After several days of traveling, my family and I arrived at our new destination. My mother and stepfather put the majority of the money we had from the sale of our house into a 1 story tract home in a fairly new but thriving neighborhood in San Antonio, Texas. It was family-oriented, mostly white, middle working-class, and appeared to have just the right amount of stability my mother was looking for. She seemed confident that this time, things would work out according to ‘her’ plan. Too bad my stepfather didn’t clue her in to his.

My mother attempted immediately to establish a rapport with our neighbors, she wanted to make a good impression while at the same time impressing them with her ‘California’ charm. I’m not quite sure they were taken with her or us for that matter. We were ‘outsiders’, newcomers, and viewed as a bit ‘hippy-dippy’. However, that didn’t seem to stop my mother from ingratiating herself upon anyone who would grant her an audience. It took a few weeks but after a while, the natives became curious and slowly began making their way over to our home for a closer inspection, bringing along the customary casserole as a peace-offering.

While we didn’t win over everyone in the neighborhood, we managed to convince a select few we were ‘normal’. My mother when determined, had a way of disarming and charming others. I think her history of being shuffled around so much as a child gave her the ability to adapt to any situation and with any type of person. However, my mother also had a kind of ‘larger than life’ persona, a sort of superiority complex that could alienate most mortals. There never seemed to be a gray area, people either intensely liked or disliked her.

My stepfather on the other hand always had a way with people. He blended seamlessly into this new environment and everyone seemed to love him and hang on his every word. This move provided him with an escape from his past and an opportunity to once again reinvent himself. I’m not sure if he was thinking in the long-term when we moved to Texas, I don’t know if that was even possible for him. I do know he didn’t stay long after we arrived and my memories of him in my life during this time are fuzzy and brief.

While my mother managed to find full-time work, my stepfather quickly went back to his old habits and once again resumed his clandestine operations. Though there was less fighting, it seemed as if their relationship had reached it’s expiration date. I suppose they probably gave it one last try but in the end, my mother must have grown tired of the constant uncertainty of it all. I’m not sure exactly what was the final straw, only that one day my stepfather was a daily figure in our lives, and the next day he wasn’t. Never to return. There was no explanation given and once again, we dared not ask. Things were to go on as normal, there was to be no discussing it as a family.

As sad as it was to have someone we grew to care for leave, it was almost a relief to have them gone. It was only when my mother wasn’t involved with a man that she became more maternal, more attentive and loving. Laughter was more prevalent and punishments were lessened. It was like a respite from the reign of terror we were subjected to on a daily basis. How long it lasted depended on how quickly my mother tired of our companionship.

Let’s just say my mother suffered from Chronic Maternal Fatigue Syndrome.

It didn’t take long for my mother to pick up where she left off on her deluded quest to create the perfect family, the perfect life, love-everlasting. Daddy Replacement #4 came by way of a singles mixer at a local bar. He was at the tale-end of a lengthy and otherwise mismatched marriage to a woman who ultimately decided that she was a lesbian. While they had tried to continue living together under the same roof, it became abundantly clear that his wife’s new found sexual orientation was not something my future stepfather could condone or live with. Having been raised in a predominantly strict Southern Baptist family, he was incapable of being open-minded about the situation.

I have no idea what redeeming qualities my mother saw in this man, what positive traits he brought, if any, to the table. He was certainly unlike any of the men my mother had previously been with, and the only word I can think of to describe him is the word simple. He was as plain as vanilla, both in looks and demeanor. He was unworldly, unaffected, and perhaps for all my mother’s intents and purposes, the perfect man.

Maybe what my mother saw was the overall framework of this man. She wouldn’t have to worry that his ex-wife would try and rekindle their love, as she was now a full-fledged lesbian. My mother didn’t have to fear that he was going to step outside of their marital bond as he was largely inexperienced in the ways of wooing women. She had always wanted a large, tight-knit family and this man came equipped with a set of parents, several brothers, their respective wives, and a dozen or so nieces and nephews. There were no children from his previous marriage so my mother would not be forced to assume the role of ‘step mother’. He appeared to be honest, hard-working, somewhat educated, and had no visible qualms about taking on the role of ‘father’ to a thrice divorced woman with three children.

This man had no idea what he was getting himself into and once again, neither did we.

It seemed that my mother was the only one who ever knew what the hell was going on and she never bothered to share the details with any of us. Not even her future husbands. They were like wayward sheep, unknowingly being led to the slaughter. That’s not to say they were innocent by any means. Despite their outward appearance of decency and the potential to be qualified candidates, each of them contained internal flaws, some incapability to be strong and sturdy, to go the distance. They were essentially weak.

And yet my mother, bless her dysfunctional heart, tried with each marriage to create this happy union, this loving family circle that perhaps she had always wanted but had never known. I give her an ‘A’ for effort but after husband #3, she should have gotten a clue.

My mother by this time was a seasoned veteran of love and the concept of ‘courting’ seemed pointless at this stage of the game. Why waste time with getting to know one another when you can pass ‘GO’ and head straight for the nuptials? Which is exactly what they did. A Justice of the Peace provided the legalities and the ‘reception’ consisted of my mother, newly minted stepfather, and my sisters and I celebrating in a local Chinese restaurant. I don’t know if my mother was really in love with this man, only that she must have decided he would do.

The transition from one Daddy figure to the next was becoming easier as strange as that sounds. By now, my sisters and I were accustomed to the shift changes in fatherly personnel. It was business as usual in our household, out with the old, in with the new. My older sister and I really didn’t want or need any particular bonding with this stranger that was now sharing our mother’s bed, so we did our best to avoid him, and had as little to do with him as possible. Our younger sister however had lost her father due to the fallout of our mother’s relationship and therefore, desperately needed a ‘Daddy’. Thankfully, this man willingly and eagerly assumed the role.

Life carried on as usual, our mother having coupled up for the 4th time, seemed once again at ease and satisfied that she had managed to close the family gap. Having been given no choice in the matter, no say whatsoever, my sisters and I did the best coping that we could. We each managed I suppose in our way, the only way we knew how.

I don’t think this man knew what he was getting himself into, how deep into the abyss that he would eventually sink, but that’s how it always goes. You never know how deep in shit you are till your in it. I honestly think his intentions were pure, that he did in fact love my mother and perhaps saw her as this helpless, fragile flower. This single struggling mother in need of a strong male role model for her kin. And I give him props for trying, for attempting to be a ‘stand up guy’. Like all semi-worthy contenders though, he would fail. As they all did. Done in, worn-out by my mother’s all-consuming need for love, loyalty, and their very soul.

While this simple-minded man was I believe inherently good and came from a solid familial foundation, he was at his core, flawed and vulnerable. My mother would in the end, corrupt him and leave him forever broken. Her toxicity would pass through him and ultimately onto us. This man would be the catalyst that would change our lives forever. My mother would say in later years, that he led us astray, that what went wrong was all his doing. However, I can’t help but feel as though my mother somehow created these scenarios. She chose these men, she married them, she brought them into our lives.

