the big one

I've held onto this one. This is perhaps the one I may never let go of. It changes you.

She made a decision. One that brought my brother into this world. She was not faithful to my father and my brother is the proof of that. I love my brother. It's not his fault. She completely broke my family. She chose his father.

She would sneak him into the house we lived in on base while my father was away. He would hide in the car  as we passed the entrance gate. He would stay at our house and their door would be closed and I was left alone. I was only 5. I knew something was up. I grew up way to fast and this was where it all started.

She became pregnant and we moved out with him. My parents began the awful process of divorce. He did something and ended up in jail. She gave birth to my brother while he was in jail. My father was there for the birth. My father held him before his own father ever did. He helped my mom recover from the birth then they promptly seperated. He came home from jail and it began.

The abusive behavior, rages, fights and screams. I still hear it and remember how scared I was. He hurt her. Badly. Often. Punching her, slapping and pushing, choking her. I heard the excuses she gave people about the black eyes and bruised ribs and bloody noses. He threw me a few times as I tried to escape and call for help or to stand in front of her and protect. As a 6 year old.

He wanted to move. All the way across the country from California to Rhode Island. She didn't know what to do. I begged her not to do this. I begged her to choose me. She didn't.

We moved to Rhode Island. My brother was about a year old. He went ahead of us and she flew with 2 small children from California to Rhode Island. My brother broke his arm in the layover at Chicago. We landed in Rhode Island and it started up the very next day. We stayed at his parents home for a while and the abuse continued and everybody acted like they didn't know. Like they couldn't hear her screams and calls for help.

He ran her over with an SUV. Nobody did anything. He punched her so much her teeth came out. Nobody did anything.

She married him. It was June and hot and humid and I begged her not to do this. Choose me. She didn't.

The abuse continued and one day we made an escape. We ran. We found a shelter to protect us for a bit. All I had was what I could carry in my backpack. Some clothes, a toothbrush. This is the year I changed schools 10 times. He found us and we went back to him. Then escaped again. One time he found us driving along a road and he tried to make us crash. It was the night time and he was driving a white mazda truck. I'll never forget those tail lights. He rammed our car and kept on us for a long time. That was before cell phones. There was no calling for help.

After staying at many different shelters and safe houses somehow we got to go home. We flew to Arizona. Stayed with family and drove back to California where we stayed in a shelter for a while. I never felt safe. Never felt like I had a home, a place to call mine. I was always worried, on edge, knots in my stomach, afraid he would find us. It took a very long time, over a decade to become comfortable with getting the mail by myself, going to a grocery store or walking in a parking lot.

I wish she had chosen me, for once. This experience made me. It was so impactful on my life, my personality that it crippled me and made me untrusting and scared.

hurry! hide your success

Since I moved out and got my degree and got married and began earning a decent living....I've had to hide my success. For example, if John and I treat ourselves to something like a new DVD player, when she comes over, we hide it. Not because we have to but because if we don't, this is what we get, "Must be nice."

I don't like to be made to feel ashamed about the successes that I've earned in my life. So, I hide them.

John and I have done this since we moved out together to avoid making her feel bad for not being able to have the same things. I've always been a little bitter about the subject because she chooses to use her money in certain ways and we choose others. Our choices have allowed us to enjoy life a bit more, spoil ourselves from time to time. I shouldn't be made to feel bad about that. I've also been confused by her reaction. Aren't parents supposed to want their kids to be successful? I know I do.

music and pretty things

Getting a degree in something that doesn't inspire me or make me love Mondays was a bad decision. I talked about that in i want to care. It also stripped away my passion. Ripped out my creativity and left behind a cold, empty person that was only concerned about earning and producing. This is not a healthy thing for me. After college I hardly knew what I liked anymore. Who I was or what my style was. I had no love for the things I use to enjoy like, drawing, painting, music etc. It's taken me 5 years to rediscover only parts of myself that were lost. It's a slow process.

Recently I realized how much I missed music. Sure I 'll play it in the car but I don't really hear it, I'm too busy thinking about my to-do list. I don't feel it like I use to. The way that it could transport you. I created a station on pandora to listen to at work. All the old stuff I grew up with. Then, it hit me. I miss feeling. I miss the enjoyment of music. So, I'm making a change and including it in my life again. My toddler loves to dance so this is perfect. Playing something while we make dinner or while we clean or while I take a shower. I've missed you music. Welcome back.

Pretty things. I've overlooked pretty things, art, photos, pillows and plates. Our home has been stark naked because I've made sure we only buy things that have function. We don't need stuff on our walls to live, right? Wrong. Looking at something aesthetically pleasing reduces stress and puts a smile on my face. And that is a function. So, I'm going to allow myself to enjoy the beauty of a pretty plate or feel the excitement in an image on my wall.

