*Disclaimer: I have my mother's permission to write everything in this article.
This is definitely one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. Today is her birthday. I have the privilege of calling her mommy. Yes, I'm 40 years old and I call my mother "mommy." Sometimes it's mom, but the older I get, the more it's mommy. Backwards, I know; but our relationship has grown backwards, so it fits. It's similar to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. You know, the movie where he is born as an old man and instead of aging, he just gets younger and younger, only to die as an infant? Granted, neither myself or my mother are getting younger, but we are bonding more as we get older, and the more years that pass, the more I get to know my mom; the more I love my mom. It hasn't always been that way, and I'm here to tell you why I'm proud to call my mom "mommy" today.
I was born in 1974. Her first baby girl. She really wanted a baby, but my father (who I have never met, as he chose not to be in my life after the fact) would not have a baby with her unless they were married. So, they married, and approximately 10-1/2 months later I was born. I have no hate toward my father, as most people know, but why he even bothered is something I will never understand unless I get the opportunity to sit down with him face-to-face one day and have all my questions answered. I doubt the existence of that day, but stranger things have happened. I am okay with it, either way, and I am thankful, regardless, because obviously I would not exist if things had gone differently.
My mommy loved me. Always has, always will. But there were times growing up when I didn't believe that. See, I wasn't raised by my mom for much of my life. I have very little recollection of my own life before the age of 8 years old. I have a vague memory of being 4 years old and having my then-step-sisters (there were lots of them) each grab one of my limbs, and swing me back and forth, letting go just in time to where I would land on the bed in my half-sister's dad's bedroom. I remember when I was 6 years old and we were supposed to have a birthday party for me, one of two birthday parties I can recall ever in my life growing up, and before everyone was to come over for the party, one of my step-sisters broke a bone and we had to take her to the hospital. We left a note on the door explaining to everyone where we had gone and why, and that we would be back, but by the time we got back, almost everyone couldn't come anymore. My childhood best friend, Shelley, who lived down the street, was getting her hair blown dry by her mom when I knocked on the door. She couldn't come. There was only one single girl, who I can't even remember the name of now, who ended up being able to come over. All I can say is that my mom's intentions were good and we made the most of it. I also remember us living in an apartment complex that possibly had the word "Tiffany" in it and the dumpster being on fire one night, and us going to the pool in the middle of the night. I'm not really sure how old I was when that transpired.
I can't honestly say I remember the exact age I was when I went to live with my grandmother. Seven? My mom would know better than I would. I do know I was already living with my grandmother when I was 8, because of specific events related to that age. I can also tell you that even though I'm incapable of recalling the exact moment when I did leave my mom's care, I felt completely abandoned and unloved.
I grew up loving my mom so much, while at the same time never wanting to end up anything like her. As far as I was concerned, she was a psychotic drug addict who chose a lifestyle that I didn't understand, at the time, over her children. I wanted to know why my mom didn't love me. I almost lost my mom when I was 6, because she decided to drive while drinking. She ended up hitting the cement barrier on the middle of a highway, breaking her nose and completely shattering her heel as her leg went through the floor of the car. If that is incorrect in any way, I will allow my mom to correct it.
Thankfully, it was one of many times that God would spare her life, just as He did my own later on in my adult life. It didn't stop her from living a dangerous lifestyle, though, as it just doesn't for some of us in the world of addiction. I envy those who learn quickly or from their first "serious mistake." Others, like my mom, and eventually myself, have to go all the way to the bottom and slam into the cold, hard ground in order to completely wake up.
