I had an interesting talk with mom yesterday. She had some feelings about the piece I wrote on my bout with depression and how I described my childhood.
“Raped at age thirteen, drugs by fourteen, a skin deformity by fifteen, promiscuity to feel beautiful, left home at seventeen and on and on. Absentee father, abusive step-father, a mother who drank.”
A mother who drank. I knew it was going to cause a reaction. But I did not leave it out, because in order to know how I arrived at certain places, you need you know where I came from.
My truth comes from a long line of people who prefer to keep things hidden. And that’s okay – for them. I, on the other hand, prefer to leave no stone unturned. It helps pave the path for my healing if I can wipe away the old foundation and build a new road for myself.
I wouldn’t be the resilient, sharp cookie I am today had it not been for my mother. She did the best with what she knew and, as a wife abandoned by her husband (my father) and recipient of years of abuse (my step-father), she dealt with things the only way she knew how. My mother grew up with a mom who drank. It makes perfect sense that she did too. I am an addict. I caught on real quickly (much to the horror of my mother) and took the self-medication-train to destruction, complete with stripper pole and g-string.
It is what it is.
There are no grudges or pointed fingers. I accept full responsibility with my actions and am writing a book to tell all about it. Although she may not understand the reasons why, she supports me beyond measure.
I still smell her perfume when I curl up in bed at night and can’t sleep. I still hear her whisper “talk to God, sweetheart” and it makes me smile until I dream.
I know someone up there must be listening. My mother and I are survivors. Through everything we’ve been through together, we are stronger than ever and we share a special bond – the type of bond created by a mother and daughter who have not only seen the light, but held each other in the dark.