I'm learning. It doesn't have to be all business. I can enjoy this life.

Down

I admire happy people. And I hate them, too. Maybe I'm just jealous.

Life has always been a hard task to handle. Each day is hard to put one foot in front of the other. I've wondered if it would always feel like that. Like I'm moving through quicksand and I'm too tired to go on. Is this all I can expect out of life?

The only thing in this world that makes me happy is my son. His smile, his laugh, his cute little face. I don't care about anything else. Without him, I wouldn't exist. It's just too hard and I'm not strong enough.

My depression or the hormonal changes of pregnancy are running rampant in my body. I'm unhappy with my life. I never thought it would be this way. I hate my job, my mother doesn't care about us, my husband doesn't help me with anything, I'm exhausted and lonely. I'm down. Tears keep welling up behind my eyes, threatening to overflow. This is too much.

i want to care

I went college thinking I wanted to study veterinary science. Then I changed to business then back again. Finally, after feeling lost for a semester, I took a personality test in the student center. The results pointed to something creative or something in business.

I scoured the list of suggested careers and related majors and still felt overwhelmed. Math teacher, banker, accountant, actuary, writer, photographer and the list went on for pages and pages. In the end I went to the top of the alphabetical list and said I might as well give this one a shot. So I took an intro accounting class and understood the content. The instructor said if you get it you should think about it as a career path, if you don't, just drop it. I got it. I stayed in, not because I loved it or had a feeling of satisfaction from being able to write up journal entries for the general ledger. I stayed in because I understood it. It was something I had the ability to do but not the passion to do.

I also based my decision on the fact that I would always have a job and a paycheck. After living paycheck to paycheck with my mother, I knew I couldn't continue that into my adult life. Too stressful. So I racked up 4 years worth of student loans to get my degree in accounting.

Not the best decision. Yes, I've always had a job. Yes, I can feed my family. BUT I've not once been happy in my career choices. I just don't care about the work I do. I do the work. I do it correctly and accurately only because I like the paycheck. I do not get excited about my work. I just don't care. I'm not making a difference in any one's life, changing the world, making it a better place, doing anything meaningful and I'm definitely not making me happy. I get irritated with people in my office who are married to their work. Who act like it's the only thing in the world that matters. I want to rip their faces to shreds.

I punch the clock and urge the day to go faster because sitting behind a desk is torture. Staring at spreadsheets is maddening. Especially when you do unrewarding work. I have like 30 more years of this. Really? I can't. I just can't.

I want to care. I want to love what I do. I want to wake up Monday and be excited to go to work. I want to bring joy and beauty and excitement to people's lives. I don't have dreams of being rich. I don't need a big house and fancy car. I just want to enjoy life and be creative.

I have a strong feeling this has contributed to my bouts of depression. I get very down about it. Down that I spend 8 hours away from my child doing things I hate. If I was doing something that made me happy then I could justify spending a little time away from my baby.

So, does this exist? Is there ever a balance between paying bills and having a great career or do I have to choose?

I don't know how to fix this. I have to make a change or I'll most definitely be unhappy.

I want to care.

College Orientation

I started college right after highschool. So, about a month after graduating from highschool I had freshman orientation at the university. Of course, I had already moved out and had been doing things on my own and making my own way for a couple of months already. Still, I found myself lonely and feeling jealous when I showed up at orientation to find students and their parents in attendance. It's just not something she did. She had work and other obligations I understand. Yet, it would have been nice to have that support there. It was scary being a new kid in a HUGE university.

After I let that feeling fall away, I try and be more appreciative that I was forced to do things on my own. Even when others had their families with them. I wasn't cottled or sheltered. I think I can attribute this to my survival. I've never asked for money or other help in any way. I've always handled the tough things on my own. Or had the support of John. I should be more appreciative of the things I've experienced on my own.

I went to college for the standard 4 years and not once did she come to see my life. To see the things I encountered and how far I'd made it.

It's Everyone Else

My Dad heard from my aunt this weekend that she spoke with my mother and that they concluded I am mad at my father and taking it out on my mother and my aunt (I'm not speaking to either of them). Does that make sense? It doesn't make sense even if I squint.

My aunt is a whole other story. I'm not speaking to her because she mistreats me and I don't need it in my life. It brings me down. It's insulting and rude.

They both have the same attitude. It must be someone elses fault. It can't possibly be something they've done or said. They are perfect.

