Her Story

At the Hanging Lake while visiting from Bklyn

As much as I find my mother to be the crux of most of my trauma, it would only be right to do her justice and tell her story. Abuse is a sickness that is passed generation to generation in most cases. My mother, like many addicts, came up in tragic circumstances which formed her beliefs and contributed to her self destructive behavior. In 1952, my grandmother was afflicted with polio the year before the vaccine was approved. Her system was weak because she was pregnant with my mom and the disease quickly spread down her spine. By the time she gave birth, she was a paraplegic, unable to even breathe on her own. This poor woman was never able to hold her own child so my mom never got that skin on skin contact that is imperative to human development. She was born in a huge, metal tube called an iron lung and never got to be physically close to her mother once she was out of her belly. Grandparents split her and her older sister up to help, but they were past their prime and found the young children difficult to care for. She’s shared memories of being held down for baths and being terrified of having her hair washed because they were so rough with her. They were doing their best but they weren’t able to provide the security and attention she needed as a youth. She was basically abandoned, neglected and left to her own devices. Sounds familiar...

If ever I lament for myself, I sorrow, too, for this lost child who gave birth to me. As if her whole entry into the world wasn’t enough, the drama escalated with the passing of her mother at, wait a minute: 14. Whoa, I’m getting chills linking her to myself at the same age; just trying to survive and get through each day. She was developing into a curvaceous young woman in the era of Twiggy and was constantly teased and bullied by her white classmates. Her sense of self worth had never been nurtured by the wisdom of her mother since she was so ill, so she believed the attacks from the world. Upon being exposed to more diversity at high school, she finally gains acceptance from the Black kids, meets my dad, ends up dropping out and having me at 20. My dad was never really there for her and she was ostracized from her family for her poor behavior, cut off from their money and any chance of inheritance. So she did what she had to do, as she puts it. Because of her mom being the daily focus of their family, she never got to bear witness to a “normal” life. She didn’t get to be nurtured and guided by her mother or father, so she missed out on those crucial building blocks of intimate relationships. She also didn't get to see the adults around her excelling in life because they were just taking it day by day, anticipating her mother passing at any time. Reduced to just surviving.

By the time my grandmother died, the damage had been done. My mother never knew the comfort of her mother’s arms and was well on her way to sabotaging her life. I know it was hard for her; I remember people were terrible to her and would spit at us and say, “nigger lover” in disgust. I didn’t understand when I was young and thankfully it stopped happening by the time I got old enough to figure it out. This woman has been through so much heavy shit and I completely get why she was unable to mother me. She checked out, which was the only way she knew to survive. I got over being mad at her a long time ago when I figured out it was just wasted energy. It’s not her fault and it was never her intention to be so broken that she failed at parenting. I had to stop taking it personal. Developing that understanding has helped me to forgive her for so many terrible times she can’t remember due to her drinking and drugging. It also helps me now when I still need her but have to understand that she is just not capable of being there for me. She is still so deep in the throes of her trauma and her daily dance to dodge it and I have found peace with that. Her process is her own and it has been empowering to finally realize that I can still heal, regardless of where she’s at with her healing.

Yes, I’m dismayed she won’t commit to the work that is needed to overcome her trauma, but again, that is her choice. It’s true that forgiveness is an elixir to the soul. I forgive her and I love her and want the best for her even though I don’t want to see her at this point in time. Her choice to remain a slave to addiction is something I accept but will not stick around to witness. This past year since I began therapy, I am more aware of how I’m triggered by her and am better able to understand those reactions. I’m learning to respond instead of react it brings me peace immediately. As much as I get why I was neglected, I still have to process it and give myself the space to heal. She’s a funny, witty woman with a heart of gold and I thank her for passing on those attributes to me. We actually became friends and overcame the past together many years ago while I was living in Brooklyn. I came home to visit and we had a transcending experience, both having grown enough to come to a beautiful understanding. I know with love and patience we can do so again if she chooses. Until then or if that day never comes, I continue my journey to the other side of myself with a bit more clarity and peace having found unconditional love for my little white mama.