I lived with my grandmother and my step-grandfather until I was 13 years old. The years I remember, from the age of 8 to the age of 13, consist of barely seeing my mom. Again, I'm not sure how old I was [it could have been before 8, I don't know], I remember my mom sneaking my sister and I from my grandma's house in the middle of the night and driving us to Louisiana. I was born and raised in Houston, Texas, by the way. We went to her then (and ironically all these years later, now) boyfriend's house. The only crisp memory I have from that trip, besides being woken up and wondering where we were going, is that I caught a butterfly. I loved butterflies. I was running around where Kevin lived, chasing the butterflies, and was so happy when I caught one. What I didn't realize at the exact moment that I caught it, I had killed it. I was devastated. Seriously, I was crushed over the fact that I had just killed a butterfly. I was so ashamed and sad that I went and sat behind Kevin's recliner, holding the butterfly in my hands. I don't know how long I sat there or when I finally came out, I just remember being sad about the butterfly. I don't even remember going back to my grandma's.
Through the rest of the years, I remember seeing my mom a few times a year after that. It may have been more than what I recall, but I mainly remember birthdays and Christmas. I would anxiously wait by the window, waiting, and she would come and spend some time inside, bring gifts, and I would cry every time she would leave. However, each year, even though the longing for my mom did not go away, the crying became less and less. Instead, I was angry along with the sad. She had this whole life that didn't include me and I didn't understand why. I didn't understand what drug addiction was. At that age, my opinion was that if you really wanted to stop using drugs, you could just stop.
Just stop, already! I would find out later in life, that is so NOT the case at all.
The story varied through the years as to
how my mom came to "give me and my sister up." I was told that she just decided to sign us over one day. I was also told that she was deceived and thought she was signing over a car, only to find out she had signed over her children. I was told a lot of things. The type of things you just don't talk to the actual children about when they are still young and impressionable. God knows the truth and I no longer care what the actual truth is on that exact matter, and that's ALL that matters. In my heart, because I'm a parent now and had to make a similar, very, very difficult decision, I believe that my mother did what she thought was best for me and my sister at the time; not because she didn't love us or wanted to spend her life doing what she wanted to do.
Mommy, I'm sorry for ever thinking you didn't love me.
I was the angriest when my mom ended up moving from Texas to North Carolina, and then eventually Florida, where I now reside. By moving, she truly abandoned me in my eyes. I cannot tell the story of the day she left right now. Even though I was 12, it is still one of the most vivid, freshest memories I have of my mother. The tears, the terror, the pain, and the fear. She didn't fully understand what she was leaving, but my sister and I did. Watching her drive away as my sister and I stood in the driveway crying was exactly like what it must look like to see your very last hope for survival leaving your life forever. She was leaving us to a life she really didn't know we were living; but she would find out once she was already living in North Carolina.
For reasons I will not go into in this blog, my sister and I were taken away from my grandmother (whom I love dearly, as well, let me please add), when I was 13 years old. We were both sent to my sister's dad, because I had no other relatives to be sent to other than my mother, that would take me, and it would be a process for my mom to get me at that point. I lived with my former step-dad for a year. During that time, my mom and I wrote letters back and forth, and talked to each other on the phone. It seemed like she was doing better in life, she was with my second step-dad -the man I will always call my step-dad, or "Gene"ric dad (his name is Gene)- and she wanted me to live with her in Florida once they got settled. After a long process of home inspections and all the other stuff she had to do, I moved to Florida during the beginning of my freshman year of high school, 1988, and I've been here ever since. I lived with my mom again, from the age of 14 until I was 18 years old.
Things were great the first year, with the exception of the fact that my sister had to remain in Texas for 4 more years. I later found out she felt like I abandoned her, and that will always sting my soul, as I spent most of my life taking care of her and trying to protect her as much as I could. I hope, as an adult, she knows that in her heart now. My mom and I got along great. It was a little awkward at first. We were literally trying to get to know each other. I wanted her to love me so bad and felt like I had to be perfect in order for that to happen. I was raised feeling like I needed to be perfect and it took a lot of "unlearning" to change that. If I was hungry or thirsty, I would ask permission to get something, and she'd quickly tell me I didn't have to ask for anything. I could just take it. I learned how to have more friends. I had sleepovers and slumber parties, got to go places - all things I was very rarely allowed to do before that, having been overprotected and sheltered my whole pre-teenage life. I was extremely naive and trusted way too easily, even after what I'd already been through.
