Lies to my mother

It would be beautiful to say that my mother and I have always been close…

But that isn’t the case.

I know that childlike part of me didn’t understand why she couldn’t save me from the trips to the alley. Didn’t understand that she truly had no idea and had so much on her plate striking out as a single mom. That if she had known, obviously it wouldn’t have continued.

But I didn’t tell her.

I wanted my mother to be Super Woman. To read my mind and see all the horror, know all the pain. All the moments I couldn’t speak of. I wanted to see her fury strike out against Him and her love carry me far away from the dirty gravel behind the garage.

I wanted her to see the spell on my mouth. The invisible glue that sealed my lips the moment I thought of saying anything. I wanted her to take one look and gasp in horror. In comprehension.

But my mask was strong. It was impermeable. My box was strong. It held all it needed to. Nothing overflowed. Nothing got past.

It went like this for longer than I care to describe in true numeric fashion. In the child’s mind, it was a lifetime. A lifetime of secrets, of masks, of boxes. A lifetime of playing hide and seek.

Then we moved.

This is a rare picture of me smiling. It was taken in front of the new house. Far from the alley and the garage of horror. Far away.

Super Woman had, in her own unknowing way, come through. I was free.

But the shackles left their scars. Their marks.

And smiles like this were still rare. And blame lasts a lot longer than you’d think.

It wasn’t until well into high school that I tentatively tried to reach out. To turn a rickety relationship into a bond. And it wasn’t easy.

And I will never forget the look on her face when I finally broke the seal on the box and peeled off the mask for a moment. When I found that long buried courage and told her.

And even then, I looked around to make sure demons wouldn’t crawl through the walls and report my words.

(lies lies lies- He said- no one will ever believe)

But all I was confronted with was the expression of my mother as a part of her withered in horror. In remorse. In blame.

And in that moment, I knew without a doubt- that I never truly blamed her at all.

My Mother

So I realized that I’ve talked about Daddy, I’ve talked about Grey, and I think I’ve even mentioned my youngest brother once or twice (still can’t think of a good nickname….).

But besides a comment here or there, I’ve never really talked about my mother.

That’s not remotely fair.  She is an incredible woman.

It’s funny, the evolution of my relationship with my mom.

I remember a closeness right after my parents divorced, when we lived in that horrible house off Needmore. Two females against the world.  I remember part of why I never mentioned the abuse (besides the fear He instilled in me to never ever ever talk about it) was because I knew it would break my mother’s heart.  She worked two jobs at that time, in addition to having baby Grey.  I did everything I could to help.

Then unfortunately mostly apathy during my pre-teens years.  I think this is due a lot to the whole disassociation and constant splitting we dealt with.

During the teenage years, I know I was unfair. Especially with my fear of my dad’s anger; it was so much safer to be mad and rage at Mom. I knew- I know she would love me, even after all the things I’d say and do. Rika didn’t fear upsetting her like she did Daddy.  Mom still did special things for me. Drove me and my friends around. Helped me when the goings got tough with Daddy- and boys.

Then after Daddy kicked me out on graduation day, she selflessly let me stay in her second house- her home. For almost 5 years. I paid rent on and off- a terrible tenant I’m sure. I did pay the scary-high utilities and that sucked a lot of my meager budget.

When disaster struck the year Katherine left and I landed in the hospital- it was with no hesitation that she was the first person I called. She fought for me tooth and nail- my Mama Bear, to get out of that hellhole.

And I finally confided in her about my abuse and childhood.  I was right- it broke her heart.  But she expressed how much it meant that I told her.  That I trusted her.  And I do- to a degree.  I don’t know if I could ever tell her about the DID/MPD stuff.  I just think that would hurt her further.  And I don’t want to do that.

I love the relationship I have with her now. Getting through all the hard times has given me the best reward:
A mother who is my friend, my champion, my shoulder to cry on.

There is no sweeter victory.

I can only hope I can someday repay her. Or be even half the mother she is- if we could ever have the strength to try that again.

Caffeine

I am frustrated with my lack (or perhaps someone else’s…grr) of foresight to bring enough caffeine for me to work on getting our office’s foreclosure workshop for this evening fully prepared.

I shall be able to manage, I’m sure, but it would be a lot easier if I had the wondrous drug of keeping me awake.

I’m also trying not to get too distraught over the idea of how much socializing I will have to do with clients, city officials, and attorneys at the event tonight.

At least our mother will be there. Long story. Wait. Maybe not. Our department supervisor said he needed a couple attorneys at the workshop to speak about the legal aspects of foreclosure, so we offered him our mother’s number. There. Not so long a story.

I will not cause a switching frenzy. I can do this. I can do this.

-Serefina