My mother never stopped to examine herself, to question her motives, her ability to constantly sabotage again and again, not only her life, but ours as well is mind boggling. My mother never once took responsibility for the chaos that she inflicted upon our lives and to this day, will gloss events over as if they happened by accident or by someone else. It’s as if she suffers from ‘selective memory loss’. With each marriage, the ante was raised, the chances for success became increasingly dim. Yet, she kept playing her hand, betting her life and ours on the hope that this time she would come out a winner.

Not satisfied to leave well enough alone, my mother with her blind faith and faulty wiring, would place her last and ultimately fatal final bet on this broken horse. Uprooted once more we were to be, drifting further away from all we knew, spiraling down into the unknown. Once again, based on the lure and promise of ‘a better life’, my mother would abandon our foothold, taking us onto what I know now to be an inevitable path to our future. A future that would open long held secrets, expose flaws and fears, and drive a wedge between each of us that would not be healed for decades.

And for some of us, not at all.

All good things must come to an end though and as fate would have it, my mother’s future came roaring up the driveway one day on a Kawasaki. Enter Daddy Replacement #2. This dark-haired, suave, smooth-talking Mormon Romeo from Missouri would end up being my mother’s soul-mate and at times our saviour. The youngest son of the couple we rented from, was something of an enigma. He was born and raised in Missouri, attended college there on a scholarship as he was a natural born athlete, excelling in track and field. He married his college sweetheart in the Mormon church and quickly established a family with the arrival of babies, one after the other, three daughters total. It would seem that his life in the beginning bore a certain continuity, a traditional uneventful existence.

After that, the rest is kind of fuzzy.

My mother says the day she met her 3rd husband was the day she fell in love. He swept her off her feet like no other man had done before. She likened him to a rollercoaster, full of dips, loops, thrills and chills. You never knew what was coming next but the ride was exhilerating. He was full of charisma and class, knew all the right places, had all of the right connections, seemed to have endless amounts of money and always showed up in a different car. He was a grifter. I mean, I didn’t know that then but I know that now. My mother does too sadly. At the time however, he was just the right ingredient for an otherwise boring recipe known as my mother’s life. She had grown tired of playing ‘Mom’ and was looking for an older, more entertaining playmate. My soon-to-be-stepfather was only too happy to accomodate.

Once again, my sister and I were shuffled off to our grandparents so that our mother could enjoy her ‘youth’. She found in my future stepfather a kindred spirit; someone to embark on a journey of discovery with. After having been deprived of a normal childhood and having missed out on being footloose and fancy-free, my mother would begin to experiment in the fine art of drugs and debauchery. My mother was by all accounts this modest, mousey, uninformed, unworldly woman. She had never been exposed to anything remotely exotic unless you count Chinese takeout. My father was the closest thing she got to Europe.

Then along comes the Pied Piper, this seemingly worldly romantic with this vast knowledge of  life. My mother became obsessed, blinded by love and by a thirst for knowledge and experience. It was all pretty heady stuff, love, lust, danger, and excitement. My mother had found her soulmate. He was everything my mother was looking for, he embodied the life she dreamt of having, he spoke her language. It was according to my mother, a romance of epic proportions. It wasn’t long after that marriage was on the table. Even with all the wine, roses, and romance, real life still loomed and the reality was, my mother was a single, working woman with two small children. Her burning desire may have been to be carried off into the sunset with the man of her dreams but her obligation was to her children.

I can’t recall if we were ever sat down and told that we would have a new stepfather. It kind of just happened. I don’t believe my mother really thought of the impact it had on my sister and I, how this revolving door of ‘Dads’ was going to sit with us. I want to believe that my mother was thinking of the big picture, that she was trying to create this happy, loving home that she never had and that was taken from us, but looking back, it just smacks of selfishness. The pain and horror that my sister and I were subjected to, not only from our mother, but from each subsequent father-figure, was unbelieveable. And I am deeply ashamed and regret that it is this type of life that I have in turn inflicted upon my own daughter. History does unfortunately sometimes repeat itself.

As this would officially be Numero three for my mother in terms of marriages, simplicity was the theme. There was no official ceremony, no rice, no wedding bells, and definitely no cake. All I can recall is that my mother and her boyfriend went away for the weekend and came back as husband and wife. “Girls, meet your new father!” That was kind of my mother’s attitude. With my mother’s previous husband, there was no real bonding, no attempt or demand to connect with him as a father. This one was different. She really loved him, I mean ‘luuurrved’ him. Like, wanted to make babies with this one. Buy property, travel, get a puppy. That kind of love. It quickly became obvious that changes were underfoot.

And I felt torn.

I felt like I was betraying my father by having to care for this new person who suddenly had ‘Dad’ status. My mother in her quest for a united, loving family brought my sister and I into their bedroom, one at a time and asked us how we would feel about our new dad adopting us and taking his name? Okay. Even at 8 or 9, I knew something was rotten in Denmark. However, being that my mother’s running theme was, “Children are to be seen and not heard”, I really didn’t know if I had the courage to disagree. As scared as I was, I managed to tell her ‘NO’. My sister gave a resounding ‘NO’ as well. My mother was deeply wounded and felt as if we betrayed her. One more reason to continue blaming and hating our father.

Her response?

We were to go by our new stepfather’s last name anyway, whether legal or not. We were to use it at school, and we would be baptised in his church, thereby officially tying us to the Mormon genealogy records for all eternity.

Yes, my mother had found ‘The One’ and in that discovery, decided that it was all for one, and one for all. One big happy family. Never mind the fact that shortly into this blissful marriage, my mother and stepfather were already duking it out like a couple of prize-fighters on a regular basis. Or that he would disappear for a day or two, come home well past dinnertime, and seemed to always be ‘in-between jobs’. There would be a huge fight, screaming and tears, a slammed door and then silence. My sister and I learned pretty quickly that the best place to be in a hurricane, was in our room. Hiding.

Chaos and volaitilty seemed to be prevalent in every one of my mother’s relationships. I can’t imagine that she enjoyed all the drama and dynamics, it certainly didn’t foster happiness for any of us. However, to this day, much is the same with my mother and her choices in men and the nature of her partnerships. So to some degree, I feel that my mother may find comfort in the chaos, it’s something she knows how to navigate. I’m not sure my mother would know what to do in a relationship that was healthy.

It wasn’t too long after my mother and stepfather married that it was announced that we were going to be ‘big’ sisters. My mother being head over heels in love with her new husband wanted to seal the deal with offspring. My stepfather had 3 children from a previous marriage and the idea of bringing more kin into the world didn’t seem like such a big deal. He would in fact, over the next several decades, ‘spread his seed’ so to speak with several other women, leaving behind him a trail of fatherless children, including my own sister.

