WHEN SHE WAS BAD, SHE WAS HORRID

MY NEW FAMILY

In February of 1960, at the age of two, this brown-eyed, little girl with curly brown hair, was adopted into a new family. The family included a mom, dad, big brother age five and a twelve-year-old springer spaniel. My new home in the Midwest was a cape cod style, three-bedroom house surrounded by a white picket fence. The perfect American family, right? In a perfect world, it would seem so, but this was not the case in my world.

My parents had been on an Adoption waiting list and had gotten the call that a child was available. They’d already adopted my brother at eight months and had wanted a second child, preferably a girl.

(Years later, I learned they had three little girls to choose from; biological sisters, ages one, two and four years old. My sisters and I were not to meet again until our late 30’s)

When my parents walked into the playroom at the Children’s Home, I dropped my toy and ran up to my dad, screeching “Daddy, Daddy!” then wrapped myself possessively around his leg. My mother tried to get my attention, but only received a cold stare from my big brown eyes. She’d brought a little plastic doll and held it out to me, saying, “How would you like to be this dolly’s mommy and I’ll be your mommy?” Apparently, I agreed.

One of my favorite photos and memories, is of my dad in his big easy chair, looking at the smiling little girl in his arms, with so much love in his eyes. He was a large Scotsman, over six feet tall with thinning black hair and very dark brown eyes. Being a quiet man, he didn’t talk much and wasn’t big on displays of affection. But I knew from the start... the man adored me. I remember running up to him as he arrived home from work. He’d scoop me up in his arms and throw me in the air, as I giggled and squealed with joy. He’d sit me on top of the small refrigerator and catch up on the day with my mother, who was busily cooking dinner. My brother would join in from the living room, where he’d be watching one of his Cowboy shows, and it would seem for the moment, that we were the perfect little family.

My mother, then thirty-five, was a large, full-blooded Norwegian, with wavy, ash-blond hair and blue-grey eyes. She always wore casual dresses, often with an apron tied around her ample waist. She loved to cook and was well known for her delicious meals and ethnic specialties. She always made Christmas a magical time with unique, heirloom decorations in every room and the continuous smell of goodies baking. Julekake, krumkaker, rosettes and Scotch short bread, were just a few of the sweet treasures my mother made this time of year. As I got a little older, I was allowed to join my brother in rolling out dough, using cookie cutters and then decorating our creations with colored sugar sprinkles or tubes of colored frosting, after they’d baked and cooled. My favorite tradition was decorating the live Christmas tree we’d picked out as a family. The full, fragrant tree was strung with large, colored lights, then coated with a mixture of soap powder and warm water to create the look of snow. After the lights, soapy snow and many unique and fragile ornaments, we’d finish with a star on top and oodles of tinsel strands dangling from every branch. I can remember gazing in awe at the beautiful sight of our Christmas tree while wishing upon the twinkly star.

I don’t remember much about my brother in the first two or three years with my new family. He was sick quite often, missing about a week of school each month and was a quiet fellow. It wasn’t until later that we really played together. What I do remember is the trouble early on, when playing with his toys. Apparently, I was slow to learn that his toys were off-limits and many times I would be caught playing with them. I soon discovered my mother was short on patience, which was when the hair-pulling began. It started with light tugs, then quickly became handfuls of hair roughly grasped and pulled in her frustration. I remember being so shocked and confused by what she was doing and couldn’t understand why she was so angry. Toys were toys... to be shared and enjoyed by everyone, I thought.

