I do not wish to contemplate what my mother was thinking or feeling when I was born. I could never consider in my own thoughts the memories of pain in which my mother may have endured over the last thirty-three years of my life. Yet in effort to find peace of mind, I often wonder, and have the smallest of hope, that my mother has many times fought the guilt demons in her own mind. I have wished that there were times when my mother felt such profound pain that it brought her to her knees to beg forgiveness.
Without knowing exact thoughts that pass through my mother's mind, I can only tempt myself with thinking, for my own selfish satisfaction, what she must have felt. I convince myself that she would know the pain and discomfort she has cause her children and will somehow reflect like a bright sunbeam on a mirror that bind's the eye. I may never know. So I wonder if she ever remembers or even wishes she could have done things differently. And I without contempt believe that she does.
I spent my early childhood as my mother's best friend. I was, for all intensive purposes, a happy child during those years. My parents separated when I was nine and my younger brother was always left to the responsibility of my father therefore I enjoyed the fun and games with my mother's hysterical acts. When my mother was not demanding all the attention, I was the center of attention by her friends and numerous boyfriends. I was constantly showered with gifts and we often took spontaneous trips across the Untied States just to see what was there. We moved from town to town on a whim just to find new and meaningful things that would satisfy her needs for that moment.
The fun and games never lasted long before we moved again or she would become sad and I left her to be undisturbed in her room. I remember hours and days of her sleeping and me without parental control. These were the quiet days.
I had no concern or understanding of the consequences I would later pay. When she was unhappy, she was angry at the world and the suffering I endured came at the hands of my mother. I remember the "punishments" when my mother would explode in a rage of anger in publish. I remember trying to hide the bruises and whelps on my legs. There were many times my mother gave me permission to go places with friends then she would find me and punish me in front of everyone.
During those years I believed my mother was a super model. I believed that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Everywhere we went the men would stare at her and the women would shake their heads in disgust. She was part Harper Valley PTA and part Farrah Faucet of the 70's and 80's and played the role of the seductress right down to the revealing costumes. And if no one paid her a compliment, she would simply ask for one.
I loved my mother unconditionally. I learned independence from her experiences and poor judgments. Yet I remember the abuse and neglect from my mother and blame her for most of the traumatic events in my life. I remember the times when she was funny and happy and then all of a sudden she was mean.
The rest of my family was always aware that something was terribly wrong with my mother. She fought the people who disapproved of her and often bartered my childhood with my father and other family members. When they confronted her, she laid me out as if I were the sacrificial lamb by telling ludicrous lies about me to take the heat off of her. In her mind this defended her actions and behavior. They all believed she was insane and didn't care about her children. And over time, I began to believe the same thing. I didn't realize that she had a disease and it was contagious. As I grew older and wiser, I discovered that it was and that I had it too.
Anon