Paying your Dues…
There’s a lot of news right now about men in power sexually abusing those not in power. Years, and sometimes decades go by and these victims don’t speak up, not a word. They bundle up their nasty secrets, carrying them deep inside their psyche, where they quietly fester and infect, never healing.
Why don’t they talk? Why the silence for years then a sudden surge of going public? Are these people making this shit up? Do they want attention? Money? What the fuck is going on? They must be lying, most likely to exact revenge for some mis-perceived slight which they probably deserved anyway.
Some lucky fuckers don’t get it. Why the silence? These people that don’t get it are members of a small elite society. They’ve never been a victim. They wouldn’t know how. They get to go to bed at night and there is no monster looming. They’re not guarded in their joy. Their world isn’t constrained by a narrow field of safety. When they laugh, there is no sinister voice quietly insisting that they have no right to happiness. They have no “dirty” secrets to hide. They are faultless.
Most likely, if you’re in this group, it’s through no effort of your own. It’s just shit luck that you landed there. I’m not chastising you for being one of the luckies, but you need to understand why victims don’t talk and stop making their lives worse by doubting their honesty.
Last night my husband asked me if I had anything happen sexually to me as an adult that I kept secret. I had to stop and think. Surprisingly, the answer was “no.” At least not as an adult. It was at that point I realized how very lucky I am. Yes, there has been a lot of teasing and joking around, but it’s not the same as being coerced to give someone you detest a blow job so you can keep your job, life, car, whatever.
Yes, I said blow job. It’s easy (sort of) to say, “I was sexually abused.” It’s hard as fuck to say, “I had to pull on his dick and then suck it until he ejaculated all over my face.” The details are humiliating and if you can understand that, then you can understand one of the reasons victims stay quiet. Who wants to admit to that shit? Out loud? Don’t think so.
But the main reason is shame. We are taught (let’s call it by it’s real name: groomed) as children to do as our grownups–teachers, parents, superiors–said. Be a good girl. Obey. Obey. Obey. The more this is crammed into your developing being, the more likely you’re going to keep your trap shut about stuff that’s obviously your own fault. Obey.
Shame says: But hey! Let’s face it. You could have said no. You could have walked away. You could have asserted yourself. You should have accepted that you were going to lose your job, or your friend, or your father, uncle, or who-the-fuck-ever. But you didn’t. Shut the fuck up and don’t talk about it.
Victims aren’t stupid. Yes, the rational brain quietly and logically says you didn’t do it of your own free will, and it’s not your fault. But we don’t listen to our brains. Not when the child heart is screaming, accusing you. “You didn’t stop it. You made a choice not to stop it. This is your fault. You’re a dumb fuck and deserve this.” “Your fault.” “Your fault.” “Your fault.” There is no “no” in your vocabulary.
That’s bullshit. You know it. I know it. What’s worse, the victims know it. Yes, their cognitive powers can explain in simple terms why it’s not their fault, but the child heart always prevails. Unless you can feel your own innocence in your heart, it matters diddly squat what your common sense is telling you. You can’t logic away feelings, not even you Sagittarians. The shame is all yours, to have and to hold.
In a convoluted sort of way, I have the best of both worlds.
I was raised a victim. I know the fear. That fucking sinking dread taking over when you realize it’s going to happen (again) and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it. The terror paralyzes you. There is no fight, never a fight, just a despondent acquiescence. Obey. Obey. Obey. There is no “no” in your world. And it happens again and again and again and again and again and again. Each time, your shame buries the shards of your self worth deeper and deeper into the silence until there is no longer a you.
I went through a lot of shit when I was a kid. It wasn’t until my husband asked me that question that I realized that I’m no longer a victim. I am no longer powerless. I’m no longer a deer in the headlights. But I get it. I know why victims don’t talk. And hopefully, now you do too.
I paid my dues. They’re paying theirs too.
Trigger Warning.
This post is about memories of child sexual abuse and more that I knew were there but didn’t have access to. These memories are very detailed now and I need to get them out into the air where they can be looked at, remembered and finally removed from the depths of my psyche. I am healing. But if you’re pretty triggered, don’t read this. I don’t have many followers so there’s always that safety belt.
These are things that are so awful to me, they need to be said out loud.
Also, with this Ramsay Hunt crap, I can’t see very well so I don’t know how to fix the formatting here. But here we go. I am writing this letter to my own self:
LETTER TO DEBBIE:
Dear Debbie,
What in the hell is happening to me? I have Ramsey Hunt Syndrome. I’m in pain and the steroids are messing up my calm.Things are coming back to me, things that happened to me. Unspeakable things that I need to say out loud.