My brother, who kept mostly to himself, was an unusually well-behaved child. Being accustomed to such good behavior caused my mother to see me as a little monster in comparison. I’d be caught twisting little knobs, poking at plants, touching knick-knacks and riding the back of Daddy’s big chair. I can clearly remember her coming around the corner and catching me “riding horsey.” She’d yank me off by my hair and trounce me with a shoe or whatever was handy. My mother often said there was never a day that I didn’t need a spanking. A quote she loved and repeated often; “Spank your child once a day. If you don’t know what for, they do.” Mealtime was often a nightmare. My mother was a firm believer in eating everything on your plate, whether you liked it or not. I didn’t care much for vegetables, but quickly learned to eat them anyway. Every-Last-Bite. It was strange when my mother discovered certain foods I really disliked. Those would become the foods piled on in larger portions. She would watch me struggle to swallow the distasteful stuff... while seeming to enjoy my discomfort. The worst problem arose the day split pea soup was served. Not only did it look and smell horrible to me, I had trouble swallowing it. This upset my mother, who felt I was only being stubborn and just causing a scene. I finally got the nasty stuff swallowed, only to have it come right back up and spew back into my bowl. Now enraged, my mother grabbed a spoon and shoved the soup back in my mouth and forced it down my throat. Sobbing and gagging, I couldn’t help but vomit again, which sealed my fate that day. My mother’s fury was absolutely frightening as she yanked me off the chair by my hair and struck me repeatedly. Terrified, shaking and bawling, I was finally sent to bed, hearing shrieks of what a terrible child I was.

MOOD SWINGS

There were days when my mother couldn’t stand the sight of me. My dad would be working out of town, my brother away at school and I’d be left alone to face her mood of the day. Sometimes I’d be sent out to play and told not to come back in until I was called. Other times she would threaten to take me back to the “Children’s Home”, which I received with mixed emotions. One day she got me in the car, saying she’d finally had enough and was taking me back. I sat still and quiet on my side of the seat, wondering if going back might actually be a good thing. I really didn’t know and couldn’t help feeling afraid of what was next. I don’t recall my mother saying much during the drive, but I do remember the realization that it was just a scare tactic and she wasn’t taking me anywhere but back home. I felt slightly relieved... but also angry and upset with my mother for playing such a cruel trick on me.

My mother had horrible mood swings and I believe it’s possible she suffered from a manic-depressive or bi-polar disorder. This kind of mental illness wasn’t well known or even discussed back then. Since she only vaguely discussed small bits of her childhood, and only the good times, I’m not sure how much her own experiences may have influenced her as an adult. My dad wasn’t aware of her worst behavior towards me, since it occurred during the day when he was working. Then, when his job changed, with him working out of town two weeks of every month, things became worse in my world. There were nights I’d be asleep in my bed and wake up with the light on and the sound of things being moved in the room. My mother was looking for any signs of bad behavior and all it took was finding a hidden candy wrapper or forbidden trinket, to set her off. Barely awake, I’d hear her muttering, then suddenly get jerked out of bed. After much hair pulling and strikes with the back of a wooden brush, she’d finally leave, claiming I was the cause of all her troubles. Sobbing and heartbroken, I’d crawl back into bed, pulling the covers over my aching head.

READING, WRITING & ARITHMETIC

Starting school was intriguing and I was anxious to get out of the house and around other children. I was so anxious to learn and explore new things. I believe my mother was quite relieved to send me off each day, giving her a break from parenting such an atrocious child. Looking back, I’m sure there were times she saw the disappointment in my eyes and thought I didn’t like... or even love her. I never could understand why I was treated so badly by someone who was supposed to love me. But, even at a young age, I realized my mother’s insecurities. Although the abuse could often be traumatic and frightening, I loved her anyway, sensing the deep sadness she carried inside.

I could see the loneliness in my mother during the weeks my dad worked on the road. He’d often leave Sunday nights and not return until Friday evening. The house felt so different when he was away. There were some occasions when my mother would surprise my brother and me with TV trays in the living room, for us to eat dinner in front of the television. Some nights she’d order “Chicken Delight”; a rare treat that arrived in a silver, metal box. Once the lid was removed, we would swoon with the enticing aroma of crispy chicken and fries. Eating in the living-room was unacceptable and forbidden when Dad was home. He was a meat, potatoes and vegetables guy that didn’t go for any chicken & fries, pizza or hot dog nonsense and certainly no eating while watching TV. Though we enjoyed a little naughtiness in our dad’s absence, we still missed him horribly and were always anxious for him to come home. I can remember my brother and me hanging out by the front window on Friday evenings; watching for our dad’s car to pull up the driveway. Even the family dog would poke his nose up in the window, sensing his arrival. When he’d finally walk in the door, it was a madhouse of excitement and happy greetings; with our mother in the background ...waiting her turn for a hug.

