In five days time, the woman whose uterus I inhabited for six months will turn fifty-seven, though if you were to ask her personally, she would probably say fifty-five. I'd wish her a happy birthday, but since I haven't seen or heard from her in fourteen years, that would be rather difficult to do.
My therapist says it's not nearly as bizarre as I think it is to only remember chunks of the first ten years of my life. She told me, during one of our earlier appointments, that it's not unusual for a child to block out periods of their life that they aren't emotionally able to handle. Memory also isn't the most reliable tool ever, especially with Borderline Personality Disorder, but I'm going to give it a whirl and see what happens.
I remember my Dad coming to pick me up from school, I was in the third grade and attending a new school because my parents had needed to switch school districts for reasons that aren't exactly clear to me. I vaguely recall a discussion where my father confessed that he'd been lying on my school paperwork about what district we'd lived in to get me into a better school, so maybe that's what happened. But I remember being really confused because my father only picked me up from school on the weekends, and it was the middle of the week.
When I got into the truck, his newer 97 Chevy S10, he was really quiet. As we were pulling away from the school, he asked me if I knew what an alcoholic was. I said "Yeah, someone who drinks a lot." I remember that sentence spilling out of my mouth, and I remember very clearly the confusion that washed over me when my dad told me that my mother was an alcoholic, that she had been for a while, and that was why we'd had to leave our apartment the year before and move in with my aunt and uncle. He went on to explain that she'd started drinking so heavily that she'd lost her job at the shipping company she worked for (I think it was Fed Ex, I visited her office a few times and all I remember was a snow globe with the Earth in it and a ocean-themed screen saver) and had been unable to pay our rent. I remember thinking that it made sense, that I'd known that my mother had a problem but hadn't really been able to do much about it. Dad then dropped the second bombshell; that I was probably going to be staying with him more often because he was trying to get full custody of me.
The custody battle in and of itself is one huge blur. I know my mother and I lived with my aunt for about another year or so, that I spent Monday nights at my grandma's following the weekends with my dad, and I remember visiting my dad's lawyer and her asking me questions about my mom. Most of all, though, I remember feeling afraid. My family dynamic had been torn apart from the inside. I liked being around my mom, even though all she really did was lay around on her bed with a bottle off to the side of her while I did homework and watched TV. I didn't see the problem with being locked in a room with her while she drank the day away, though my family certainly did and they weren't exactly shy about letting her know it (Bless my Uncle Gary, he was maybe the most upfront about it out of everyone).
When my dad got custody of me, we lived in a few different places in the Bay Area, and Dad always talked about moving up to Oregon, but it always seemed like a far-away dream to me... until he let me know that we were actually moving to another state and the dream was going to become a reality. I was fairly excited, to be honest, mainly because I wanted that house that he'd always described, that cabin in the woods by a creek, with dogs and cats to love and take care of. And we got that cabin, we had that creek and those animals... but we had to leave my mom behind, first.
I remember the last time that I saw her, the last time I spoke to her, and it angers me that I can't remember it as clearly as I'd like. My mom was crying, I didn't want to cry but because she was crying I couldn't help it. We were at the park, her face was red and her eyes were puffy. I think she may have been drunk but I'm honestly not sure.
I remember her hugging me, telling me over and over again "I love you, I love you." while her tears dripped down onto my face. I promised her I'd call her as soon as we got the phone set up...
but when we got to Oregon, I was so mesmerized by everything, the greenery, the blue sky, the lack of concrete and big apartment complexes I had grown so accustomed to... that for the first week or so I didn't really want to call my mom. I didn't want her to know that I was having a great time, that I loved living in Oregon and that I was happy being somewhere without her. I felt guilty for being happy, and so whenever my dad asked me if I wanted to call my mom, I said "Maybe later."
Later came, but unfortunately it came too late. When I did call the house my mom was staying at- a friend of hers had allowed her to come stay and sober up under her roof, and she'd accepted shortly before we'd moved- the woman on the other end of the line told me that she wasn't there, and asked to speak to my dad. I vaguely recall the fleeting thought of "did my mother die and is she just not telling me?" that I quickly banished to the back of my mind.
When Dad got off of the phone with the lady- whose name I can't remember for the life of me, though I do remember her face- he sat me down and told me that, shortly after we'd left for Oregon, my mother had packed her bags and left, giving no explanation as to where she was going. For the longest time I thought that maybe she'd come up to Oregon to find me, but after a few years of waiting for her to show up, I stopped hoping for that. I wrote her letters, made her mother's day cards, picked yellow roses whenever I saw them and pinned them on my wall because those were her favorite flowers....
But she left, and she never bothered to find me. I used to be so angry at her, at my dad, at myself, for everything that had transpired. Now though, instead of anger, I feel this deep, resounding sadness when I think about my biological mother. Really, I only wish her the best out of life. I hope that wherever she is, she's happy. Maybe she's overcome her alcoholism and is leading a sober life. Maybe she takes out my picture from time to time, looks at it, and thinks of me. I don't blame her for running away anymore, because I understand what it's like to feel trapped inside of your own mind, to feel like your only option to avoid hurting the people you love is to leave them. I can't imagine how much pain she felt, why she felt like alcohol was the only way to remedy it, and I still don't quite know why she did the things that she did, but that doesn't really matter too much anymore.
What matters is that, by leaving, she opened the door for me to become closer to my father. She allowed me a childhood free from her burdens, her constant need to have me around. She even opened the door for my father to meet my stepmom and for me to have a stable female role model in my life. Unfortunately, my biological mother's behaviors during my developing years continue to affect my adult life whether I want them to or not, but overall I'm thankful for both the time I spent with her and the years spent without her.
I hope that if you're reading this, Mom, you can forgive yourself for being unable to cope in the same way that I have forgiven you. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I hope that you have found peace wherever you happen to be.
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