At this time, we were all living in a small apartment, having moved from the flat once my mother and stepfather were married. After some careful plotting and pleading, my mother had convinced my grandparents into a loan which would be used as a down payment on a house. We would be moving yet again only this time, would be one street over from our grandparents, which for my sister and I, was a bit of a relief.  In was in our grandparent’s home that we found safety and comfort. A haven from all the madness that we had sadly grown accustomed to at an early age.

Having a home was very important to my mother, especially one that she could truly call her own. It gave her a sense of security and independance, things of which always seemed to be in short supply of while living under her parent’s rule and roost. Now that my mother was ‘happily’ married, had her babies, and a real place to nest, it would seem that finally, all the pieces were in place. Life could truly begin to be enjoyed. By all outward appearances we looked like a happy family. However, if one were to examine the picture closely, notice the clues, it would be plain to see that this was one fucked-up, fractured family.

My mother was big on appearances. It was imperative that every member of the group look and act as though things were on the up and up. We were well-behaved, clean, neat, orderly. Like little soldiers. We ate together, prayed together, went to church together, performed our little hearts out. My sister and I could have been the youngest Oscar winners if there was a category for the role of perfect children. We had no choice but to behave, our lives depended on it. Creating as little disturbance as possible seemed the only way to stay out of the fray that was constantly swirling around us.

My stepfather shielded my sister and I from many of our mother’s rages. He was the calm to her storm, and I have to credit him for preventing her from doing serious harm to my sister and I on a number of occasions. He tried in his limited capacity to be a good father, to love us and protect us, and I have no real negative feelings about him. For all of the goodness in him, for all of the times my stepfather tried to live by the straight and narrow, his inner demons always seemed to win every time. It seemed he was incapable of stillness, of serenity.

Depsite having been raised by loving, nuturing parents, depsite having the love of a woman, the adoration of his children, the comforts of home and hearth, my stepfather repeatedly abandoned all of that for the lure of drugs, alcohol, women, and the life of a criminal. He was by nature, a sleazeball. I don’t know how else to put it. His intentions were pure, but his actions were deplorable. He was always onto the ‘next big thing’. His schemes though grand, never seemed to play out the way he hoped. He would come home some days, his wallet bursting at the seams with hundreds, and then the next week, would be at my grandparent’s door asking to borrow money. He would pull into the driveway one night in a brand new cadillac, the next night, a corvette, the night after that, a bicycle. He somehow acquired beautiful paintings, gorgeous jewelry, and full-length furs. My mother though skeptical, eargerly accepted all of his gifts, not daring to ask where or how they were obtained.

My sisters and I would find ourselves on the receiving end many times of our stepfather’s good fortune as well and were often treated to shopping trips to the mall for new outfits, shoes, and expensive haircuts. Getting near front-row seating to the latest ballet or musical happened as if by magic, going out for a lavish meal afterward, was no big thing. It was during these high-times, that my mother was happy. If my mother was happy, then the house was happy, and my sister and I were safe. It was only when the good times came to a screeching halt that we knew things would be back to ‘normal’.

When my stepfather pulled one of his disappearing acts, my mother would go quiet. VERY quiet. She would vanish into her room, behind a locked door, only to be seen infrequently. My sister and I would try and maintain a sense of semblance, status quo, but it was difficult. When my mother did come out of her room, she was usually not in the mood to play ‘Mom’. We would scurry away, hoping and praying that we had not forgotten to do whatever chores we had been assigned and that there would be nothing broken or out of place. Even though the house was clean, we were quiet, and all appeared to be intact, my mother would still find fault and order us into the living room for a lecture.

It seems like our mother took it out on my sister and I when there were problems in her marriage. When our stepfather wasn’t around to yell at, to attack, we were used as replacements. On the shoulders of my sister and I were heaps of blame and we were to carry the weight of her disappointment and anger. We were mercilessly picked apart and yelled at for what seemed like hours. We were to stand in front of our mother, who sat on the couch, so that she could address us one at a time. We were not allowed to speak, to show any emotion, and if we began to cry unintentionally, our mother would become further enraged and threaten to really give us something to cry about. It was pure Hell.

My sister was berated for her weight, for her attitude, was called a whore. I was read the riot act for losing my glasses, for my laziness, for being ‘stupid’. My sister and I were to just stand there and take it. To listen while the woman who gave us life, whom we loved depsite her obvious lack of love or affection for us, called us every name in the book without batting an eyelash. It was confusing and frightening and it felt as if there was no escape. I think from that point on, I decided to ‘go in’. What I mean to say is, create a quiet, safe haven inside my head. My own little fantasy world where no one could hurt or harm me. I would often spend time alone, in my room or backyard, having imaginary playmates and acting out scenarios in which there was always a happy ending. It was I suppose a survival mechanism.

Eventually our stepfather would return, like a lost dog, armed with gifts and excuses. There would be a huge row; lots of shouting, screaming, solid objects flying through the air, and then the making up would be legendary. It was as if nothing had happened. As if our stepfather hadn’t been gone for several days with no word. This kind of scenario would repeat itself for a couple more years until the novelty wore off. My mother who by now, had come to realize that nothing was going to change, that she was unable to sustain this kind of life, decided that perhaps a change of scenery would bring harmony back into the home.

I think the real reason my mother decided we should move was due to the shotgun blast that ripped through our living room window one night as we all slept in our beds. That and the slashed tires. Apparently, our stepfather had not been able to repay a debt he had acquired and this was just a subtle reminder to settle his affairs. It’s message was understood loud and clear and my mother and stepfather began immediately researching other states in which to relocate. My grandmother who by now was recently widowed, was not thrilled with the idea of us moving and tried unsucessfully to get my mother to stay. She would not budge.

My sister and I were not exactly elated either at the news of leaving our home. We had lost our beloved grandfather and would no longer have our grandmother to count on or cling to. We had no idea what we would be facing and it all seemed so sudden and chaotic. I suppose I should have been used to that by now but as a child, all I longed for was stability.

Perhaps this sort of gypsy lifestyle is what set the tone for my wanderlust in later years. If I stay in one place too long, I begin to panic and start planning my ‘escape’.

After some careful deliberation and an examination of funds available, it was decided (my sisters and I never had a choice, EVER when it came to ‘family decisions’) that moving to the Southwest was the perfect plan. The home that we had lived in for the last few years was put on the market and sold quickly. Everything we owned was loaded into a Mayflower moving van, our family car groaned from the weight of it’s occupants, and whatever we couldn’t manage to squeeze in the van or car was left behind.

