Another Story About My Mom
Sometimes I write stories in the notes of my phone. This is one of those times.
Growing up, there were times when I’d shut my eyes as tightly as I could and would repeat in my head over and over, “remember this moment forever. you have to remember this moment forever.” It was always something mundane, but safe. Living with my mom is what helped me create that connection many don’t understand without an explanation. I loved being left alone to think, loved the silence because it was only a concept for many of the early years of my life.
I remember wanting nothing more than to have friends that I met in grade school and would eventually graduate high school with. My favorite thing to do in the fifth grade was sit inside with my teacher during recess and silently read. I didn’t fit in well, which isn’t to say I wasn’t liked. Early on, maybe before high school, I just felt out of place. Constantly uncomfortable but being told I was fine; being shown time after time that instability would be my reality.
I don’t remember any of the specific moments except for one I did religiously.
There are railroad tracks that leave the neighborhood I’m from. The tracks are near this club called The Eagles. Think American Legion Hall or VFW or whatever the fuck, strip the patriotism and sub in the lowest of white trash you can imagine (sexist, racist, homophobic, etc.) and you’ve got the local bar in Black Oak, Gary, IN.
My mom would drive us back and forth over the railroad tracks hundreds of times in the relatively few years I lived with her, and after one summer night in the back of her mini van, it became the first night I wanted to be aware of what I was experiencing at all times.
When you grow up experiencing different levels of trauma while being neglected the basic, yet critically essential love from either parent, it fucks with how you show up in relationships down the road.
My dad never respected the chances to experience being my dad before it was too late. I think he lucked out in that regard.
My mom, unfortunately for us both, shamed my needing her. Not with her words, but with her repeated actions. She made me feel as though I didn’t matter by choosing many people, places, and things before me (and nearly all of my siblings.) When living with my babysitter Gayle for that seemingly indefinite time as a girl, the few times I got to talk to my mom on the phone I would cry, begging her to come back from wherever she was and take me home. Take us home. Just be there. Choose me. She never did.
It makes asking people to choose me incredibly difficult. I think that this is why my divorce was so fucking difficult to comprehend at times. Why, in the beginning, I couldn’t even touch the idea of not being chosen again.
The best part about writing is realizing. I don’t need anyone to choose me, even though it’s such a beautiful concept. I’m a libra sun and basically have heart eyes always. But, taking off my rose colored glasses, I feel a little more grounded and safe within myself. I’m all I need, but there are things I want that I can’t find within myself. I’ll go searching for them in people, places, and things.
