Mothering and Life in General
I remember it was snowing that night. Mom and Dad were yelling, Mom threw every dish we owned across the kitchen, glass smashed, voices shrieked. That was the last night we had a home.
I remember Mom and Dad in our room, Mom packing our stuff and Dad begging for her to stay. Still to this day I don’t know what the fight was over, I can only assume it was the magazines or maybe it was the lack of conversation they had.
I remember the feeling of emptiness, my heart spiking with the tension, I remember consoling my sister, telling her everything was going to be ok. I remember taking everything we could fit into a suitcase, and I remember the cab driver’s face; but I don’t remember the ride to my Aunt’s house.
I walked into my Aunt’s home, my sister asleep in my mother’s arms. I looked up at my Aunt, her with arms open; I ran into them. This is when I broke for the last and final time. I felt free to cry while my mother took my sister into our new room to put down to sleep. I cried and I knew this was final; there was no home for us anymore. I cried until I knew there was no healing it.
I was glad, I always have, that they finally split up. I just had mixed feelings of what a family was. Too me, even now; a family is my home. I felt that I will no longer have the ability to go to one room and see Mom, look over my shoulder and find my Dad all the while my sister in tow. I was comfortable, the only thing that I knew.
My parents are two people that should have never met. I am not even sure to this day if they actually loved each other, or if it was a game of house they liked to play. Separately, they could be great people, but the two together sucked the life from each other. They will never be the people they where before. I am not sure even if they remember who they were.
Although, my parents fought most times than not, there was a comfort knowing everyone was in the same place, and I knew what everyone was doing. When apart, there was no knowing if the others where ok. I was the keeper, the secret taker; the secret, keeper of the puzzles. That was me, it still is.
It was hard to say good-bye to my mother, then another good-bye to my father at the weekend’s end. It was hard to want to be in two places at once. I struggled with feeling the need to be where I lived, but still spend time with my father. Going back to our house meant to feel the same thing I did that night we left. I was mixed with the feelings that finally the fighting was only on weekends, but I missed my home, I missed my family.
Dad validated this when he told me I still look at him the way I looked at him that night we left. I wondered what the look was. Was it the reminder of the failure of the family? Was it the look of ‘do something’ or ‘help’? What was this look? Why does he still see it and why do I still give it?
Although, I am glad they were not together, I was not glad to be the pond. I become the parent of my sister in my mother’s depression; my mother’s councillor during the divorce and my sister’s defence throughout it all. Dad was pushed into the background, and did not know anything going on in the house. He did want us, but in a way, I felt that letting him know what was going on was confirming the hell he knew that was to come.
I, at nine tried to protect everyone, what an idiot! Like a nine-year-old can fight in a war. Yet, I still find myself there, standing at the front lines taking the shot from the people who are supposed to love each other. I take every shot with pride, until I can no longer heal fast enough to take on more; until I have no choice but to walk away.
Walk away is what I did at seventeen. I left my ‘home’, my mother, and my sister. I had too, things where getting rough. My mother was going through a great depression, I found myself hoping that one night she would take those pills. I was tired, worn; I hurt. I could not believe that I gave her that glass of water that night, told her not to chock, and went to bed. What had I become?
Things did not get better after leaving; I become the person blocked off, knowing nothing of what was happening with my sister. My mother replaced me with an organization Big Sisters. She said they did not need me anymore. With my meaning gone, with nothing to do, I drank.
Today I look back, although it was a horrible experience, it made me who I am. I am cold, and hard. I am distant and edgy, but I am still me you just have to dig deep down to where I can be found. Now will my daughter on my lap, I wonder is she going to have the life that I had? Will she one day give me that look I gave me father? Will our relationship end, or can we open our eyes and see each other?
It’s hard to know that both of us are not happy, yet we are worse apart. We had been apart for a few weeks two Christmas’ ago. I do know that we love each other; we just lost each other along the way. We both created mountains of lies and deceit, how can we climb them with all of our resentment weighing us down?
I am scared that we are creating the same life I had, for K2. I am afraid that if we don’t see the end to this madness that she will be the only person hurt. We can move on with our lives, suck up the mistakes we made, K2 has to live with them. The only difference is the situation is K2 has no sibling to hold her on that night, and tell her everything will be ok.
In my heart I wait for the man I feel in love with, I call to him every night, I wait. I dread that the night the end will come before he does. I hope and pray that he will come first, and I can finally show our daughter the man I started creating this life with, what I wanted and hoped for. I hope that it’s not too late.