I went to elementary school from about 1964 to 1970. Girls were still required to wear dresses and in cold, winter weather, we wore slacks under our skirts to keep warm. Most of us walked to school with very few kids riding buses back then. We had an hour at noon to go home for lunch and then walk back to finish out the afternoon. On extremely cold days, (20 - 25 degrees below zero), kids would bring sandwiches and goodies in metal lunch boxes, instead of going home to eat. I remember mine had “Quick Draw McGraw” on it, a character from a favorite cartoon show. Walking back after school some days, I would think of things going on with my mother and wish I could go anywhere else but home. Reminded of the ditty, “Step on a crack and break your mother’s back.” I would stomp on every single sidewalk crack in that six-block walk. I wasn’t really surprised to get home and find my mother in perfect health, though I may have been a little disappointed. But mostly... the guilt of those thoughts would get the best of me.

From a young age, I was given chores to “earn my keep” and as I grew older, the chores would increase. It started with setting and clearing the table for each meal, delivering platters and bowls of food and drying dishes. As I grew a little older, my duties grew to include dusting furniture, washing woodwork and windows, weeding and raking the yard, trimming around bushes and trees, sweeping the driveway and on and on. Neighbors were appalled by all this and would say, “If all you wanted was a maid, why didn’t you just hire one!” My mother’s only reply would be that she was teaching me responsibility and I would become a better person for it. Interesting to me though, was the fact that my brother’s only chores were taking out the trash and mowing the lawn. Neither of which he ever did consistently.

My mother was a very strict woman and very ridged concerning what time I got back from school. I was allowed fifteen minutes from the time school let out, to make it home. More than two minutes late would result in a spanking with a wooden paddle. At my mother’s request, a paddle had been made from a left-over piece of two-by-four. Any infractions of my mother’s many rules resulted in a painful “paddling” on my bare bottom. This became a regular occurrence for so many things, including low grades or even the slightest, negative comment received during a parent-teacher conference. Thoughts of punishment always weighed heavily on my mind and I agonized daily, so afraid of doing even the slightest thing wrong. This took a real toll on me and I became a very nervous child... earning the nick name “Twitch” which my mother would often call me.

THE RUNAWAY

One day at school, after being caught talking in class, my name went up on the chalkboard. I was in absolute shock to see my name and wanted desperately to erase it. Those whose names were on the board were required to stay after class for 15 minutes. Panic struck as I realized I would be quite late getting home from school, no matter how quickly I ran. On top of this, would be the punishment for getting in trouble at school. Fearing the dreaded paddling and further consequences, I decided I was not going home. Unable to face another confrontation with my mother, I would just ride my bike off into the sunset... never to be seen again!

When my detention was over that day, I quickly ran out of the school building and headed to the bike rack. Feeling the warmth of the afternoon, I tied my jacket around my waist and started out on my big adventure. That’s how I chose to see things ... as an adventure and a great escape. Pushing away thoughts of home and ensuing punishment, I chose to head for the park by the river to ride on the bike trails. The trees were bursting with their fresh, spring leaves and I seemed to have the sunny trail all to myself. After riding a while and enjoying the scenery, I spotted an inviting stump by the river’s edge and sat down to think for a while. Watching the steady flow of the current, I wondered what it would be like to be so carefree, without the worries and concerns of an eleven-year-old. As the sun slipped lower in the sky, I realized I needed to find somewhere to spend the night. Back on my bike, I rode on again until eventually spotting a small, wooden shed. Peeking inside, I saw it was empty and no longer used by park maintenance. There were two large shelves, with the bottom one just low enough for me to climb up on. Deciding this would work, I parked my bike snug against the shed, closed the weather-beaten door and climbed up to get settled for the night. Using my jacket as a pillow, I did my best to get comfortable and hoped to fall asleep quickly. No such luck, as I wriggled uncomfortably on the hard surface and missed my comfy bed at home. Trains rolled past on the tracks nearby and I shivered at the eerie sound of the horns blowing into the distance. For many years after, I’d inwardly cringe at the sound of train whistles blowing.

