautiful child whose laughter is just as contagious as his father's is. He, to this day, has never revealed any sign of regret toward our relationship, even after finding out the truth about my twisted family. Through a complicated senior year–in which I moved in with him and his parents, a short, but rewarding, Army career, a traumatizing adoption experience, and my first pregnancy and childbirth, he has been the constant in my life. The stability that I didn’t know I needed until I recalled how chaotic my life had seemed before I met him.

I now undoubtedly crave stability and success because I never felt successful or had stability as a child--or a teenager for that matter. I continue to strive for, and have built, a better life for myself and my family. It is so unbelievably easy to get caught up and swept along the destructive path of addiction. If you grew up among addicts, it is far too easy to grow accustomed to that kind of lifestyle. To just yield to the obstacles that only children of addicts are faced with, and allow yourself to harbor the same exact kind of devastation and regret that you witnessed your parents deal with every day. But the cycle can be broken. Though I still have my personal struggles, and am by no means entirely whole and healed, my life is a testament to that. I believe that out of my complicated and haunting childhood, came a fierce and intensely determined woman that is stronger than she ever realized she could be. That could accomplish far more than generations of women before her because of the conflict in her youth. And more importantly, a woman who has the strength and courage to forgive those who have hurt her. My mother, who has been a struggling addict for the better part of 26 years has recently been to a Christian rehabilitation program, paid off her fines, and will soon be graduating into a new clean life. A life where she can build a healthy relationship with her children, her grandchildren, and more importantly, God. I look forward to the opportunity to build a meaningful bond with her and finally get to know the real woman that raised me to the best of her ability.