I was raised by a monster. Not just a child molester, not just a freak. An out and out psychotic monster.
I’ve seen things and I’ve buried them and now they’re popping up like moles in my garden. I don’t want them. Please I don’t want to know these things. I was doing fine, goddamit just fucking fine.
My first memory that came back: I was maybe two years old. I was wearing shorts so the weather must have been warm. He put me on his lap. He pulled out his pocket knife and ran it gently inside my thighs. No cuts, just a tickle.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
Other memories. Then he graduated. He did stuff to me. He would grab my young hand and place it over his erect penis and push my hand to pump on him. 4 years old.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
My mother’s mother was raised by Catholic nuns in the early 1900’s. I was trained from the time I could listen not to let others touch my private parts. Not even myself. It was dirty and a horrible sin and there would be nothing but shame on me if I touched myself.
But she didn’t mention my father. Or my uncle. Or my neighbor. Or the others.
I was raised to be a good girl. It was the 1950’s. Never raise a fuss, don’t complain and most of all:
Don’t tell.
Ok.
I’ve experienced things. It was my normal childhood. Because I was dirty and ashamed, I was quiet. I didn’t talk much and was painfully shy.There was no one to talk to because I was completely alone in the world, just me and my grimacing shame.
Memory: Our house had two doors to the bathroom. One in the kitchen and one through the back bedroom. Young and potty trained me in the bathroom and quietly the bedroom door would open and my uncle would come in. He showed me his greasy red penis, purple veins, pushing it into my face. He put his giant fingers inside my little girl’s body. His thick tongue on my face.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
I became afraid of the bathroom. When I had to pee, I would go find a quiet corner anywhere, squat down and squeeze with all my might until the need to urinate dissipated. I remember horrible back pain from this but it kept me out of the bathroom.
My mother was puzzled and asked if it would be better if the toilet was in the kitchen. I was so happy because I thought in my child brain that it was actually a possibility. It wasn’t.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
At night I slept on the top bunk of cheap metal bunk beds. I wet the bed constantly to the point that the saturated mattress dripped on my brother’s head sleeping below. I slept under a bare light bulb just inches from my face. But still the monsters came for me in the night. The atrocities.
And still, I was told, “Don’t tell.”
Ok.
These memories are flooding over me so quickly I am shaking. They’ve been buried for so long. I don’t want them to come out.
When I was newly married, my first husband wanted a child of his own. I had severe problems with fertility, from the years of abuse as well as a long lasting infection from an IUD. The doctor said the infection was because I wasn’t clean. Again, I’m dirty. Sinful. Except I was impulsively clean but he was a man and a doctor so I believed him.
I had one Fallopian tube, riddled with scar tissue. The surgery opened it up and a plastic tube was placed inside to keep it open in the hopes I could conceive. I was placed on bed rest for six weeks, given massive doses of steroids to slow down the healing. And because I was so obsessively busy, I was also given high doses of morphine. The combination of heavy drugs messed up my head.
I spent the majority of my time on the sofa. The drugs made me pretty goofy. I couldn’t sleep but would lie there at night in the darkness, dreaming, but being awake. I would get up and move items around the room because they would weird me out.
One night, I had an awake dream. I saw a portion of a kitchen. The old wood cabinets were painted a bright red but there were strips of paint missing, peeled away. The linoleum floor was grey and cracked. There was an aura of dirt. Sitting on the floor there was a little girl, a toddler really, maybe 18 months old, not quite two. She had dark curly hair and blue eyes. The eyes gave off an air of innocence and calm. She looked at me quietly. She was wearing a white frilly dress and it was filthy from the grime.
I realized at that moment that I was looking at myself. Goddammit! I was just a tiny little fucking innocent baby and not one thing that was done to me was my fault. This dream changed my life. It freed me from the life long guilt and shame. It wasn’t my fucking fault. It just was not my fucking fault at all. I wasn’t given a choice, I was preyed upon by malicious sick monsters. God damn it why was that so hard to understand? I was freed from the guilt that had imprisoned me for so long.
Why are victims blaming themselves? It’s because we’re groomed to feel guilty and ashamed. It’s how these perverts keep us in line. And you know what? First of all if you’ve never had this experience, you’re fucking lucky. You won the baby lotto. A victim can go through years of therapy and your brain will say, yes, I was just a child, not my fault, not my fault. But you go on and the guilt and blame just sit there, they get no more attention because your brain knows it wasn’t your fault. But it’s still there, haunting you deep inside. Until you can feel that innocence in your heart like I did, it won’t go away. It changed my life. I was proud to be a survivor.