Missing the comforts of home and realizing I was never going to get any sleep in that shed, I decided to head back towards my neighborhood. I wasn’t sure yet what I was going to do, but hoped I’d come up with something. Back on my street, I rode up in front of the house and parked my bike against a big tree by the curb. The only light still on was in the kitchen, which told me Dad and my brother had gone to bed. I stood for a short while, looking longingly at the house and up at my bedroom window... wishing I could somehow just teleport into my warm, cozy bed. Finally, after finding some courage, I tip-toed along the side of the house where I could see my mother washing dishes at the kitchen sink. For a brief moment, I thought of going inside. Maybe she’d be so relieved I was home that she’d forgive me without repercussions. Then, looking closer at her scowling face in the window, I quickly changed my mind and off I went.

The huge house on the corner had a dense backyard, with lots of trees, landscaped gardens and a fishpond. This, I thought, would be the best place to hide out till morning. When I got there, I went around to the back and looked through the patio door, seeing only the light of the fish aquarium glowing softly in the family room. It looked so cozy and inviting that I tried the door and it slid right open. Feeling exhausted from the day’s events, I gratefully slipped inside and lay down on the couch, pulling a cozy afghan over my tired little body. The homeowner was a family friend who lived alone and I saw no harm in taking a little nap in the familiar house.

A few hours later, I jumped awake to sounds of movement upstairs and quickly remembered where I was and why I was there. The sun was just starting to glow in the distance and I realized it was time to get moving before my presence was discovered. It was too early for my family to be awake so I decided to make a quick run back home. Once there, I slipped oh-so-quietly in the back door while barely daring to breathe. I was a bundle of nerves, but desperately needed money for food later. I went to the cupboard where my mother kept a bowl of change, took only enough to buy a burger, fries and a drink and quickly left as silently as I’d arrived.

After bike-riding through other neighborhoods to kill some time, I headed for the school yard. Never entering my mind to skip school, I headed to the playground to wait for the other kids to start showing up. Sitting back in the classroom that morning felt so odd and I had a difficult time focusing on the day’s lessons. With my thoughts stressing over my situation, my stomach grumbled loud complaints over being neglected since lunch yesterday. I was so relieved when the noon break finally arrived and hurried out to collect my bike. After searching the rack over carefully, I realized it was missing. Seeing my frustration, a classmate explained that some lady had come and taken my bike, walking it away instead of riding it.

“Was she your mom?” she asked. I replied affirmatively while doing my best to remain calm and nonchalant.

Internally, I was freaking out! My mother had shown up and taken my bike, knowing that I’d returned for another day of school. I hurried away and headed for the nearest hamburger shop, desperate to feed my unhappy belly. I was feeling panicky about my situation, but also terribly hungry. I paid for my lunch and left clutching it in a brown paper bag. Now, where to go? I had no clue except knowing I wanted to be far away from both school and home. Now without a bike, I walked off in the opposite direction for at least an hour before finding a place to sit and feed my growling tummy. While just finishing my long-awaited meal, a man came out, telling me to get off company property. Grabbing my trash, I quickly got up from the plush grass and shuffled away. Feeling sad, tired and lost, I could see no other choice but to finally head in the direction of home and face the storm. I knew things were going to be pretty bad, but at this point, I just didn’t care anymore.