I've seen that behavior for as long as I can remember. She can't take responsibility for her actions and words. She never apologizes. She can't hold a job because someone is always out to get her. Someone is always talking badly about her and trying to push her out and no one likes her but it's their problem.

All my life I've been the one to apologize for things I didn't do or say. Just to mend things. Just to move on. I've always led her to believe she's done no wrong. I can't let that continue. So this stalemate continues as we head into the 4th month of not talking.

I can only hope that one day she can look at herself for a change. Evaluate herself and admit that something needs changing. I admit daily that I am wrong. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. I've made sure that in my marriage I admit when I'm wrong and in parenting. I admit it, apologize and try something else. Move on. Fault doesn't have to be a horrible thing. I think it takes a bigger person to admit shortfalls and mistakes.

The Move Out

I moved out of her house soon after I turned 18, I was still in high school.

Our battles were getting frequent, daily even. Between 17 and 18 I was kicked out on a regular basis. I could never figure out why I made her so upset. I had been working since I was 15, helping out around the house and with my brother, got good grades. The only conclusion I could draw was that I had a stable boyfriend (now my husband) and she was not the center of my world any more.

My boyfriend's parents were kind enough to let me stay with them during the times I was kicked out. Even when she called them, harassing them and calling them names. After months of this happening, John surprised me with a key to our own place. I never went back home.

I had to sneak back into her house to retrieve some of my things. I was always jealous of my friends. I didn't have one of those typical move out experiences. The ones where mom helps you pick a place and then helps you make it home. Stocking you up with food and bathroom supplies. Bringing you casseroles to make sure you were eating healthy. Nope, that wasn't in the cards for me. She never even came to my first apartment, or my second.

I always tell my husband that he saved me. He freed me.

I had never felt so good. So content. Even though I was now solely responsible for my living expenses, she wasn't on my back telling me how stupid I was. She wasn't there to ridicule me.

She told me once that she had hoped I would fail. That I would come crawling back.

I never went back. I never asked for help of any kind. I made it. We made it.

Teenage Angst

I think a lot of teenagers experience boughts of depression. It just comes with the territory. I admit I was very depressed from 15 through 17, on and off. Having her as a mother didn't help.

We fought. Often. Maybe even daily. There were weekend blowouts, screaming matches and her total destruction of the house. There were times I wished I was dead because that would have felt better than living with her. I would tell her this. I would scream this. I needed her to see she was hurting me.

She would often call the police on me. A couple of times she tried to have me committed to a mental institution. At around 15 she took me to a mental hospital and tried to make them take me. I remember sitting in the waiting room. Lying to the nurses to make me look worse than I was. Maybe she was trying to scare me. She succeeded. Maybe she was scared. I really wished to be dead because of how miserable she was making me. I'd never do it though. She never thought it was her though. Never thought she could be the source of my depression. Or at least an accomplice with teenage hormones.

They never took me of course. I was a teenager fighting with her crazy mother. I wasn't a threat to anyone and I'd never actually attempted suicide. Maybe I did. I tried to cut my wrists. Not in a serious way but for the purpose of feeling something other than the veil of depression and the weight of her cruelty.

Left Behind

I have this reoccurring dream. Well, actually, it's a real memory that comes back to me through a reoccurring dream. Not a lot but often enough to notice it must be something that damaged me or at the least, still bothers me.

I was young, maybe around 4 or 5. We were staying with her mother. It was just her and I, so we slept on the sofa that folded out into a bed. I woke up in the morning to find myself alone. I got up trying to find her and she was gone. I run out the door to find her walking with a suitcase along the road. I run to her crying and asking why she is leaving me, where is she going? She's getting on a bus to go back to California. Why aren't you taking me with you?

No questions get answered. I have this horrible pain in my heart and lump in my stomach. This feeling of terror and emptiness. She's leaving me. I'll be all alone with her mother is a cruel and terrible person. She doesn't want me anymore. She gets on the bus and my body won't stop convulsing with the sobs that are tearing through it. I can't get my breath.

She left me behind.

Birth of the 1st Grandchild

She missed it.

We hadn't been speaking . Maybe for a couple of months. There was a blow up about my not being supportive and my selfishness. It was also my fault that she lost her job 3 years ago.

So, she missed the labor and delivery of her first grandchild. Most people, I think, want thier mother's to be there. I was glad she wasn't there. A bit sad at first but moving through the process I knew I was much better off without her. If she had been there I'm sure there would have been a temper tantrum because the focus was not on her. There would have been some dramatic scene. I didn't want this important milestone to be stolen away just like all the others.