And I don’t know if there is a drug around that can fix that shit.
Where was my mother? Why didn’t she protect me? How is it even possible that she didn’t know? All the indications were there, almost slapping her in the face. I peed the bed until I was 12, I sucked my finger until I was 12. I was unable to look at people. I was weird. I was quiet.
And my mom was busy. She had seven kids, I was number two and the first daughter so helped her with the babies.
My mother suffered from severe depression hidden by a wicked sense of humor (Robin Williams, hello). When she gave birth to me in New York, they put her in a sanitarium for six weeks and gave her shock treatments. My aunt took care of me back then. I was a very quiet baby she said. I was no trouble.
My father’s family talked them into moving to Washington where they could “get help” for her. It didn’t work out that way. These women (they weren’t even his family, he had been kidnapped) were hillbilly assholes who treated my mom with outright disdain. They made fun of her accent, her inability to cook and they made sure all of us kids followed suit.
Memory: When I was six I had to babysit my baby brother (he was an infant) while he took my mother out for the evening. The baby cried almost all night. Daylight came and he came home alone. He told me that mom had spent the night somewhere.
Later that day she came home. She was covered in blood and strange clothing. On her deathbed, she told me he had drugged her and left her in the woods, and he had done unspeakable things to her. She had no memory of what had happened except she was naked and knocked on someone’s door for help. They brought her home. But she knew things had happened to her.
No consequences.
Memories pouring out that I can’t stop: He, taking young me aside and showing me pictures of my mother, obviously drugged, in poses with animals. He showed me pictures of things that were so perverted and so bad, I immediately hid them away so I didn’t have to know them.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
So many more of these. I can’t stop them anymore and I can’t stop shaking. I’ve fought for a normal life all my life and I am a happy person. I have my soul mate husband, I have my children, my dogs, my art and some amazing friends that mean so much to me I could weep with gratitude. But fuck the perverts who robbed me of my childhood and my innocence.
How can I get this nightmare to stop? My mother died of colon cancer at 45. I took care of her. Before she died she spoke of the things that happened but I tuned her out. I told my counselor later that of course she died, what other options were left to her?
Enough for now. I’m despondent. I need these memories to stop.
But right now besides all the emotion, I am so very angry. Why do people hurt babies? I’m intelligent. I was tested in high school and my IQ scored well above average. The counselors couldn’t understand why I skipped school, hung out with the drug crowd, why I didn’t care. Why I kept punishing myself.
But what could I have been? What if I had been treated like a child instead of a sex toy for perverts?
Oh the ignorance of my parents. We had no books. My brother, one year older, was allowed to go to kindergarten. He brought home books. He didn’t learn, typical boy, but I taught myself to read his books. The family was so surprised: She’s so smart, look at her read, and they would pass a newspaper to me where I would quietly sound out the words.
But that was it. No encouragement. No books. I was just an aside kid afraid of the dark.
In first grade, Richard, my classmate sat with me, handing me crayons and telling me the colors. It was simple. Hell, my two year old grandson knows all his colors.
Ok, I’m exhausted. Maybe it’ll be enough for now. I need to grieve for the baby and young adult that was me. I’m so sad for what she had to go through.
Thanks for letting this out, Debbie. Maybe you can heal now.
Also, Don’t Tell.
Fuck you I’m telling.
Love,
Debbie
Well I’m sick and I have stuff to say.
I don’t write often enough, but here I am.
On July 10th I was diagnosed with oral shingles. I had shingles in my throat, mouth and tongue. I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t eat.
On July 11th I woke up with the left side of my face drooping. I looked like I had a stroke. Thankfully, the ER doctor at St. Michaels in Silverdale knew something was awful and I was admitted. Long story short, I have Ramsay Hunt Syndrome. Ramsay Hunt Syndrome is a type of shingles that attacks the nerve in your ear. This is the nerve that spreads throughout your face. The left side of my face is about a half inch lower than the right side and my eye doesn’t close unless I tape it.
Justin Bieber had Ramsay Hunt Syndrome. It’s good in a way because its brought this rare type of shingles into the light. It takes months and sometimes years to get better.
At the hospital I was given IV antiviral meds as well as steroids. The pain is unbelievable. I spent six days in the hospital bed, most of the time curled up in a ball. I had my iPad playing old videos constantly at low volume because my ear hurt too much to use my ear buds and I didn’t want the noise to bother my nurses.