SOCIAL SERVICES

Only a block from my house, I noticed a car coming very slowly up the street and proceed to park close-by. A man was driving and the woman seated next to him came out and walked up to me. I quickly concocted a story of going home sick from school and did my best to appear ill. I was scared silly that they were truancy officers out to get me for not returning to class after the noon break. But instead, they were from Family Services, searching for me after I’d been reported as a runaway. The tall, well-groomed lady, dressed in a feminine version of a man’s suit, led me over to the car and I carefully slide in. I was absolutely terrified of what was going to happen next. They explained that they were taking me home to speak to my mother, but before driving off, asked a whole lot of questions. I told them about my school detention and not wanting to face the trouble I’d be in at home. As they kept on with their gentle interrogation, I was tempted to just tell them everything. Then fear set in... knowing we’d be facing my mother in a few moments. I didn’t think they could protect me from my mother’s wrath, if she discovered I’d said anything bad about her.

I wasn’t included in the meeting between my mother and the Family Services people. In a pleasant and quite unfamiliar way, I’d been sent upstairs to lie down to rest. I’d felt like I was in some kind of twilight zone and don’t remember much about the rest of that day. I later learned that Family Services stated that I’d be removed from the home if there were any further “issues”. This infuriated my mother, who was not a fan of anyone telling her what to do or giving ultimatums. I remember her saying what a mistake it had been for her to call the authorities when I ran away. For at least the next month, I was treated very coldly and told to “think long and hard” on whether I wanted to remain living there. Everything felt so strange and unfamiliar at home for a very long time. My mother was hurt, angry and humiliated by the whole situation, which of course was my fault. Even my dad treated me strangely, as though I’d become someone else’s kid, only visiting for a while. I’m sure he was very shocked, hurt and confused, while wondering if he might actually lose me. It took quite a while for my dad to get over what happened... if he ever really did.

“WHO AM I?”

Through the years, while doing dishes together, my mother and I would talk about many things, which on occasion included my adoption. I’d always been told I was an only child whose parents had both passed away. When I was little, I’d asked why I couldn’t have a sister. My mother didn’t give a clear answer and one day I just asked her, “Why don’t you go to the baby store and buy another baby?” I learned later that my mother had several miscarriages, both before and after my adoption. This must have been a very painful question, especially after she was diagnosed with cancer of the uterus and had to have a complete hysterectomy. As I got a little older, I would talk about adopted people who eventually found their real mother. She was very adamant in her view that it was not a good idea for anyone to do. She stated that a woman who raises a child is their real mother and a biological mother would only be an uncaring stranger. I found this interesting, but wasn’t sure if I agreed or not.

(After my mother’s death, I learned that my biological parents, who had divorced, were still alive when my sisters and I were taken away by Children and Family Services and placed for adoption. I was never an orphan nor an only child.)

Every summer, after school let out, the family would pack up and completely move to our lake cabin. My dad would drive the hour back and forth from work most days and be with us on weekends. When his one-month vacation arrived, he too could fully enjoy the beauty and peace of the lake. I loved everything about being there; swimming, skiing, boating, fishing, and playing on the hill behind the cabin. I loved going for long walks in the country with my best friend, our springer spaniel we’d adopted when I was around five years old. I spent every daylight moment outside and would turn a very bronze tan. One day, while wearing a loose, hippy-style top and my hair in braids, my dad was behaving strangely towards me. He finally spouted, “Change your shirt and do something with your hair... you look like a damn savage!” I was completely confused and so hurt by his behavior.

(Native American Indians, during this time period, were looked down upon. They were only seen as the few drunks that hung around sleazy bars in town. Little did I know at the time, that my true ethnicity included Cherokee Indian. Of course, my dad was very aware of this and apparently quite uncomfortable with any visible signs of my heritage.)

Throughout my school years, teachers would occasionally bring up everyone’s different family origins. There would be discussions, both in class and out, of each person’s ancestral roots. Most kids were very aware of their Norwegian, German, Swedish and other heritages. My mother had said that both my brother and me were Scottish and Norwegian, the same as she and Dad. As I got a little older, I began to question the truth of this. Later, when asked about my ancestry I’d reply with, “I don’t know. I was adopted.” It was an uncomfortable feeling not knowing my true family roots. I often felt like such an outsider and an oddball. Just the fact that I was adopted caused people to look at me differently; sometimes with pity or an odd curiosity.