I was 15 years old the first time I walked in and found my mom talking to herself. That's when things very slowly began to go downhill in her life, again, and subsequently, mine to an extent. I say to an extent because around the age of 16, I learned very quickly how to tune certain things out of my life and become somewhat numb to my surroundings. It was the only coping mechanism I had left, and at that time I swore I would never resort to using drugs or alcohol in my life. Remember, I never wanted to be my mother. I knew she was using drugs again. I knew she was smoking pot, because I witnessed it. I wasn't aware yet that she was abusing prescription drugs, and that was the reason she talked to herself, didn't make any sense a lot of the time, and her behavior was so outlandish and bizarre sometimes. I literally thought she was just going crazy. I was clueless.
I won't say those 4 years of living with her was hell, because it wasn't. It wasn't fun, and a lot of it sucked, but it wasn't purely disastrous. During the times when she was "normal" it was fine.
When I was 18, I moved out of the house. I was pregnant. My soon-to-be first husband and I got our own place. After I left, my sister moved to Florida to live with my mom, and for me, so much is a complete and total mystery and/or blur from that moment until the moment when things started to change for the better. My mom would flake on me and not babysit my son when I needed to work; or I just couldn't get a hold of her. She started using other drugs; cocaine, crack, and heroin, though I'm not sure in what order. I would visit and hear her pretend sneeze in the bathroom so she could snort a line, and find the bloody tissues in the garbage. When I'd ask her about the bruises on the insides of her arms, she'd tell me she had her blood drawn that day for yet another illness that she supposedly had. She came to my baby shower for my second child with a black eye. She didn't see my second child until my daughter was 2 months old. After that, I rarely saw my mom again for several years. I wasn't really a part of her life and she wasn't really a part of my life, and my growing family; and I didn't want her to be. I went back to being angry. I didn't even care if she loved me or not anymore, on the surface. The inside of me was screaming, but I could no longer hear it.
It wasn't until after the birth of my fourth and final child in 2000 that I began to reach out to my mom again. I had started to miss her, and of course deep down I still loved her very much. I was getting divorced, soon to be a single mother of four children, and I really needed a mom.. again. It was no use. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't fix her. I couldn't get her out of the lifestyle she was in, and I still had yet to experience any of it on my own. It wasn't until the end of 2004 through the middle of 2008 that I understood what true drug addiction was for myself, and ultimately understood my mom.
Yes, I became my mother. In every sense of the word, from how much alike we look to the severity of our addiction, to the decision we both made to put our children in a safer place; I was the epitome of my mother. My addiction was to cocaine and heavy pain killers, no crack or heroin; but, it really makes no difference. Addiction is addiction, and it can be strong no matter how much, or how little, you are addicted to.
My mom and "Gene"ric dad eventually moved back to North Carolina in an attempt to get away from everything that had practically, and ultimately did, destroy them here in Florida. I don't remember what year. I was some time in the late 1990s. The reason I remember that is because one of the times I went to visit my mom, I was almost 9 months pregnant with my third child (yes, I drove from Florida to North Carolina while almost ready to pop; I had my reasons) and when I got there, my sister and I were laughing so hard, and my daughter was sitting on my bladder, and I had to stop in the middle of the sidewalk that lead up to my mom's apartment because I had to pee. Stopping didn't help. I still pee'd on myself. The worst part was walking in and finding out my mom had company.
Awkward!
See, even in the midst of everything, there were still those moments that my mom and I connected. Most of all, we have always been able to laugh together, because we have the same wit, sense of humor, and, in my humble opinion, freaking awesome personality. Oh, and we laugh the same. Extremely loud and totally obnoxious. Like, the next city over can hear us.