Endings and beginnings. It seems my mother’s life was filled with them. She wiped the slate clean and started over whenever it suited her. My sister and I were taken along for the ride whether we wanted to or not. We were never given a choice nor an explanation. I find now that as hard as it was then, I seemed to have more resiliency than my older sister. For whatever reason, I had the ability to go with the flow of things. I don’t know if that had anything to do with my being a middle child or not? I was able to just be still and quiet, adapt to my new environment without drawing too much attention to myself.

This particular beginning was for my mother, a chance to breathe new life into her flaccid marriage. She was determined to get things back on track with my stepfather and believed that a new home, new scenery, a fresh start would be the right combination to reinvigorate their relationship. My mother was betting everything she had on this move and had faith that it would pay off. My stepfather seemed relieved to be getting away from his past and looked forward to creating a new life for us. We were all one big happy family, motoring down the highway, headed toward our new home, our end of the rainbow.

It’s too bad we didn’t see the signs. I don’t think any of us did.

My father left my mother for perhaps the same reasons though I suppose I will never know for sure. The story I have been told, my mother’s version, is that my father opted for a better deal, less restrictions and responsibility. It didn’t take long for my mother to replace him. Being young, vunerable, and with two small children in tow, a man around the house was deemed necessary. I believe that my mother had good intentions. That the men she chose, she truly thought would be loving and devoted. That they would complete the circle, a happy family we would all be once more.

That couldn’t have been further from the truth.

I have very few, if any memories of my first step-father. Daddy replacement #1 was apparently someone my mother met in a bar. They had a whirlwind courtship and marriage quickly followed. I was very young, only about 5 or 6, my sister was two years older. While my mother’s ‘good intentions’ were to replace our father and to rebuild a family unit, she was also still a young woman and had not completely resigned herself to the role of ‘Mommy’. That and the sting of my father’s rejection, my mother was only too happy to drop my sister and I off at our grandparents on a regular basis so as to prolong the honeymoon period with her new husband. I’m not quite sure what type of man this person was that my mother married, although I gather he wasn’t exactly the fatherly type. 

It wasn’t too long after my mother had married this man that my grandmother began questioning her about strange marks and bruises on my sister and I. It became typical for us to get dropped off at our grandparents on a Friday and picked up on Sunday. During this carefree weekend, we would as children do, play and get dirty. It was at bathtime that my grandmother discovered adult-sized handprints, bruises, and welts on our behinds, arms, and legs. My mother denied having any knowledge and claimed not to know how these injuries occurred. There’s an old saying, “you can’t con a con” and my grandmother was the Queen of Con. If she wanted to get something out of you, you might as well just give it up.

Her laser beam focus on a goal was legendary. It didn’t take long for my mother to break.

My mother confessed that her newly beloved had lost this temper once or twice and that we received punishment for alledged offenses. My grandmother wasted no time in enlisting backup from our grandfather who explained in ways that can only be understood between two men, that should there be any further signs of battering or bruising on either one of us, it would not end pretty for either my mother or my stepfather. I have tried to remember this man, have tried to recall what he was like, but cannot. I imagine that’s a good thing, a built-in protective measure from memories too painful to relive. I don’t believe my mother was married to this man very long and am not sure how it ended only that it did.

When I attempted to talk about this brief unsavory union with my mother some years ago, she grew quiet, not saying much. Like my grandmother had done years before, I questioned her about the abuse my sister and I suffered, asked her if she knew and if so, why did she let it happen. As was the case some decades before, my mother feigned innocence and quickly changed the subject. I never brought it up again. I only know that somehow my mother was ill-equipped for motherhood, that she was unprepared for the role of single parenting and desperately wanted and needed a partner to help carry the burden.Unfortunately, my mother’s choices were less than satisfying and each one proved to be a little more frightening than the next.

It was as if my mother somehow subconciously picked the least likely to succeed. The one who came with outward appearances of stability but inside was as wiggly as Jello. The one who promised to have and to hold, to love and to cherish. The reality was much different. My mother seemed to pick men who would promise the moon and the stars, fail to deliver, and then ultimately leave. Now whether they left of their own accord or my mother made them leave, one will never know. I believe it was a little of both.

And though there is something so liberating about starting over in a new environment, it is also frightening, sad, and final. I sometimes secretly become attached to things, to people, to places. Outwardly, I try hard not to care about anything. Caring and becoming attached in my mind leads to disappointment, rejection, and pain.

It’s a well honed skill I suppose I learned early on and it’s a vow I’ve tried to keep. Try as I might to remain impervious to love and caring, I have ‘weakened’ many times throughout my life and allowed myself to love or be loved. I have lost more times than I care to admit and I have also won. It’s a constant struggle; I wrestle between wanting love and repelling it at every turn. To conveying love to another and bitterly withholding it like a miser.

I feel ashamed when I allow myself to love and starved when I don’t get enough.

Watching people I love or care about just pick up and leave has left me with a hole I’ve yet to fill thus far. It has left me feeling unworthy and incomplete. It has created this intense secret need to be loved, to be held, to be nurtured, to be wanted. It has made me ‘needy’ and I hate more than anything to feel that way. I try and reject it, to push it away, to push it down. It won’t go.

Who’s to blame? Mother? Father? Me?

Am I leaveable? Unloveable?

My father left my mother twice. The first time took place shortly after my sister was born, my mother initiated the split as she couldn’t take the drunken violent episodes my father would engage in on a nightly basis. They reconciled not long after, vowing to give it another try and as a result, I was conceived. I was unplanned, an ‘accident’ as they say. My father did not want to be married to a ‘baby maker’ and the financial burden was unthinkable.

My mother’s pregnancy with me was difficult, she was told that she would probably lose me, that it would all be over in a matter of days or weeks. For whatever reason, I held on. My thirst for life, my desire to live, was strong. My mother calls me a ‘miracle baby’. I was born a couple hours after Halloween(to which my husband says that explains alot about me) and though I was healthy in terms of weight, I came with a multitude of other problems. I was born with something known as Hyaline Membrane Disease. In layman’s terms, it’s basically a respiratory disorder. I was immediately placed in some type of ventilator where I would remain for several weeks. In addition, it was discoverd I had a Club foot which would result in ‘casting therapy’, and my left foot would remain bound for months in hopes of encouraging correct placement.

These issues devastated my young mother and instead of returning home with her newborn baby, she went home wracked with guilt and fear that I might not survive. She was given a sliver of hope by a compassionate nurse who confided in my mother that if I did manage to make it through these ordeals, I would most certainly be blind, deaf, and ‘dumb’. My father upon hearing this news, decided that it was my mother’s fault and openly chastised her for giving birth to such an imperfect child blaming her for all of my disabilities and disorders. He was angry that this was going to cost him ‘every penny’ he had made so far.

My father was just starting his ascension in the corporate world and while his financial status looked promising, it was no where near enough to provide for his growing family unit, much less one with problems such as mine. Not only did my father have to provide for his wife and daughter, he now had the added burden of providing for ‘damaged goods’. Financially, this was considered a loss.