One summer day, as I sat out by the lake with my dad, the conversation took a strange turn. My Dad never talked much, and it was rare for him to discuss anything very serious with me. I must have been about fourteen and that afternoon and was completely surprised by what he had to say. First, he asked me a few general questions in regard to my happiness and outlook on life. Then he really threw me for a loop by announcing that I had several sisters, and someday I should really try to find them! My mind was spinning with this new revelation and I was at a complete loss for words. The conversation ended with him firmly saying, “Do NOT tell your mother I told you this!” I completely understood and never said a word.

(Many years later, at the age of thirty-eight, I not only learned that I did indeed have sisters, but finally met both my younger and older sisters. Our biological parents had three daughters in their marriage. We learned that our father’s ethnicity was Irish and Cherokee. Our biological mother was Irish and German, with possibly some native American ancestry as well. Back in the early 1960’s, people were not proud to admit to any Indian heritage, which was the time frame when my family information was recorded.)

HIGH SCHOOL

The start of high school was exhilarating and a little frightening at the same time. I’d saved up a thousand dollars from all the babysitting I’d done over the summer and had a blast buying a new school wardrobe. It was great to reunite with friends from junior high after being at the lake all summer. Now there were football games, bonfire parties and dances to look forward to. What made this year (1973), really special was signing up on the very first girls’ high school basketball team. I’d always been a bit of a Tomboy and was excited that girls could finally play and compete. Swim class in an indoor pool, with way-too-much chlorine, took some getting used to, but I could out-swim just about anyone. I considered joining the swim team, but figured I already had a pretty full plate with basketball, the school newspaper and tons of homework. Gathering with friends in the huge cafeteria was the highlight of the day. It was a large school with about three hundred kids in just our class of 1976. Things at home had gotten somewhat better, with mostly just the usual nagging and complaints; “Sit up straight and quit slouching”, “Stop that mumbling”, and “Use your head for something other than a hat rack!”. I had more freedom and less rules, but a strict curfew. Getting home late resulted in getting ‘grounded’ and spending the whole next weekend at home. Finally ...normal stuff my friends were dealing with too. No one seemed to get along with their parents anymore, making me feel like I actually fit in.

The Fall of my sophomore year was full of new experiences and it was interesting to see how much everyone had changed over the summer. Especially the boys. The Homecoming football game and dance afterwards opened up a whole new world. Alcohol was a part of it all and I joined right in. I found it interesting how my shyness disappeared after a beer or two and ‘making-out’ with boys was actually kind of nice. That was until it turned into an odd form of arm-wrestling, to keep hands away from the “goodies”! I did my best to behave, under the circumstances. I knew my mother didn’t trust me around boys and was given many serious warnings about teen pregnancy. I was told that if it happened to me, I’d be packing my bags. I understood the warnings but wasn’t worried. I had no intention of putting myself even close to that kind of situation. This girl remained a virgin all through high school.

In my senior year, my classes were over by noon each day, allowing me to start my first serious job. For four hours after school; Monday through Friday, I earned a decent wage while learning office skills. This correlated with an “elective” high school class I’d taken, at the urging of my dad. He felt so strongly that learning secretarial skills would create a secure future for me. During this time is when my life got a bit crazy, with too much partying and occasionally hanging out with the wrong crowd. I was butting heads with my mother on a regular basis and “drowning my sorrows” every weekend. By the end of each week, I couldn’t wait to cut loose with my friends and start drinking. I wanted to just feel numb and forget my troubles. This included the painful loss of my very best buddy... our family dog. He’d grown old and sickly, so to relieve his suffering, it was decided to have him “put to sleep”. He’d been like a little brother and a best friend to me and I was completely devastated.