My nurses were wonderful. They were kind, the were generous with the drugs and they spent time talking to me. They made me feel like I was human.
What did I look like? Well, I looked like a Picasso painting gone south. I couldn’t look in the mirror without horror.
Well I couldn’t see much anyway.
Ramsay Hunt Syndrome can and does cause you to go blind on that side and you can also go deaf. I have single sided vision and hearing so this was an emergency. I believe I’m going to be ok with the sight and hearing but this is a long process. I can’t see well yet.
Besides the physical hell I’ve been going through, the huge doses of steroids are taking a huge toll on me. I can’t sleep, the insomnia from the drugs is exhausting.
But most importantly, my mind is starting to remember very clearly things that have happened to me that have been buried. Steroids and I have a history of this. It was years ago when I was on steroids that I was having awake dreams and one of those dreams I saw a small girl. Innocent blue eyes. And I realized it was me. I was an innocent victim. Not my fault at all. It saved me.
It always comes down to childhood crap, doesn’t it? Being sexually abused rears its ugly head at the worst times.
I am being inundated with memories. Memories so very clear I can remember clothes I was wearing, smells I was smelling and the gut grabbing fear of knowing that this shit was going to happen again.
But it’s not frightening me, this reliving of these horrors. It’s like I’m watching from a distance, far away, seeing these things, these people, not with shame but with kindness and sadness for the little girl that was almost destroyed by psychotic monsters. I had no idea that these things happened until I did. And then it was wow, what assholes and why were these people never put into jail or punished in some manner. But I’m not upset, I’m interested. And as fast as these memories hit, I type them out. I’m thankful for my career as a paralegal as I can pretty much type as fast as I can think. This is important since I can’t see very well yet.
Putting the memories onto paper helps me. Once they’re on the paper the power disappears and I am fine. I have my cousin Lorraine to thank for this habit.
And you know what? I am fine. No matter how the evil people tried to destroy me, they failed. I am strong and I am a happy person. Well normally I’m happy, right now I’m just plain sick from this damned disease.
My question is: Do I post these? I’ve written myself letters. They are extremely graphic because they have to be. I can’t try to soften these experiences, I need to get them out in the open, let the bleeding begin so I can look at them, acknowledge them and go on with my life.
To say I feel relief is an understatement. What I feel is immense sadness because my childhood was taken from me from the time I was a toddler, relief that it’s over and finally, I feel whole. I didn’t know I wasn’t before, but I feel like a whole human being right now.
But I don’t know if I should put this out there where the internet can be cruel.
Its very possible that nobody reads anything I write anyway so this may be a moot point, but I thought I’d get it out there.
April 2, 1976
Well, it’s been a minute as they say. Today is April 2, 2026. Lots of things going on in the world but you don’t need my opinion. We have too many opinions right now that have caused a huge divide among friends, family, strangers. Let’s leave it at that and hope and pray we find a way to come together before its too late.
Today being April 2, 2026 is the 50th year of my mom’s death. It still feels surreal after all these years, no–decades even. I can still see her in her final hour lying in the hospital bed at Valley General. She was skeletal thin but still had thick black hair. Horse hair is how she used to describe it. The nurse gently told me she was unable to get a blood pressure. I had just turned 22 a few days earlier and was ignorant as to what that even meant. Mom was awake but almost frantic with her words. She said vehemently, “I forgive everybody. I forgive everybody.” At the time I was a little irritated. After all, I had been taking care of her for months, changing her bandages, feeding her, sharing the baby’s room with her. So what was to forgive? Yes, I took it personally. She also told me this: “Debbie, quit smoking, tell Billy to quit drinking and get the baby baptized.”
I felt panic rising up into my throat. I hurriedly told my aunt who was with me that it was time to go. Visiting hours were up. My aunt looked surprised but acquiesced. I said, “Bye, Mom, see you tomorrow.” She didn’t respond.
She died a little bit later. I heard the phone ring and of course it was the doctor apologetically explaining that my mom had just died.
Mom died ten minutes after midnight. What anyone who knew her would acknowledge how apropos of my mother’s timing:
First: April Fools Day was her favorite day of the year. She looked forward to it every year with relish. And by relish, you should know it wasn’t against her grain to put some in one of our shoes on April Fools Day. Oh the cackling sounds she made, so very pleased with terrorizing her children.
Secondly: Mom was habitually late. Every.single.time. No matter the reason, no matter the emergency of the situation, she dawdled. OMG she dawdled. She always showed up (well most always, many times I ended up just walking home because she took so long.) So I’ll give her that. It actually wasn’t bad all the time because she was usually about 30 minutes late to church (for an hour mass) so I appreciated the shortness of the ceremony.