After North Carolina, they moved back to Florida, but it was 2-1/2 hours from where I live now; the general area I've been in since moving to Florida in 1988. Her addictions became worse and worse, but she was in complete denial. Our addictions coincided in 2006, when I went to Bradenton for Christmas with my kids. We didn't do any drugs together, but we were almost in the same physical condition. I still feel much shame when I say that I barely remember anything about that Christmas, except for the fact that I was sick and not mentally there for my children. No one will ever understand the pain I feel when I look at pictures or sit and think about it too much, of the times with my kids that I missed during my drug addiction, the time and consequences that it has cost me after my drug addiction.. except, ironically, my own mother. She understands.
Our communications became rare again. Our relationship was very off and on. Then I found out that her and my "Gene"ric dad were splitting up for good. I want to say that was in 2010, but I'm not completely sure. All I know is it was very hard for me and my sister. We cried. But he is still part of us and we love him, and we always will, regardless of his own character defects. We all have them. My mom had moved back to Texas, where she remains and I think is the best place for her, even though I miss her more than words can say.
It took me until I was 36 years old to actually have a mommy. But I can honestly tell you that it was well worth the wait. It was worth all the pain, the tears, the experiences, the letting go, the anger, the confusion, the desperation, and the praying.
My mom checked herself into a rehab in Houston, TX, and it saved her life. She completely detoxed off all the prescription drugs she was on, and then put on only the few she needed for depression and anxiety. No more what seemed like hundreds of prescriptions for pain killers that she was finally ready to admit that she didn't need. This picture was taken in 2011. It was the first picture that I saw of my mom since she had gone to rehab.
I will never be able to describe what I felt when I saw this picture. I cried. And I cried and cried and cried, and I sat there with my mouth hanging open. Then I prayed and thanked God, and I cried some more. My mother was beautiful again. This picture will always hold an unimaginable amount of significance for me, because it marks the day I consider having found my mommy. When I talked to her on the phone, it was the first normal conversation I could remember having... ever. I don't think I realized I HADN'T had a normal conversation with my mother until we talked after she came out of rehabilitation. She didn't talk over me. She didn't repeat the same thing 300 times in one conversation. I didn't have to put the phone down for an hour, only to come back and find that she was still talking. I could talk about me, my children, my life, and she was listening and responding. I had a mommy!
I've had a mommy ever since. I am so incredibly proud of my mother that I could write it every single day and it would only gain in meaning and never, ever lose an ounce of truth. My mom is a gorgeous, wonderful, compassionate, talented, intelligent human being who has overcome obstacles that many could never even comprehend. She is a voice that needs to be heard. She is a face that needs to be seen. She is a story that needs to be told. My mom went back to school and got a degree in medical billing and coding; an ally to my profession of medical transcription. Just another similarity between us. She has held a steady job ever since she finished school and is an asset to her company. She has a life that she has always deserved to have and is someone that I can talk to about ANYTHING. She is always there for me, and I will always be there for her.
If anything could describe the kind of relationship we have now, it would be this picture. We are happy. She is mommy, I am daughter. We laugh at everything when we are together and have fun no matter what the circumstances; although I kind of look like I'm about to burst into tears or have an aneurysm in this picture, because I'm laughing so hard. It has taken time, but as I've said before, anything worth it takes time and effort. Our relationship is worth it. I forgive my mother for not being there when I needed her as I grew up. I forgive her for the choices she made. We all mistakes. Some of us make really big ones. I love her for who she is and I'm proud to call her mommy.
Dear mommy,
I know we have had it rough. I know you never intended to make me feel like I was abandoned, just as I never intended on making my own children feel that way during my own years of mistakes. I know you didn't just give me away, but you put me somewhere you thought I would be safe. You did the best with what you had at the time, and didn't really have much guidance in order to do better than that. I want you to know that that's okay. I forgive you and I am forever thankful that, no matter how old either of us were, you made the decision to put yourself somewhere in order to get the help you needed. You made a great decision and you are living proof that a tiger can change it's stripes if it's determined enough to do so. Thank you for having me, and thank you for being my mommy. I love you. Happy birthday.
Always,
Barbara