I contemplated not calling her. Why should I let her be a part of this experience when she clearly doesn't care? I called the day after he was born. It was the right decision. That's the point I learned to trust my instincts about her, to not let guilt cloud my judgement.

Now I'm pregnant with the 2nd grandchild. She is missing the pregnancy and will probably miss the birth. I'm okay with this. It's for the best. In the current episode, she has stated she doesn't care that I am pregnant, when I asked her why she is treating me this way while I am pregnant. I've stated many times that I cannot handle the added stress right now, it's not safe for the baby. She doesn't care.

I have to protect myself and my family. And I don't feel bad about it. Setting these limits and not letting guilt eat at me is very liberating.

Home Alone

She's a single parent. That's tough. It's tough on the kids and tough on the parent.

I was home alone a lot, after school, weekend nights, summers and winter vacations from school etc. My responsibility was to watch my brother, even when he was 2 and I was 8. Occasionally we did have baby sitters on the weekend nights but not consistently. I watched my brother from 8 until I was 18.

It was lonely and hard to keep entertained. Hard to pass the time. I think it's how I got into music, reading and writing. My brother and I fought, a lot, made up games, watched tv and did chores. We were bored, most of the time.

It seems normal enough to me for me to help her out with childcare (even when I was a child), housework and meal prep. There was no one else. Like I've said before I was her partner.

I do feel like a lot of that repsonsibility on my shoulders as a child kept me from participating in activities like sports or camps or clubs or even the chance to hang out with friends. I feel like it robbed me of some childhood experiences. It also forced me to grow up very quickly.

Anyway, being home alone with my brother, after school and during breaks from school, was one thing. I could accept that there was no other way. But. BUT being left while she partied with friends and men into the early mornings of the weekend, was something entirely different.

In the 90s, it was something that happened every weekend. It was about a 5 year period where going out to clubs and bars was the normal thing. I didn't spend the night at friend's houses because I was the baby sitter. I spent those nights drawing, writing, listening to music and watching tv.

There were some times she didn't come home until the next day. My brother and I would wake up to an empty house, scared that she had been raped and murdered or stolen or in an accident. No doubt about it, she always came home drunk. I could hear her stumbling around in the house and falling into bed. It hurt my stomach. It made me sick if she brought somebody home. It hurt to know she'd rather be out than with us. As I got use to her being gone, I got over it. I could handle it on my own. If my brother woke up scared in the middle of the night, I could handle it. We were fine.

Digging Deeper

As I said in my previous post, I think she is bipolar. Mentally ill. Something's not right and hasn't been right for the majority of her life. Thinking about this for a decade or so, I finally did some real research this year.

The shoe fits.

I also found sites and forums where others tell their stories. They all sound just like mine. I'm glad I'm not alone in my thinking and experiences but I'm also really sad. Sad that this exists and tears families apart, sad that she won't get help.

She's been through so many horrible things in her life: abuse, neglect, more abuse. But, that's not my story to tell. I'm sure I only the half of it. No one can escape those experiences unscathed.

According to the mayo clinic, there are 3 different categories of bipolar disoder: bipolar I, bipolar II and cyclothymia. I believe she is bipolar II with a touch of bipolar I: mood swings, hypomania and depression. The striking similarities in symptoms that we observe:

During the hypomania stage:

1. inflated self-esteem (demanding respect at the cost of losing relationships, everyone else is messed up and she is normal and fine)
2. poor judgement
3. rapid speech
4. agressive behavior
5. agitation/irratability
6. spending sprees or unwise financial decisions (buying unecessary things, obsession with craigslist, filling home with hobby supplies that go unused, unable to budget money)
7. increased drive to peform or acheive goals
8. inability to concentrate (jumps from subject to subject quickly, during an argument or conversation)
9. careless or dangerous use of drugs/alcohol (not any more but was a major problem in the 90s)
10. poor performance at work or school (hasn't held a job for more than 3 months in last 4 years)

During the depressive stage:

1. sadness
2. hopelessness
3. suicidal thoughts or behavior (often when I was very young, still talks about it now or brings it out in an argument)
4. anxiety
5. sleep problems (wakes in the middle of the night and can't go back to sleep)
6. loss of interest in daily activities
7. problems concentrating (jumps from subject to subject quickly, during an argument or conversation)
8. irratability
9. chronic pain without a known cause (always in pain or discomfort, takes a lot of motrin/tylenol, digestive issues etc)
10. poor performance at work or school (hasn't held a job for more than 3 months in last 4 years)

Of course other types of episodes and syptoms occur with this disorder. Others might include the rapid cycling of moods, change in moods with the change of seasons and psychosis. All of which I beleive she has experienced or is experiencing.