So that is why it makes total sense that she died ten minutes later than she would have liked.
And because this is about me all the damn time, I have felt guilty for exactly 50 years for leaving my mother to die alone. I’ve struggled with it for what seems like my whole adult life. I should have stayed. I panicked. Funnily enough, from then on, I tried to make up for it. But nope. When our little cocker spaniel needed to be euthanized, I dropped him off at the vet. Yep, feeling pretty guilty. When my second mom and beloved mentor was dying of cancer, I sat by her side at the hospital every night, all night long. Holding her hand, wishing I could keep her alive. When the time came when her breathing changed, once again I ran. I didn’t feel so bad this time because her daughters were there. This happened to me over an over until the day my son’s aunt died. I held her hand and felt so much love in the room. She slipped away quietly with me holding her hand. It felt better.
So thanks to that aunt’s son, Mom finally has a gravestone. I’ll show it off here. It’s not what I wanted it to say but I love how it turned out.
So that’s April 2, 2026, the day my mom died, the day my dog Abbey was born, and the day my dear friend’s dog Brian died.
If you have a mom, please go spend some time with her when you can. Even if you’re angry with her, make peace. Once she’s gone, your life will be forever changed.
Thanks for reading, she said to the people who never read her blog. LOL
Ugh.
I am so triggered every day by this Epstein horror. Believe the children. FFS! Believe the children.
I am so triggered every day by this Epstein horror. Believe the children. FFS! Believe the children.
I am so triggered every day by this Epstein horror. Believe the children. FFS! Believe the children.
I am so triggered every day by this Epstein horror. Believe the children. FFS! Believe the children.
I am so triggered every day by this Epstein horror. Believe the children. FFS! Believe the children.
I am so triggered every day by this Epstein horror. Believe the children. FFS! Believe the children.
February & a Bit About my Crumbling World.
I was a senior in high school when we were taught about the concentration camps in Germany. Being raised in a severely uneducated home, I was caught unaware that human beings could be so cruel in such modern times. Yeah, I knew old old old stuff was bad but assumed that we knew better now. Don’t people learn from their mistakes or is that simply another misnomer?
The teacher played that awful movie about Germany during the war and when it showed the lamp shades made from human skin, I bolted. We hadn’t learned anything. I was so disgusted and angry I quit school on the spot. I hated the world and omg fuck that school that tarnished my sensitivity. Two months from graduation and embittered by the realization that first of all, humans were still assholes and secondly, angry because the innocent German people just let it happen. Why did they just sit there and let it happen?
Eventually, I reabsorbed my idealism, but even then, in the farthest back rows of my mind, pushing, pushing forward, was the sinister knowledge that in other countries, massive senseless murders were happening all the fucking time. (Don’t get me started on school shootings other American senseless stupidities.)
But I remained steadfastly safe in my bubble of pretense. After all, I’m an American, a woman born and raised in the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation with liberty and justice for all. God bless America, dammit. No matter what, God bless goddamned fucking America. Dammit.
My Canadian friend recently asked what we were doing to stop the fascists from destroying our democracy. I guess a lot of us have stopped talking out loud so they don’t know.
Well fuck, here you go: We’re terrified. We see what’s happening. We make phone calls, write letters, contact our senators, our governors. We pray and pray and pray. Even those who don’t believe have fallen to prayer. Although I’m lucky enough to live in a blue state, our representatives are exhausted from the regime’s blatant disregard of our laws. They’re treating our Constitution like a piece of toilet paper stuck on the bottom of a shoe.
Our lives are consumed with fear and an intense soul-deep hatred that most of us never thought we were capable of feeling. We’re old hippies, for god’s sakes.
The news is on all day. We watch, transfixed in stunned horror at how quickly this devastation is changing our lives and destroying others, so many others. Devastating shit after devastating shit. We live under constant stress. Like shadow boxing under a full moon, it’s every single fucking where and every morning brings more despair. We are gobsmacked from the crimes against humanity.
Whenever someone from Canada says, “We’ll take you,” we raise our hands. When someone writes, “Let Canada adopt Washington, Oregon and California,” we merrily start singing their national anthem and suck down straight maple syrup like a drunk Russian with vodka.
We’re not quiet. We’re absorbing and angry every single fucking minute.
And I apologize from my very soul for ever judging the innocents from Nazi Germany. I get it. Please forgive me.
You from other countries, don’t be stupid like me. Please don’t hate us because a few are destroying our world.