This situation did not sit well with my father’s plan, what he had intended on when coming to America. My father struck out on his own, into the world and was intent on making a name for himself and to prove to his parents what a good boy he was. He faithfully and diligently sent home a portion of his earnings every month to his parents as a show of support and proof that America was the land of opportunity and he was intent on getting his slice of the pie.

While my father may have been generous with his family back home, he was Ebeneezer with his wife. My mother told me once how when the car needed gas, he would go out with a measuring stick and insert it into the gas tank to see exactly how much fuel was needed and would then give her the precise amount of money for gasoline. Not a penny more, not a penny less.

My father was so exacting in his thriftiness, he would literally allot a number of squares of toilet paper my mother was permitted to use when going to the bathroom. This was all too much for my mother who though she was used to craziness, wasn’t used to ‘rationing’ and the extreme measures my father enforced. Still, with all of the drinking, the tight-fisted ways, the icy reception my mother received, which she chalked up to his being ‘European’, my mother loved my father and saw in him a sort of brilliance and intelligence and was intent on being a loving, supportive wife.

With her blinders on, fully encapsulated in the role of motherhood and the promise of a second chance at reconcilliation, my mother never saw or sensed that she would be left, abandoned once more as she had been before so many years ago. My father would leave my mother a second time, ultimately for good. He not only left her, he left us as well. And while I may have been too young to realize what was happening, it somehow left an indelible scar, an ache that hasn’t been alleviated despite my various efforts to do so.

Were there clues to my father’s departure? Perhaps it was inability to be close to my mother, his rejection of her affections. Perhaps it was his cold and business-like demeanor. Perhaps it was his nightly drunken episodes where he would cry like a baby over his beloved homeland. Or maybe, it was the love letters my father had written to the Japanese dental assistant he fell in love with while on his travels as a young man.

My father met this enchanting creature before marrying my mother and having children. My mother discovered the letters in a drawer, tucked in among sheets of paper and other miscellaneous items. In the letters, were words she had never heard my father utter. Written lovingly and tenderly by a man my mother didn’t know existed. The letters spoke of longing and promises to bring his love to America and begin a life together. The dreams my mother had were shattered, innocence was truly lost at that moment and a lifetime of pain would ensue and cease to exist to this day.

Putting all the pieces together, my father’s goals were not my mother’s. Obviously. He had plans of climbing the corporate ladder, of achieving financial success and stature and that could not be done with a wife and two small children in tow. Instead of seeing my mother as an equal partner, someone to go through the trials and tribulations of life with, he saw her as a burden. Instead of being thrilled at having a beautiful, loving family that would further complement his success, my father saw us as baggage.

Like a skilled surgeon, my father precisely, cut the fat.

My father never did end up bringing his Cherry Blossom to America. Instead, he ended up moving across town to a small apartment where he set up camp as a bachelor and weekend parent. He quickly rebounded from this unfortunate event and proceeded to carry on business as usual, marching up the ladder of success. My mother however, was not as easily able to recover. This rejection and abandonement by my father would set off in my mother a decades long war against him and more poignantly, against my sister and I, his offspring. We were constant reminders of our father, her abandoner and for a time, our savior. She would for the years to follow, until we were able to escape, use us as pawns in her game of torment and retaliation.

As a result, I learned from a young age to hide my love, to disguise my feelings lest I be punished for exhibiting the most basic of human emotions. It is only until recently that I have begun to attempt to rid myself of this self-imposed prison I find myself in. To recognize and realize that love is not something to fear or run away from, but to actively seek out and give freely.

It’s a ‘flaw’ I’m learning to live with.

Men leave. The circumstances of which may vary but the finality is departure.

Men in my opinion seem to fall into 1 of 3 categories that set the stage for leaving: divorce, death, or distance. I must add that while one would conclude men leave mainly due to divorce or death, that isn’t always the case. Men can still be present physically, but their minds, hearts, loyalties, etc are decidedly gone. Sometimes, that’s worse than their complete absence altogether, the pain that much worse. It’s a festering wound that never has the chance to heal.

All the women in my family were or are powerful characters, forces to be reckoned with in their own unique way. I think my great-grandmother having come from such dire circumstances, must have known early on only the strong survive. A “Salt of the Earth” kind of woman, there was no room for weakness, no time for self-pity. You worked with the hand you were dealt, living was measured day by day as tomorrow offered no guarantees.

It is my understanding that my great-grandmother married a man much older than she, as a means to escape another man who became unbearable; her father. A physically abusive tyrannt, marriage seemed like an obvious choice for freedom. How wrong she would be.

“D” is for Death.

The events surrounding my great-grandfather’s death likely will remain a mystery, as all parties involved who have knowledge, are deceased. However, it was apparent he was “gone” long before he was shot and died as a result of his wounds. My great-grandfather was a serial cheater. He frequently enjoyed the carnal temptations of women other than his wife and was particularly fond of brothels. He would spend hours and precious paychecks fulfilling his desires. It is likely that my great-grandmother knew of his nefarious activities and simply chose to ignore them or did she?

Perhaps his lack of faithfulness was met with a bullet?

Whatever the case may be, he left.

My great-grandmother married a second time to a very loving, kind, and adoring man I have few memories of. She seemed lucky to have found such a man, one who was willing to take on a widow with a mysterious past and two children. However, what knowledge I do have, is that the relationship was solid and healthy and lasted until his death in the early 70′s from lung Cancer.

The second time around seemed to work for my great-grandmother.

It would take my grandmother however a few more trys to get it right and then get it wrong, again and again and again. Like her mother, she wed young and likely with the hope of marrying up and out of her less than tolerable situation. My grandfather’s mother was none too pleased in her son’s choice for a wife, deeming my grandmother as “not good enough”. The fact that she was white did not sit well either. Contrary to the opinions of the matriarch, passion over-ruled and a marriage took place. Shortly thereafter, my mother was born.

My grandmother with all of her ‘experience’ in men and armed with the education in relationships she received at home, ruled with an iron fist and an iron pussy. Lots of women use their sexuality to hold onto their men and my grandmother was no exception. She wielded her sex like a weapon and used it as bait to keep her husband at home. She was insatiable.

Fate would unfortunately cool my grandmother’s feminine inferno with the arrival of an order for my grandfather to report to war. Young, in love, and helpless to stop her husband from leaving, she watched him go with promises that he would soon return. Though my grandparents tried to keep the home fires burning from afar through letters and mementos, the stress of war took a toll on my grandfather’s body and ultimately his mind.

While operating as a gunner on a B17, my grandfather’s plane was shot down and he was taken prisoner-of-war by the Germans. My grandmother initially received a telegram that he was officially “MIA” but later received word that he was alive. I have no knowledge of how long he was there but at some point that he was released and allowed to return home.