My parent’s marriage was getting rockier by the day and I couldn’t stand hearing their arguments. I wanted so much to leave home and even considered dropping out of school, as my brother had done. As a teenager, he’d gotten deeply into drugs and ‘dropped out’ at sixteen. From there he proceeded to get into several scrapes with the law, causing more tension between my parents. My brother had always been the ‘good’ child in my mother’s eyes and could do no wrong. Differing views of my brother and me caused major problems between my parents. I was accused of being “Daddy’s little girl” while my dad insisted that my brother had always been a “Momma’s boy”. Since my brother was rarely home anymore, I was stuck dealing with a very uncomfortable situation. It had gotten to the point that my dad couldn’t pay any attention to me or my mother would retaliate by treating me horribly. There seemed to be no solution except leaving home.

“Wait till I’m eighteen... then I’m sooo out of here!” My mother saw my familiar proclamation as more of a promise than a threat and it had little impact. Not only did I want to move out of the house; I wanted to get away and see the world. Going to college wasn’t an affordable option and I passionately hoped to go on a real adventure after I graduated. I wanted nothing more to do with my screwed-up family and couldn’t wait to get as far away as possible. As spring approached and the end of school grew closer, I concentrated on the classifieds in our local newspaper. I’d found many ads requesting “nannies” in cities all over the country and grew more excited with each one I read. I had tons of experience caring for children and was sure I could find the right position. The prospect of moving away from home to a waiting job with room & board, was right up my alley. And to top it off, people were willing to pay the air fare to get there. A position on the East coast looked especially interesting and I eagerly wrote a letter to apply and sent it off. Within a short time, I received the answer that I’d been accepted for the position. I was ecstatic and contacted them immediately, eventually setting up the departure date for my flight to Greenwhich, Connecticut. I couldn’t have been more excited as I marked my calendar and announced my plans.

Graduation day finally arrived, marking with finality, the end of my school days. I could hardly believe I was only three days away from my first ride on an airplane. Finishing high school, leaving home and traveling across the country made this the best June of my entire life. My mother didn’t seem too impressed, but I was happily surprised when she and my dad presented me with the perfect graduation gift; a full set of luggage. With tears in his eyes, my dad hugged me tightly while speaking words of praise, mixed with sadness. Disliking this fuss over me, my mother found it necessary to completely spoil the moment. Yeah... nothing new there.

FORGIVENESS & HEALING

Years later, on the day my mother died, I went to the hospital where she lay in a coma. Several people were standing around, and as I entered the room, my mother's body stiffened and jerked. Everyone gasped and looked from her to me with shock before quickly leaving the room. When the others had gone, I told my mother she was loved and forgiven, while gently stroking her head and telling her it was okay to let go and "go home." My mother, who had been dying of brain cancer, quietly "crossed over" two hours later. That night I was completely unprepared for the devastation I felt after her passing.

For many years, I'd held onto bitter memories of the pain I'd endured at the hands of my mother. I allowed negative feelings to overshadow many good memories that were also a part of my childhood. My mother had her bad days for sure, but also many good days filled with fun and even laughter. She had a wonderful sense of humor and loved talking with people. Once I'd grown up, I would visit her to play cards, drink iced tea and have deep conversations about so many things. She was a very intelligent woman who looked at life and the world with a keen set of eyes. I learned so much from her, for which I will always be grateful. One of many things we realize as adults, is our parents are real people too, with problems, imperfections and broken dreams, just like everyone else.

The tragedy of holding onto painful memories from the past is how negatively it effects our lives. When we let things stew and fester, the outcome can be bouts of depression and even physical illness. Too often I'd subconsciously hit the replay button over and over, reliving the trauma or pain as if it happened only yesterday. In situations like mine, if this involves someone still living, there's the possibility of talking things out and perhaps receiving a much-needed apology. However, as in my case, if the person has passed on we're on our own to resolve the issue in a way that is best for our mental and emotional health. It's so important to realize that everyone makes mistakes, behaves badly and does things they regret. There’s a good and a bad side to absolutely everyone and sometimes we seem to get the brunt of someone's bad side, which affects us very deeply. If we make the effort to look at them in a different light and try to understand reasons they acted as they did, it makes it easier to find forgiveness and let go of the pain. Even if we find no understandable reason for what occurred, learning to forgive is really for our own benefit and allows us to move on with our lives, holding onto only the good memories.