My Christmas Story
My husband’s mother Marie was a remarkable woman. Although we never met, I know she was tall and exuded class. Even as a young mother in the 50’s she had impeccable expensive taste. The phrase, “You get what you pay for” worked in the 50’s. A gift from Marie was a gift of a lifetime, something to pass down to your children and grandchildren.
Unfortunately, Marie died when my husband was very young. He doesn’t remember a lot about her and has only a few cherished possessions to remember her by. And cherished is an understatement.
When he moved in with me years ago, he arrived with an old shoe box in hand. In that shoe box were ceramic figurines wrapped in old tissue paper, each piece carefully wrapped. He quietly showed me the contents: An angel, a donkey, three wise men. Mary and Joseph, and of course the Sweet Baby Jesus in the manger. The angel still held an old birthday candle his mother had placed there in the early 60’s.
This was some reverent shit, man. The nativity scene was one of only a few memories he had of his mother. This was something. I was in awe.
Every year, I would decorate the house for Christmas, red and green gaiety in every corner and on every surface. And always always always I left a special place for his nativity scene, just in case. Every year he would leave it in the box, unwilling to take it out. Being rabidly insecure, of course that meant he didn’t feel we were a bonafide couple, or established, love-everlasting, til-death-do-us-part soul mates. We were just a temporary thing and there was no reason to plant roots.
I’m emotional that way. It was an invisible test he never knew and he failed every year.
Finally one year he did. I was breathlessly delighted. He carefully set the manger on top of the cabinet that was bare every year, a lady in waiting. He gently spread out the angel hair (original of course) and gingerly placed each piece exactly as he remembered. A lovely sight to behold! He even cut holly from Mr. Murphy’s tree to decorate the wall behind the blessed scene.
I have no words to describe my glee. YES! He loves me! Yes, we will be together forever and YES he knows we are a twosome, united forever, dammit. This is PROOF! WE ARE ONE!
On cloud nine, I was happily dusting the living room, listening to Christmas carols, no doubt silently planning my wedding vows. As I merrily whisked through the living room, I happened upon the nativity scene. Why, it hadn’t been dusted in what…40 something years? With joy, I waved my feather duster at the delicate figures. I was all puffy with ego, knowing how my long deceased mother-in-law would admire and approve of me and my impeccable housecleaning skills.
I heard a small thunk.
Oops.
Whoa! There was the Baby Jesus, lying headless and helpless in his manger. WTF? With mounting despair, I realized I had exuberantly caught the Babe’s head with the duster, cruelly severing it from its precious Blessed Baby Jesus’s Neck.
Panic arose. What the hell was I going to do now? Goddamit, I beheaded the Baby Jesus! Fuck! The one precious thing he finally shared with me and I BEHEADED THE FUCKING BABY JESUS!
You don’t get forgiven for beheading.
With guilty fingers I nervously slapped on some super glue. It holds everything, right? It held the quarter on the sidewalk years ago that my little brother put there, so it can hold anything. With a prayer and solemn vow never to swear again, I lay the Baby Jesus down in his sweet bed. Shhh! Everything’s going to be alright and no one is the wiser.
But fuck no, his stupid Blessed Ass Baby Head rolled off, lying in a surprised heap next to his stupid severed Baby Neck. The Babe looked at me accusingly. “He hates you and I do too,” I swear it said.
What to do? The humor route? A bandaid holding the head on? A teensy scarf, after all it was December! Pretend I didn’t know? Or what about those damned crazy dogs? (That one would have worked.)
I had no choice but to come clean. That was a long wait, eons later he came home from his long day of work.
With a trembling voice, I confessed. So very very sorry was I. I recklessly destroyed a precious irreplaceable memory. Selfish stupid me!
“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “It was already broken. That’s why I haven’t been putting it out.”
Shit.
Regrets
A mother’s influence on her children is funny. You love her, of course, she’s your mother after all. She gave you life, she spent years caring for you. You were her mom-reason, her life’s work. Her devotion and love were something you took for granted. When I needed anything, there she was, my mother–eager to help, even when her help wasn’t actual help but a semi crazy idea that any sane person could see was nuts.
But every once in awhile, my mother’s ideas hit a home run and everyone quietly and grudgingly realized she was pretty fucking clever.
For example: When I was little, our dog Penny had 11 puppies. (No clue why I remember the number 11.) She birthed them in the cellar of our old home. One of the puppies, eyes not open yet, fell down the drain in the cement floor. The puppy’s plaintive cries echoed loudly through the pipe into the ears of the helpless adults. The relatives told her to fill the drain with water–drown the puppy to put it out of its misery. There were plenty of other puppies anyway. My mom, watching Penny who was whining and pacing around the drain hole, was horrified.