The combination of these things makes it very hard for bipolar people to keep relationships.

I believe there is hope. If she'll just get some help. Get on some medicine that can help her live a more normal life. We might have a chance at a relationship.

Wedding Crasher

A girl dreams about her wedding. How perfect it will be. Everything in it's place, people smiling and laughing, celebrating the couple's love. I had that dream, too.

She began throwing her temper tantrum early the day of the event. I got my makeup done by myself and my hair done by myself. I got ready at the church with the help of my friends. She sat in the common area with an angry face and arms crossed. The day wasn't about her, so of course this behavior was to be expected. In the middle of my getting ready, I think I should go see if we can make this better so that we can enjoy this experience. I sit down and ask what's wrong only to get a slew of rude comments and angry words. I ask her to put this aside until a later time because this was my wedding day, after all. This isn't fair. She clams up and ignores me. I walk away to finish getting ready.

A dark cloud attempts to cast it's shadow over me. Tears well up behind my eyes. Anger burns its fire in my stomach. I decide to choke it all back, push it down, ignore it. This is my wedding day. If I let her get to me, let her ruin this, let her have control of my feelings, I will regret forever. That's what I did. I ignored her. It was her choice to behave so badly. I was marrying the best man there ever was and I was going to focus on him, on our love, on this joyous day. She wasn't going to rob of this.

The wedding went on and I was happy. Truly happy. I didn't give one thought to her and her feelings. I didn't have guilt or concern for her. It was great.

Then. Then she made it public.

At the reception she drank too much. Grabbed the microphone and gave a speech. Saying some nice things but also adding in some bitterness and complaints through slurred speech. It was tough to get through. She thought it was funny. Thought it was funny to be drunk in front of my friends and family and my new husband's family.

She made her mark.

I can't get that day back.

The Dilemma

Yes, she's been horrible. Yes, we have been horrible to each other. A lot of angry and hurtful words exchanged. A lot of hatred between us. My anger the result of her mistreatment towards me and her anger the result of me robbing her of her 20s or maybe anger toward everything but me, but I just happened to be there to take it out on.

Things haven't really changed much over the years. She hasn't grown out of the temper tantrums and mood swings. She still screams obscenities. She doesn't use physical violence toward me anymore, so that's a plus.

She often bails on me and abandons me during important times like birthdays, holidays, finals, my wedding, pregnancy, birth...basically if the focus isn't on her she will kick and scream until it is about her. She did help out a ton the first few months of Evan's life, so that's nice.

We have had good times. They exist. When things are good they are good. We like to get lunch together, shop, watch movies, watch Evan. But when things are bad they are really bad. Currently we haven't spoken in 2 months. Pretty typical of the cycle.

My son broke a large vase while she was babysitting and John and I were out having our anniversary dinner. I received the call and immediately asked if Evan was okay, was he injured, did the glass cut him or get in his eyes. I was feeling very afraid that he was hurt, as any mother would fear and inquire about. He was fine, just very shaken up because the sound of the glass breaking was so loud. He cried for a long time but eventually calmed down. We finished our dinner, per her advice, then quickly drove home. Evan was asleep and there was a weird tension in the house as soon as we walked in. I asked if everything was ok, why was she acting strangely toward me. I asked for a detailed play-by-play of the situation. Didn't get much out of her. She started crying and gathering her stuff to leave. I was confused. No one was hurt. She said I was being insensitive to her, it was very traumatic. She goes to the door and I have no words because I am so confused about what she was doing. I asked why she was behaving this way. Door open, half way out, she says she doesn't want to get into it with me. Into what? I don't understand. She begins raising her voice and getting angry, saying I didn't understand how traumatic this was. But no one was hurt. Evan was sound asleep in bed. Then. Then she says it. The most selfish thing I have ever heard uttered from a grandmother's mouth. She says: you only care about how Evan is doing, you didn't ask if I was ok. I asked her to leave. I told her to get out. I was in shock that someone could say these words.

I haven't talked to her since. We have exchanged a ton of anger-filled emails and texts. She's turned this into a fight about me not respecting her and me being selfish. She tried to call me once but I didn't pick up. I don't have the strength or patience to deal with her. It's a lot of work.

Since then she has gone to the babysitter to see Evan without asking me. Crying and complaning to her about me. Telling all of our business to a woman she doesn't even know. She has gone to my mother in law's house and spilled all of our personal details, calling me names and making me look bad. It's disturbing. What mother does that?