Having been through something he could not explain nor wanted to, my grandfather slipped into a steady distance that only further enhanced my grandmother’s already clingy, unrelenting need.

When I asked my mother some years ago why my grandfather left my grandmother, she said he got tired of having his clothes thrown out on the lawn. He’d had enough and coupled with post-traumatic stress, leaving was the only thing he could do. While divorce, death, or distance seemed to be the obvious primary factors in my grandmother’s relationships with men, the more potent underlying truth was that my grandmother pushed every man away.

She so desperately craved love and affection, was fearful of being alone and yet, she drove them out with her episodes of rage, jealousy, badgering, belittling, and what I believe was an undiagnosed and untreated mental illness.

It’s these characteristics I’ve witnessed in my mother, my sister, and myself. It’s something that I have acknowledged for some time now and work consistently at dismantling. My daughter though young, exhibits some of the same idiosyncrasies thanks to having seen how I’ve handled myself in relationships, past and present. I take heart nevertheless in knowing that while she has seen me systematically annihilate my relationships, she has also seen the effort and hard work I put into being consistently honest, open, and attempting to heal my past and my pain.

My grandfather kept in contact with my grandmother off and on throughout the years, even asking at one point to reconcile, however my grandmother had quickly moved on and rebuffed my grandfather’s requests to reunite. While my grandmother ended up losing a husband, my mother more importantly, lost a father. In essence, it was abandonment.

This fact would resonate deeply in my mother’s psyche and I believe has been a contributing factor in some if not all of my mother’s failed relationships. Somehow, the message received was that she was not deserving of love. The first man a girl ever loves is her father. Getting rejected by that mythological creature can very well set her up for a lifetime of broken relationships.

I’ve been doing alot of that lately. I figure if I keep moving, time won’t catch up to me. But that’s another story. My marriage is currently in the shitter. Actually, it’s been on the down-slope for some time. There’s so many issues, I don’t even know what the actual problem is now. I just know that I don’t like the person I’m married to anymore and I’ve got to come to some sort of resolution about it. I’m not a quitter. I’m just tired.

I went to visit my mother last week. I took my daughter whom I “rescued” from the looney bin that is my father’s home. (I ask myself, “Is every member of my family totally fucking crazy or is it just me?”) My daughter was living there after my husband and I kicked her out for the 3rd time due to breaking the rules yet again when we were out of town. I vowed not to care. I vowed that this would be the last time, I was going to write her off, didn’t give a shit what happened to her. I’m weak, ok? I am not the perfect parent, I am a seriously flawed human being. Tough love? Please. I endured that-I’m still recovering.

I should have known before I got there that it would be difficult. My daughter, coming down from partying all week long prior, had an attitude. That defiant, “I’m going but I’m going because I want to, not because you are making me” kind of vibe. We really didn’t talk much of the way. She slept(like she hadn’t in days), used my cell to text her friends to tell them she was going to “the middle of nowhere” to visit her grandmother for a few days, and blasted some kind of really vulgar song by Afroman. Lovely.

I thought perhaps a trip to GM’s might cool her down, get her away from all the “bad elements”. Give her chance to stop and think about what she was doing with herself. Get a fresh perspective on things. Re-evaluate her situation. Actually, my motives were not purely selfless. I really wanted to unplug from my marriage for a minute, figure out what the Hell I was going to do with my crappy situation. A trip to the “middle of nowhere” might be enlightening for us both. Boy was I wrong. The fact that my stomach was in knots the whole way should have been an indication this was going to turn out horribly wrong.

We arrived late enough in the night so sleep was an easy escape from having to deal with any unpleasant communicating. Yay avoidance! I was completely exhuasted from just having driven 10 hours and all I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep? What’s that? I forgot that my mother likes to leave her television on all night. I also didn’t count on her being a little drunk or in the mood to “catch up” at 3 in the morning. Fuck. As I lay there half-comatose trying to be polite, all I could think about was how I couldn’t wait to leave.

The first few days were a bit uncomfortable but not completely unbearable. My daughter and mother had not seen each other in a long time, each only had knowledge of the other based on what I told them. Honestly, what I told each of them about the other wasn’t always the most complimentary. It was usually bitching about the latest irritation or drama that occurred. I had no idea really that they would use that information against each other.

I need to learn to keep my mouth shut more often.

As the week wore on, my daughter and mother seemed to relax a bit. Formalities were put aside and they started to get that special bond back that only grandparents and grandchildren have with each other. Sigh of relief. I should have held my breath a little longer. In an effort to ‘relate’ to my daughter, my mother offered her a cocktail one evening. Big Mistake. First of all, here I am sober myself, trying to live a cleaner life and trying to set a good example for my kid. I brought my daughter to my mother’s home to get her away from drugs and alcohol and she’s serving her Screwdrivers with crushed ice and a twist of lemon. WTF?

That was all my daughter needed to see what else she could get outta ole’ Grannie. My daughter saw the cocktail as a sign that perhaps being at GM’s wasn’t that bad. In fact, Summer was coming, she wasn’t in school, had no job, why not stay here and chill out for a while? My mother thought it was a great idea! I thought I just shit myself. Soon, they had a plan. My daughter would apply at the local supermarket, the coffee shop, diner, etc. My mother would take her to the DMV to get her license, the free clinic could help her get back on meds. Problems solved.

While my daughter and mother were in the Honeymoon phase of their relationship, I started to panic. How was this ever going to work? What am I going to tell my husband? What happens when my daughter gets bored after a couple of weeks and wants to come home? What if my daughter “borrows” my mother’s car without permission? What if my mother goes bat-shit on my daughter and somebody loses a body part?

Fuck sobriety, somebody get me a Screwdriver Stat!

I didn’t need to come up with nightmare scenarios much longer as my daughter thinking she had it in the bag, let her hair down and began to behave how she normally did at home: after sleeping like a princess till noon, she would awaken to help herself to some food, leaving her dishes in the sink, take a long leisurely shower, and plop her fanny down in front of my mother’s computer to not only check her MySpace but download a couple of songs for good measure! This just about blew my mother’s silicone fun bags out.

The mother I know, would have yanked my daughter up by the short hairs and read her the riot act after kicking her ass. She said nothing. Well, she verbally said nothing. Her eyes were doing all the talking. I could see those glassy brown orbs go from calm to bloodshot in seconds. I could see the signs but I tried to ignore them. I could feel the tension taking a palpable shape in what used to be a calm atmosphere. Suddenly, it occurred to me. This felt just like it did years ago.

My mother and sister used to go at it like a couple of extreme fighters. ‘Fuck you’s’ and fists flying in every direction. I remember being so terrified and helpless. My sister, who at 15 went gleefully and vigorously headfirst into the world of boys, booze, and barbituates, was no angel. My mother having graduated from the school of hard knocks, ruled with an iron fist. Literally. Every time they would get into a screaming match or a knock down drag-out, I would just try and find some place to HIDE. I would get a lump in my throat, my stomach started doing cartwheels, and I wished more than anything that it would just stop.