An idea came to her. She grabbed her prized Electrolux, shoved the long hose down the drain and hit the power switch. Up came the tiny puppy, reunited with its anxiously awaiting Penny. Mom was clever. Oh yeah, she was as loyal to her animals as she was to her children.
But more often than not, despite love, my mom could irritate the absolute shit out of me. The unwelcome advice, the constant questions, the jokes and OMG she spoke in puns. Oh and that laugh after one of her jokes. Ugh. It can make you want to pull out your eyelashes, one by excruciating one. Funnily enough though, my friends thronged around her like she was some dumb ass comedian.
All this baby love aside, I had a shit show for a childhood. Not only were we poor, we were stinking poor. The type of poor neighbors pitied all the while furtively looking away. My sister and I were surrounded by pedophiles. Father, uncle, neighbor, grandfather, everyone. There was no place safe for us. It was a cesspool of abuse for me and my sister. Something that my mother didn’t notice.
I grew up composing a semi-unwritten list of things my children would never have to experience. It grew as I did. I would not, could not, be anything like my mother. That constant laugh, the irritating puns, the practical jokes and, most importantly, the hidden depression disguised by that raucous laughter and jokes.
When my son was born, Mom had “suggestions. Lots of them. They were all so very wrong. In retrospect, they probably weren’t wrong but I was defensive. First time mom power! I didn’t need suggestions, dammit. I read Dr. Spock, by God. Cover to cover. Twice. I vehemently knew what to do. Leave me alone! But the super experienced baby making machine wouldn’t, couldn’t stop. After all, like a good Catholic girl, she made a lot of little humans. And she loved babies. So she knew this shit like the proverbial back of the hand.
But like it or not, with all her faults, she’s still there alongside me. No matter how alive she isn’t, I can still feel her voice, her laugh, and those damned hugs that kept you hugged for a long time.
She died when she was 45 from a miserable, pre-effective chemo cancer. I was 21 when she moved in with me. I took care of her. When I turned 22, she died, leaving behind her youngest for me to raise alongside my own two year old.
Most of the time it’s so subtle I’m unaware of her influence. But there it is, imprinted in my soul. She was a guilt ridden strict Catholic, hence all the damn babies. Every Sunday she would walk down to church. Late. Always at least a half hour late for a one hour service. I realize now her consistent lateness was her own subconsciousness defying the heartless cruelty that was the Catholic church.
How is this affecting me as an adult? Well, I had that list of course. I tried to follow it. Like her though, I’m fiercely loyal to my family and friends. Stupidly loyal, no matter how wrong they might be. Puns? I got ‘em. I love animals. I love love love my kids, my grandkids and my great granddaughter. I walk all the time. She used to say we were ancestors of gypsies who wandered from town to town. She walked everywhere. And crap, you should hear me laugh. Or push my advice onto my kids, their kids and my grandkids.
For all of her married life, my mother was treated like shit by the relatives as well as my father. Kids are sponges so we grew up sort of scorning her, retreating from those bear hugs. I am ashamed of how I felt about my mother. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her and treated her well, but dammit, she died so soon after my teenage years, I didn’t get a chance to tell her I was ok and thank you for trying your best even when you were constantly overwhelmed by us messed up kids.
Sometimes the regret overwhelms you. Yes, there is always the losing-her grief, but when regret comes for a visit, it’s always a surprise. It hits you like a punch in the gut.
Happy birthday, Mom. Wish I had one more day with you. Or one hour. Or one minute. Or just one of those damned bear hugs. Dammit.
Mom
It’s been a long time since I’ve written. It’s funny how much I’ve needed to write but just haven’t had the time–scratch that, I just haven’t had the opportunity. Life gets in the way.
It was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 93. She would have made it too but cancer took her away at the ripe old age of 45. And after all these years, she’s on my mind so much.
My daughter recently gave birth. I suppose that could explain why I’m remembering my own birthing experiences. Moms and daughters.
When I was in labor, my mother stayed right by my side. Back then there were no birth classes, nobody knew about breathing or stretching or how to do anything to help the process go easier. It hurt. I was shocked by how much it hurt. My mom had nine pregnancies with seven surviving. Having babies didn’t faze her. It seemed like she just grunted and out came the kid, sometimes before there was anyone to help her. “You have a body perfect for babies” she was told by our family doctor.
That same doctor didn’t say that to me when I was pregnant.
