I survived Mothers’ Day.
I love Justine Davis’ books. I’ve mentioned this before. I’m re-reading her Whiskey River trilogy because she mentioned it in a SM post. I couldn’t remember the story.
I’ve read a lot of books with protagonists who are abuse survivors. Some authors are clearly telling from knowing someone or reading about it. Some authors are still victims, at least in their own minds; if my perception is that they need counseling more than I do, I put the author on my No list. I don’t need to learn their bad habits. Then there are the few who clearly are survivors and working to become stronger. I remember when I first started reading Justine’s books, all I could think was she gets it. I loved that she paved a way to healthier living. It gave me hope.
If you don’t want the long sob story, now would be a good time to stop reading or skip to the end for a positive note.
The following thoughts have been weighing on me, and I need to sort them. Times have changed. I’ve changed. I always hoped a man would find me who could love all my broken, ugly parts, and choose me as his wife, despite my flaws. I’ve let go of that hope.
As a baby, my mother was told her mother was dying and she took the bus across the country to see her. She didn’t want to take her little baby on the bus and left me home with my dad. I don’t believe my dad abused me, but he wasn’t fond on babies. My mother told me that she left one baby and came back to a different baby. That’s all she ever said about it.
I spent the first four years of my life alone with my mother, my manic/depressive mother, and the family dog. My dad was working, and my older siblings were all in school. My only memory of those years is sitting on my blanket, sharing the dog’s food, and feeling guilty when I gave her only one piece of kibble while I took two. I was hungry. My mother wouldn’t let me take naps because she wanted me to sleep at night. My father called me crabby-appleton-rotten-to-the-core because I was exhausted by the time he got home from work. It was a nickname my father ceased calling me, but my mother never let me forget.
In kindergarten, some of my friends were not trustworthy. I walked to school alone rather than be forced to be around them. What did I really know about making friends anyway? A predator lived a few houses down. My younger brother had been born, and I was no longer the youngest. I was dealing with abuse from a teenage boy, ten years older. I was alone, no one to ask for help, no one to rescue me.
Sometime during the first few years of elementary school, my parents decided to divorce, though they didn’t go through with it. I took my courage in both hands and stated I wanted to go with Dad. No. The two little ones would go with Mom, and Dad would take the teenagers. The mother who used me as her scapegoat. I knew my younger brother was her favorite; she told me. I was alone.
In middle school, my best friends decided they wanted to be popular, and being friends with me wasn’t popular. My sister married. I knew I was alone. I did the best I knew how.
Asking guidance from my parents garnered “helpful advice” like, “You know what to do.” “Do what you think is right.” But all fury rained down if I chose wrong, and wrong was determined after the fact. I tried to not be a burden. I was alone.
I wanted to go away to college but couldn’t afford it. I hadn’t been allowed to work because “Your job is to go to school.” I was told to major in engineering, where the money was, despite my lack of aptitude and animosity toward numbers. I was never asked about what I might excel at let alone what I enjoyed. You can’t major in horses. And pursuing the culinary arts was mocked and sneered at. Anything else I suggested was met with “You can’t make money at that.” I was left on my own to figure out everything, except for a few pointed dictates. They weren’t even dictates like remain moral. Nope, it was get an education so you can get a job that makes money. In my confusion about what to do or who to turn to, I stood alone.
When I worked for the airline I rented my room from my parents and paid for everything, including food for myself and anything I needed, including classes at the local community college. I have friends now who are renting rooms – they had to sell their homes – except they’re in the homes of strangers.
While working for the airline, my health disintegrated. After 7-1/2 years, I’d reached the point of either be fired the next time I was sick or quit. I chose to quit. My doctor diagnosed me with chronic fatigue and no suggestions on what to do to recover. All the tests were normal. I was fighting alone.
My dad asked me to help with my mom and refused to take my rent money anymore. An unexpected blessing.
I lost count of the number of times I prayed for deliverance, for guidance, for inspiration. I was trying to follow a blessing given to me and failing spectacularly. Everyone thought I failed too, even though I was trying to follow what I thought God wanted me to do. I floundered on the path alone.
I can remember countless times throughout my life when I’ve cried out to God my understanding of all the lessons: God’s lessons have taught me to be alone.
Why God wanted me to spend my life alone, I don’t know. I have theories. I never wanted to inflict on anyone the same damage done to me. I only wanted a healthy relationship in marriage, but I’m not healthy. I’m working on it, but I’ve always felt like there were important pieces missing. I’ve reached the point, though, where I look at couples and I simply don’t get how it works. A horrific place to be in for a romance writer. I feel like a fraud.
The only thing that keeps me trying is knowing God is listening and aware. I don’t understand Him or His ways, but I know His judgement is perfect as is His mercy. Perhaps He was teaching me to cling to Him. He filled the God-size hole in my heart forty years ago, and I’ve been learning to trust Him ever since. As alone as I’ve been, He has always been near, even when I felt like He was silent. I knew He was there.
The Project: Me by Judy 