Both my sister and I were physically, emotionally, and verbally abused by our mother from about the ages of 6 & 8. Spare the rod, spoil the child some say. Beating the crap out of your child until they are missing tufts of hair is another. Instruments of torture? Hairbrushes, metal spatulas, belts, belt buckles, wooden spoons, plastic dolls, shoes, hands both open and closed are the ones I remember.

My daughter and I had been at my mother’s house for exactly 6 days when everything came to a head. She had pushed my mother just a tad too far. I’m not sure if it was the snarky comments, the roll of the eyes for the 20th time, the local boy she had somehow met on MySpace and had call the house, the empty vodka bottle, or the fact that when my mother went to play a cd in her computer no sound came out? Whatever it was, it proved to be fatal.

I was taking a much needed shower when I heard the infamous shriek. My mother has this gut wrenching shriek where you just know the shit has hit the fan. It’s every man for himself. I come out with a towel on, hair dripping, to find my mother eyes ablaze and fangs bared. My daughter is trying her best to hold her ground, give my mother the stink eye, but in reality, she looks scared shitless. My mother after calling my daughter a little drunken slut, orders her to sleep in the car. My daughter calls my mother a crazy bitch and I’m standing there in a towel frozen stiff. They continue to sling arrows for another 15 minutes, each one more and more intense, my mother looks like she is getting ready to draw blood.

I honestly believe that had I not been there, my mother would have physically assaulted my daughter. I think my mother saw the same similarities I did in my daughter and my sister, and it brought her screeching right back to the past. The unresolved past. While I have managed to make peace with my mother, my sister has not. She and my mother haven’t spoken in years.

I thawed out long enough during WWIII to realize the only smart and safe thing to do for everyone involved was to leave. Immediately. I hastily began to pack all my belongings, telling my daughter to do the same. My mother who probably did not expect such a reaction, snapped out of her rage and began to beg me to stay. She apologized for her tirade, telling me it was all her fault, that she did not mean to frighten me. I wasn’t even listening. All I was thinking about was getting my stuff and getting the hell out of there as fast as I could.

My mother followed me from room to room, telling me it was much too late to drive home now, that couldn’t I at least wait till morning? I had to admit, I was tired, worn out really. I had thought my mother’s home would be a quiet, relaxing refuge and instead was a vortex of insanity. My mother convinced me to stay until morning after making arrangements to stay overnight at a friend’s home. She rationalized that this would give everyone a chance to cool down and perhaps I would change my mind and want to stay?

After my mother left, my daughter who had previously lost the ability to speak, began ripping ole GM a new one. I didn’t even bother to stop her. I was mentally tapped and still reeling from what had just happened. I tried to sleep but to no avail, could not. I ended up smoking about 50 cigarettes on my mother’s porch and at around 5 am, made a pot of the blackest coffee ever. I loaded all of my belongings into the car and roused my daughter and asked her to do the same. My plan was to be gone before my mother got back-avoid rekindling the flames so to speak.

She called just before we were headed out. My mother hesitantly asked me to stay, though I think secretly she was praying I would decline, which I did. I told her I had a million things to do at home, get my daughter back on track and into some type of normal routine, none of which could be done from the seventh level of Hell. Actually, I didn’t say that last part.
Funny how a crisis can bring people closer together.
To Be Continued…

A virtual insane asylum in which the insane were running the asylum.

Ever seen Mommy Dearest? I think Joan Crawford may have taken a lesson or two from my maternal grandmother. My mother lived under severe conditions and was repeatedly subjected to abandonement and abuse from not only her mother but from her adoptive father as well. As is usually the case in this scenario, unless otherwise treated with some form of therapy or rehabilitation, the abused becomes the abuser. Which is exactly what my mother became.

My grandmother I’ve learned as an adult, was a woman of secrets-hers and others. She was like a repository for things not spoken, truths that were best left hidden. My grandmother was Switzerland. While there was always this projection of cheery warmth, love and affection, I now know this was an illusion. The reality was much darker, a bittersweet life that was affected by mental illness and wasted with feelings of jealousy, fear and anger.

Ultimately, those emotions would be the catalysts for her decline.

My grandmother died from complications related to Alzheimer’s several years back, and I have mixed emotions regarding her when she comes to mind. I volley between feelings of love, disgust, admiration and disappointment. The woman I thought I knew, that I loved, was in reality, a very disturbed, angry and vindictive individual. Her love came with a price I never knew I was paying, and she betrayed and robbed me of having a normal, safe and happy childhood by turning her own child into a monster who ultimately, turned on me.

Looking back, my recollections as a child and as a teenager, were relatively happy when I was in her home and in her care. My grandmother was an extremely strong and intelligent woman. Fiercely funny and quick witted, she was snappy with the one-liners and did have a sort of jovial, happy-go-lucky attitude. My grandmother could be loving and nuturing, and her home was a type of refuge I could count on to provide shelter from the outside world. I must be honest though and say that, there were moments when as a child I would at times give pause to a situation or scenario, but I was a kid and couldn’t put the pieces together.

As much as I can say that I have mostly happy memories of my grandmother when I was younger, my mother tells a very different story. Hers is one of sheer terror, escape and survival, and eventually, the aftermath.

She was born to parents too young from two different worlds. My mother was born in Arizona to a white mother and a hispanic father. My grandfather’s family was a large, tight-knit, hardworking Catholic bunch helmed by a somewhat snooty matriarch. They owned and operated the only bakery in town and were considered middle class. My grandmother’s family was small, frequently volatile, and each member was required to work in order to keep the unit together. My great-grandmother picked cotton and my great-grandfather hauled water with a yoke across his shoulders for nickles. While they were for the most part respectable, this branch of the family tree came from relative poverty with a dark and spotty lineage.

Every family has skeletons in the closet. It seems that mine had them in the closet, the bathroom, the bedroom, and the basement. Supposedly, there’s a great-great grandfather on my maternal side who was a violent alcoholic that liked to beat his wife and children. He gained a bit of notoriety in the local paper when he received a write-up for dragging his wife by her hair through the center of town. Then there’s a great-grandfather who blew in from Texas, (no one knows for sure) who aside from drinking and fighting, enjoyed the company of women other than his wife. He would take my grandmother as a young girl with him to brothels where she would sit on the steps outside, waiting for him to finish his business.

He died in his late 40′s from a shotgun blast to the chest that as my mother tells it, remains a mystery. MORE SECRETS. You know the old story, there was an argument, a gun was drawn, then a tug of war over the gun, and then BOOM! Everyone who was there or knows what really happened is dead. My grandmother told my mother the story but never really believed her version. It made the papers, there was an inquiry and it was ruled “accidental”.

