Today I write about my mother. Not my mom now, but the mother I grew up with. Because I’ve been thinking about her and need to get my head straight.
I think I’ll start with the facts. She was 15 when she became pregnant and 16 when she had me, or in her own words: “when I shat you out”. About her family I don’t know anything, other than that she had a brother who was with the army. When he was in town he’d stop by.
When she was pregnant and turned 16, she married a much older guy. Makes you wonder what kind of older guy would marry a knocked up underage girl, doesn’t it? Yep, exactly. A perv. But I’m not quite ready to have a closer look at that yet, so I’ll stay with my mother.
She hated being my mother. She adored my step-father, was addicted to him, wanted him for herself, wanted to be the center of his attention. I was in the way. She hated to have to care for me. She hated that kids make a mess of things. She was OCD about keeping the house clean. It’s kind of ridiculous, because I remember that in the front yard was more old junk than grass and it was a rundown house in a rundown part of town, but inside you could have eaten off the floor. Even when she was drunk – which was almost always the case to a certain degree, but really bad when my stepfather was away on jobs – she still kept everything clean. As a result she hated to see me touch anything. Even when my hands were clean, if I touched the countertop, she’d yank my hand away, hiss something or slap me and then wiped everything I touched down. Like I was poisonous.
As a result I was only allowed in the living room or kitchen when my stepfather wanted me there. He was the one who brought me presents and would be nice to me when he was in the mood. The price was that I was his sex toy. It’s disgusting and painful to think about, so I don’t go there, but just mention it to explain my mother. She hated that I was there and got his attention. She did anything to please him, happily let him fuck her whenever and wherever he wanted, but he was into little girls more than grown women. And to her that was because of me, because I seduced him. That’s so sick to even write. I hated every single second of it. Yet HE made me think I liked it and SHE made me think I liked it, and for the longest time I just accepted that I was a slut who liked that shit and that that was why all of it happened.
My mother was so full of hate, that she punished me any chance she got and was verbally abusive all the time. Seriously, what I remember about her the most clearly is an angry face, angry wrinkles around the eyes and between the eyebrows, eyes like slits and a narrow, open mouth, saying something hurtful. Always making me feel like I owed her. “You just be thankful I don’t kick your little slut ass from here to Texas” or “if I didn’t bear with looking at your ugly face day after shitty day, you’d be lying in some dirty gutter now”. And if she didn’t make me feel like I owed her, she made me feel like I better was afraid of her. “If that stupid teacher of yours gives me only one more call, making me come all the way to school to hear them whine about how concerned they are about you, then I’ll give them a reason to be concerned about you! So you stop attracting their attention or you’ll live to regret it big time.” That was in the car. And then once we were home, she gave me “just a small taste of it”, as she used to call it.
And then, once I was taken from the family aged 15, I never saw her again. Just like that. After I was taken from the family, right out of school, I was gone from her life. Not a letter. Not a phone call. She didn’t appear in court. Like she never existed. And even when she had always been quick to point out how I ruined her life, how her unhappiness and drinking and everything was my fault, her abandonment was what hurt the most. To this day. Even when I know I’m better off without her, and have grown a lot and have a family who loves me now, it still hurts that I really meant nothing to her. Or nothing but trouble. She never tried to get back in touch. In the beginning I still hoped, but now I don’t anymore. Yet it still hurts and I can only write about it when I detach, emotionally, so I don’t have to feel it. Like now.