I believe that she is bi-polar. I've believed that for a long time. I did research and she fits all of the symptoms. I'm scared for her. Only recently have I asked her to get some help, to talk to a professional. She won't, says she's fine. I can't let her around my family when she's said these words about her grandson. When she's put more importance on herself than on her grandson. Her behavior and way of showing anger is unhealthy and downright scary. I do not want my child to witness that and think it's ok. John has seen way too much already.

The dilemma: she's missing so much of Evan's development and life. I feel sad for her that she doesn't even seem to care. So, do I call and let her see him? Do I open up that door? I've asked her to get help before she can see him and she refuses. She'll miss his whole life. I don't want to know her anymore, I don't want a relationship, but what about Evan? I do miss the good times. They are just so hard to come by that I'd rather not gamble with it anymore.

It's so tiring. Round and round we go.

Partner

I've always been her partner. Not really a daughter. More of a friend, enemy, moving assistant, house cleaner, mock-spouse sort. At times it's fine. Others though...it's not a good feeling.

I've always known way more than any kid should know about her finances, her personal life, the deep inner working of her mind. It's a lot for a kid to know just how poor we are, or the worry and frustration that comes along with not being able to pay the electric bill.

I've helped do the budget and money handling and bill paying for as long as I can remember. Maybe it's contributed to my abilities as an accountant or how to properly manage my own money or to pick a profession that makes a decent wage. I'm thankful for that. Looking back on how it made me feel as a youngster, though, I was not thankful at the time.

 I always had the knot in my stomach. How would we make it to the next pay day? How could we buy food with $20? The electric is going to be turned off and it's July in the desert. The car will be repossessed if we don't pay soon. I'm sure thinking about this sort of thing at 10 years old while I sit in class trying to focus on the reading assignment is not a healthy thing.

It's not her fault. She had no one else. I'm the oldest kid. It's my responsibility, right? This is where the line of child/parent gets blurry and disappears.

This has followed me. To this day, she still tells me every last detail of her financial situation. It adds stress on top of my own stress. Even in my twenties I still don't feel right about knowing these things and feeling like I have to fix it. I don't talk about my finances with anyone but my husband. If I had no husband, it's only my business to know. Only my problem to solve.

I've saved her a dozen times or so. Money is never a good thing to handle between family members. It messes with emotions and increases frustration. Increases tension.

Aside from financial matters, I've always know details about her very personal life that no one should know. Many occasions she has blurted out personal accounts of activities I can't bear to write about. A daughter should never know these things.

She's never quite decided which role I'm supposed to be. It switches back and forth. When she realizes I know too much, she'll become upset and tell me it's not business. Then other times it's my duty to listen to her complaints, bad days at work and financial troubles.

It's a lot of work to be a partner.

Vulgar Display of Power

Since I was very young I remember having that fear of her. At any moment things could get crazy. I think in a way this fear kept me from doing things that would mess up my life. Kept me from making decisions that would encourage her violence to come out. That's the good part of the fear.

The bad part is that you never really feel at ease or comfortable around her. You're not sure when or what will set her off. My brother and I were always asking her if she was ok, what was wrong. We were constantly worried. Had that knot in our stomachs.

As the oldest child, I took the brunt of her stress. I was the garbage can where she could dump all that frustration, sadness, anger and worry. I remember getting into trouble for the silliest most innocent things. It often turned into physical survival. At 8  I remember running away from her, running through the house and she caught me by the hair. Hitting me and pulling my hair out. Her boyfriend had to pull her off me. I'll never forget that. I have many many memories of her chasing me, catching me and then beating the crap out of me.

At 16 she chased me through the house and knocked me down by hitting me in the back with a bar stool. My friend went with me to the ER to make sure my kidneys weren't damaged.

There were so many times I gave her some reason to come and tear my room apart or the entire house. If I couldn't find a specific shirt, she'd come in a rage and pull all my drawers out and throw everything everywhere, knock down the dresser, sweep her arm across the top, things flying, me standing in a corner trying to weather the storm.

If I said something wrong, maybe in the wrong tone of voice even, she would throw things at me and knock furniture over. I'm pretty good at dodging. Of course, since it was my fault that she wrecked the house, I had to clean everything up. That's a fun way to spend your weekend as a child.

All of the physical violence was, of course, accompanied by screaming and yelling awful things. Crude names. I've been called most things including bitch, stupid, selfish, disrespectful and a load of others. She has such a scary face when the monstor comes out. Crazy eyes and spit flying as she screams how much she hates me.