Case closed.

I get the feeling that my grandmother was quite close to her father, revered him in a way. I also get the feeling that perhaps the relationship wasn’t very healthy and that my grandmother was allowed whether intentionally or not into the inner sanctum between my great-grandparents. Times being what they were back then, homes were small, the insides smaller. If you had a big family or even a small family, chances are you would all be living closely.

That being said, my grandmother frequently had front-row seating when it came to watching the intimacies between her mother and father. As a child, you may get a glimpse or chance upon your parents being intimate and recoil at the sight and split. Apparently, my grandmother was completely fascinated and became a voyeur from an early age.

It seems that sex or sexuality would always play a large role in her life. She was obsessed with her own sexuality and everyone else’s. While always maintaining this outer semblance of virtue, my grandmother was a raging inferno. And it’s very possible that aside from all my grandmother’s other issues, she was also a nymphomaniac.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

‘Daddy’ as my mother likes to refer to my father, was very charming and handsome apparently. He was young, ambitious, and from another country. He was beginning his climb up the corporate ladder in the financial industry and my mother was a young, chubby, naive clerk at the bank they both worked at.My father was no heir to a throne and came from unbelieveably extreme conditions. Being the eldest of six children, responsibilities were pressed upon him at an early age.

While most of us can recall relatively fond childhood memories, I gather from what little I know, that my father’s recollections aren’t as pleasant. The family business, started by his great-great grandfather was one of a physical nature, strictly blue collar. And while my father did try his hand at it briefly, it quickly became obvious, he had neither the dexterity nor the desire to take over.It seems that my uptight, straight-laced, all-business father was a bit of a dreamer with a longing for travel. He had spent all of his childhood and youth in the same village, and the hunger to see the world was a call he needed to answer. So it was at the tender age of 23, that he and four of his childhood friends embarked upon an epic journey.In a Volkswagon microbus.

He worked at a gas station and took night classes to further his abilities in both banking and English. When he had saved up enough money, he made the move to California and his fate was sealed. All of our fates I suppose. I have never figured out if the events of life are purely accidental, luck, or destiny. Perhaps it’s a combination of all three?

Whatever the case may be, life would never be the same.I don’t know all of the details, and I am hoping to get my hands on and translate a certain journal that my father kept on his travels, but I do know that aside from visiting places like France, England, Holland, and Italy, my father also went to Turkey, India, and as far away as Japan.Ahh Japan. To think I could have been Miko instead of Moni.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

My father came to the United States on a visa, New York City to be precise. He stayed with a cousin who had emigrated some years before, bunking on a couch, and watching television as often as possible so as to improve his broken English. He had completed as much education as he could back home and apprenticed at the local bank, but my father had his sights set on a different life.

The residents mostly consist of ex-hippies, ex-druggies, or “artists”. Everyone I’ve seen so far looks like they’ve had or may still be having some type of relationship with crystal meth. And I swear I saw Wild Bill Hickok just the other day…

Not much action here unless you like to drink. That seems to be a favorite past time for most of the residents. The most exciting thing I’ve surmised thus far is, the wild Javelinas that come trotting down the street in mini-herds. These freaky-looking, wiry-haired, tusked creatures are commonplace and protected.

It’s supposed to snow this weekend, so I’m really looking forward to that. Thank God for the Internet! At least I have some sort of access to the outside world, able to check my email, although no one is emailing. I keep trying to envision this as a type of retreat. A detox from the chaotic pace of modern civilization if you will. I’m going fucking crazy. Seriously.

I did bring my sleeping pills just in case.

Not that I’m able to sleep really. My mother owns two humongous beasts. They are both a type of herding dog, so lack of energy is never an issue. One weighs about 65 pounds, the other around 24, and they are constantly flatulent. The dogs like to sleep with my mother.

My mother has one bed.

Imagine this scenario; I’m clinging desperately to a sliver of mattress, a corner of the sheet covers maybe my elbow, my lower limbs are numb from lack of mobility, thanks to the girth of my mother’s “babies”. My eyes are stinging and I have a slight metallic taste of vomit in my mouth due to the odorous emissions lingering just above my head.

I wish those damn sleeping pills would kick in.
Unfortunately, the soundtrack to The English Patient is droning in my ear. My mother has to have the television on when she goes to bed in order to fall asleep. Each night, she randomly selects an epic from a woven straw basket that sits on the floor next to an antique secretary’s desk, that holds the device of sleep-deprivation. She pops in the movie, climbs into bed, and within minutes begins snoring ever so gently. The dogs usually climb aboard once my mother is encased in flannel, and I begin another long journey into night.

So far, I’ve memorized the lines to Titanic, Gladiator, Out of Africa, and Elizabeth.

It hasn’t been all bad really. My mother and I have had some wonderful talks. We have covered a wealth of topics ranging from my father’s receding hairline to the dozen ways you can give a man a hand-job. These wonderful little mother-daughter chats have occurred in the evening after she’s had a few cocktails.

I’m currently in the midst of a marital crisis among other things and my mother bless her heart, tipsy though she may be, has good intentions. With breath that could light a match and eyes as glassy as the crystal in her cabinet, hands me a book entitled; “How to tickle his Pickle” and slurs, “Thish book ish a life-shaver”

I think I can faintly hear the intro to Memoirs of a Geisha beginning…

Instant Internet Pariah.

However, I’ve just spent the last 90 odd minutes or so watching “The Secret” and having been told repeatedly to ask the Universe for what I want, visualize that I’ve already got it, and thank the Heavens for what I do have, I’m going to believe with every fiber of my being that this is going to take the Internet by storm. I’m seriously hoping for like a category 5, in that all inland areas will be flooded with my brilliance.

Be careful what you wish for…

And soon, I’ll be sitting on some famous person’s couch (oh God, please not Dr. Phil!) regaling them with my stories of discount rags to designer riches. The Laws of Attraction declare that essentially, what I put out in the Universe is what I get back. Double Double with cheese, extra spread, no onions please?

I think I’m doing this more for me than for anyone else. Call it a need to purge, to get off my chest, my back, and a little off the hips, what has been burdening me mentally, emotionally, and at times physically for a little over 2 decades.

So, I’m choosing to do it publicly. Isn’t that why they call it “blogging”?

I’m prepared for what may come: the jeers, the jabs, the jubilation. There is a certain kind of freedom in un-burdening one’s self with the baggage of your past. Why not therapy? Been there, done that. Since the ripe old age of 8, thank you very much. I always found myself wanting to fix them, not the other way around.
“Catharsis” is defined as:

“a purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear) primarily through art”
 
“a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension”
 
“the elimination of a complex by bringing it to consciousness and affording it expression”

There you have it.

I used to suffer from Bulimia, so I know all about binging and purging.

This should be a snap!