I guess I wasn’t built like her. I spent my labor walking around the hospital, most of the time bent over in pain and moaning. I’m no martyr, I was pretty noisy. It wasn’t some primal urge that kept moving. Nothing like that. It was because as soon as I had to go back to my room, I knew they were going to give me an IV. I was more terrified of that than squeezing out a 9 pounder. So I walked. My mom walked with me. At one point as I was staring at the fountain from the upper floor I must have whined too much because she looked at me and said how much she wished she could take away my pain. Then she abruptly disappeared. She was gone for over an hour. I selfishly would have given her my pain.
I was alone. Abandoned. So alone and so frightened.
It turned out that my mother had literally run from the hospital all the way down the hill and across town to St. Anthony’s. There she lit a candle for me, tossed a dime into the donation box (candles alone won’t reach Jesus apparently), said a quick prayer and ran back up the hill to the hospital. It was almost four miles each way.
I don’t remember what happened after that. Back then nobody was allowed in the delivery room. But she was there, patiently awaitng the arrival of her grandchild.
Hours later along came my son. He was a whopping 9 pounds and I’m ashamed to admit I wanted to smack him for causing so much pain.
Mom never left the hospital during this time. And I realize now, she had to walk home that night, after midnight and in the cold rain. She never said a word.
She died less than two years later. She loved that baby so much. He was her life and her joy. When she was lived with me before she died, he was the one who made her smile, who gave her hope. That night she died, her last words to me were, “Baptize the baby.”
Fuck I miss her. I’m 70 and a bit so why now? Why do I miss her so much more now? She’s been gone from my life far longer than she was in it.
Baptize your baby if you want. I didn’t. I hope he doesn’t go to hell.
Requiem to my Sister
I’m going to be honest here, and that’s easy because I’m pretty sure nobody will read this and I need to let some things out. My shit is safe here.
I accepted today that I have lost the sister I’ve known all my life. She’s still here physically, but the girl I grew up with, the younger kid sister, my devoted follower, is gone. She’s not coming back. There. I said it. She’s not coming back. Fuck you bad doctors, fuck you bad health care, and fuck you life, but she isn’t coming back. I have no words to describe the grief.
Background: We lived a shit life. We were the poor family that everyone felt sorry for, but we were dirty so those generous souls also kept their distance. I remember my mother’s shocked embarrassment at Thanksgiving when she’d receive a basket full of food from the do-good pitiers. Her dismay was palpable–Through her grudging acceptance, I could feel her white hot anger. But hey, every Thanksgiving we had enough food. What’s a little anger when you have turkey and all the trimmings?
My sister is five years younger. When she was little I thought she was the cutest damn thing. She had blonde straight hair (in contrast to my dark curly crap in the 70’s) and two (count them!) two blue eyes that matched. (another story.)
How cute is this kid?
And she adored me. I was the big sister. I shared my dreams with her. Fantasies of boys who liked me, of being rich, of being somebody who, simply put, wasn’t the object of all that pity. God how I hated that mother fucking, esteem sucking pity. My sister was my biggest fan; hell, she was my only fan.
I’m not sure she ever believed my stories. She shouldn’t have. It doesn’t matter. We shared hope. We were going to survive the ugliest childhood and become “NORMAL” like others.
Long story short: I made it. She didn’t. Too much pedophilia tossed in with a lot of physical abuse, and of course the emotional horseshit that came along for the ride. Topping off the crap, our mom died when my sister was 16. She needed her mom at 16, all teen girls need their moms. My sister never had a chance.
Fast forward a zillion years: I’m doing well. I admit that I’ve had some lucky ass breaks, breaks that have saved me. Oh crap, I do realize how dramatic that sounds, but fuck it, you didn’t live it, you weren’t there. Trust me.
I have a good job. I have a wonderful spouse. I have the best kids in the world. I have everything. I am happy on purpose.
My sister has so much as well: Anxiety. Panic Disorder. Depression. So many physical problems. The past year has brought her a failed serious back surgery that causes her constant pain, two–maybe three strokes that have left her with enough damage to her brain that she can no longer control her emotions. She needs constant help, not as much supervision now, but constant help. Her daughter has not only stepped up to the plate, she filled the plate, washed the plate and put the plate back into the cupboard. Every day. Every single fucking day.
My sister has much improved since I started this piece. She will never be right, but she’s improved.
It’s not fair. Fucking life. It’s not fair and I want to kick whoever it was that said it would be fair right in the ass. Realizing now of course that nobody actually ever told me that life was fair.
Lucy Nose You Laughed 