Often the police were called. By a neighbor or by her in an attempt to scare me or show her power over me. As a kid under 13 they simply tell you to mind your mother. No matter what. At 16, they come pound on the bathroom door as you shower and make you come out with shampoo in your hair and dripping wet only to threaten you with juvenile hall. She builds the story against me. Like I was horrible. She denied being physically violent with me. They believed her.

She made sure I knew my place. Even though the place changed with severe unpredictability. She made sure I felt small and unimportant and weak. And I did. I was just a dumping ground afterall. No one was there to stand up for me.

As I got older and had more guts to fight back, I screamed back. I called her names and told her I hated her. I did. I told her,"No" when she would come at me to push me or slap me.

Somehow the fights were always about respect. She demanded respect. Even when the trigger was more related to the dishes not being as clean as she'd like or when she'd had a rough day and didn't like my tone of voice. It still is always about respect. Recently she turned the event of my son breaking a vase into a respect issue related to me.

She wants the power and has a terrible way of demanding it. It's pushed so many people away.

On the Move

We moved around a lot. A LOT. The first few years of my life we moved around because my Dad was in the military. After they split, though, we kept moving. Starting over. And over.

In 2nd grade I went to 10 different schools. I'll never forget that number because it shocked me when I counted them up that year. I think all the moving may have contributed to my shyness and inability to make friends easily.

I've only lived in 5 states but I've lived in TONS of different cities and TONS of different apartments and houses. Each time we uprooted, my heart would break. I thought for sure this time, or this time, or this time would be the right place for us. Some of the moving was due to the lack of jobs in the area or a boyfriend or an eviction.

I was her partner which meant I had just as much responsibility for the move as she did. Packing, moving and unpacking. Putting together furniture. Even at 8. We sometimes laugh about how we use to yell at each other during the moves, carrying heavy boxes an furniture. It was a lot to handle.

Growing up, I was always the new girl. I never stayed in a school for consecutive years until sophomore year in high school. It's tough being the new girl as a kid. Other kids aren't open to letting new ones into their groups. They don't care to get to know you. You get made fun of. You are alone a lot. You hold back tears a lot and your head feels like it's going to explode. You might get lucky and one nice girl will talk to you and after a few months you might consider her your friend. Someone to cling to to help save you from drowning in anger and sadness and silence. Or you might just stay quiet for an entire school year.

I like to be alone. I need my alone time. To be quiet, to do my own thing. I must have gotten use to being alone.

Sometimes now I get the urge to move, to change my surroundings. Like it's built into me now. Yet, it's comforting to stay in the same place for a long while. If I feel that urge coming on, I like to change something like a wall color or a picture frame. It's funny how all those painful experiences of change where I'm ripped away from friends or a school I love have effected me. They make me crave change sometimes.

Maybe that's why I liked (and like) to read so much. No matter what change was going on in my life, I could count on taking my books with me and immersing myself in their world. To get away from mine.

Young and Not Hungry

I can't remember if I was 5 or 6 when this happened. I was young though. Very young. She had a boyfriend (I think it was my brother's father). He some how convinced her that I had an eating disorder. At 6 years old. I didn't like him and he knew it. I ate, but I didn't eat a lot and I didn't like some of the stuff that was put in front of me. Pretty typical of a small child, if you ask me.

One night after a dinner I didn't like, they became enraged at me for not eating much. It got out of control. I remember being so small and these adults were towering over at me and yelling awful things about what happeneds to you when you don't eat and how dumb I was.

They loaded me up in the car and drove me to a facility to have me examined. It was a mental facility.

I was scared. How did an evening at home turn into this?

Doctors and nurses came in and poked me and prodded and asked me questions. I remember them trying to sway the conversation to make me look like I really had an eating disorder. I was so young and scared. She wasn't in the room with me. She was with him. I was alone.

I just wasn't hungry. That's all. I didn't like spinach or steak or tasteless mush.

I remember the wheels on the hospital beds. They scared me. The way the looked and the way they squeaked as someone was being wheeled down the hall. If I see wheels like that, I still get a stomachache.

I spent a couple of hours being examined and talked to by doctors, nurses and child psychologists. They didn't find anything of course. They sent me home. All she said was that I better start eating. Or else.

This was only the beginning of her trying to have me committed. It started when I was 6.

Disposable.

When I was around 15, she brought home a dog. It was a small, well-mannered, sweet dog that her friend gave her because she was moving away and the dog couldn't go along. The poor dog missed his family, you could tell. I sat by him for hours just petting him to try and make him feel at home. He warmed up to me quickly. He never messed in the house because he was potty trained.

After a few days, she changed her mind and decided she didn't want him anymore. The friend had already moved away. So one Saturday afternoon she loaded everyone up in the car along with the dog. She wouldn't answer our questions about where we were going and what we were doing. I knew though. And I begged and pleaded and became hysterically upset about her plans. They were not good plans.

She dumped him. In the middle of a neighborhood faaaar from ours. And sped away as he chased our car. He was a small dog. God, I still get teary eyed. It was cruel and unneccessary. There are places to bring unwanted animals. There are ads to put in the paper for a free dog. She didn't even try. She just tossed him out like a piece of garbage. It makes me sick and its unforgivable.

I'm sure he didn't survive long out there. No food. No water. He was small. All I could do was scream and yell and cry about how awful this treatment was. He didn't deserve this. She didn't care.

She's always had problems with pets. Even now. She gets it in her head how wonderful it would be to have a cat or dog as a companion. Goes and gets one and then gives up on it a week later. She has had a cat for 3 years, which is very unusual. Yet, she'll randomly start thinking he needs a friend. He's not safe though. He could get the boot at any time. She had a cat for 2 years once, then the cat got hurt and she didn't want to pay so she gave her away. Just like that. She and my brother had a dog. They kept her in a small cage most of the time. It broke my heart. They got tired of her and gave her away. More recently she had a small dog for a couple of weeks. Kept him in his cage most of the time. Became upset that he wasn't getting good at potty training. Gave up on him and gave him away.

We are different. My animals are part of my family. I made a promise to them when I got them, to protect them, care for them and give them a good life. Sure they make me upset at times, the vet bills can be horrendous but I wouldn't just give up on them. We are their family. We chose them.

Pets are not disposable.

Holidays

The cluster of holidays is right around the corner. I can't help but think about the holidays that have gone by. There must have been some that were good. There must have. I must be overlooking them.

Yes! I've got it. There were a few holidays sprinkled in my childhood where she and I would bake together. Those are special times. We would bake pumpkin muffins, cookies and more. I was about 13 at the time. We lived in a 2 bedroom apartment, the 3 of us, and we made the best of not having money or family around. I like these memories.

Others creep into my thoughts, though. The many many holidays that were disasters and full of anger and tears and the throwing of pies and other objects. My friends would always be excited about the coming holidays, with their family traditions and rituals. I always dreaded them. I didn't have a house full of family, a warm atmosphere, traditions or anyone to protect me from the extra time spent at home with her. I had tension. There was always some dark cloud looming overhead. Casting a cold shadow on our house, on her. I had to be careful. Very careful about things I said, the tone of my voice. I almost always screwed up and said something unwelcoming and she would explode.

Explode like Hiroshima.

When I was 16 she threw a pie at me on Thanksgiving and another at the couch. I had to try and clean it up as she screamed above me about not respecting her and how much of a bitch I was. I ended up running out of the house and drove away to sit at a local park while others ate peacefully around a table. My boyfriend (now husband) brought me some food so I could have even a small piece of Thanksgiving.

When I was 13 she got violently upset on Halloween. She screamed at me as I met my friend and her parents to go to a haunted fire station. They saw her. Suddenly at the last minute I wasn't allowed to go because she was on edge. Of course I was upset, she had already told me I could go. Then she turned it around and said fine get out of here along with a slew of awful names.

That same year she came home drunk from a Christmas party. Drove drunk. Couldn't make it up the stairs. Crying. Then quickly turned angry because I didn't like that she drove drunk. She spent the rest of the night in her room.

Many many Christmas' have been spent alone, watching tv with my brother and eating a can of soup while she shut herself in her room. If you tried to talk to her she would scream at you about how selfish and ungrateful you were even if all did was get dressed for the day.

As I grew older, moved out and had a life of my own, she began the ritual of creating a huge problem as the holidays approached. Starting a fight and saying such awful things that I didn't want to talk to her anymore. So we wouldn't be in contact for the holidays at all.  For most of the years that I have been out of her house, this is how the holidays go. Even my son's first Christmas.

I hope to make the holidays a joyful time for my family. I don't want them to have hurtful memories of these times.

Her Daughter

It's hard being her daughter. I suppose my story isn't as bad as others out there yet, it's my story.

Our relationship has always been hard. Strained. It's always been a lot of work. I have memories from a very young age of abuse and mistreatment. Of being terrified of her. It's hard not to think of them when I think of her, what kind of person she is.

She's 2 people really. One person is a nice, gentle and caring lady. Someone who seems concerned about you. The other...the other is a....monster. Someone who you must tip toe passed in hopes that you don't get caught in her radar. This person is scary. I still get a stomachache thinking about the things she's done. The things she's said.

It's hard being her daughter.