Not sure, exactly where to start

I am not sure exactly, where I should start my story. Like, where exactly is the beginning? Seriously. So, with that said, please forgive me if at times I seem to be all over the place. This has no format; only verbiage.

One of my aunts described me as a child to be sweet, smart and talkative. She said that she never had to worry about someone kidnapping me because I talked so much they’d surely bring me back. It is funny, and it is true. To this day I am very talkative. Well, as talkative as a women who’s experienced can be.

I am one of three children born of my mother. My siblings and I all have different fathers. Having different fathers from those of your siblings gives you perspective at a young age. I was able to understand early on the differences between my father and the fathers of my siblings. Though my dad never abused me; he delivered his share of abuse to my mom and my eldest sibling. My sister and I are three years apart. And, as it has been reported to me, my dad in a fit one day threw my sister (at the time a 3 year old) down the steps of our apartment. My mother actually has pictures of my sister with the black eye commemorating the event. To this day I will never understand how my mom allowed him to live. To this day, my sister still carries the memories of being kept unsafe and of abuse.

The earliest memories that I have of my parents, particularly my father; are limited. In fact, our interactions throughout my life have been super, hyper – limited. I mostly remember waiting. Waiting for him too arrive to pick me up. I used to sit on the porch and wait hours for him. Kind of like the scenes that you may see in a movie. I didn’t realize it then, but looking back I can see how I learned to accept and process disappointment at a primitive age. Psychologically, I learned how to accept disappointment and rejection from the only man in my life.

From what I’ve learned about the man, I know that he and I have the talent of cooking in common. Also, I learned that he used to be a DJ back when my mom was attracted to him. It makes sense that he liked to keep the party going; I too enjoy getting people together for an enjoyable time. I also learned that my father had a drug problem. My mother was very forthright with information with my siblings and I at all ages and stages. She has no censor and back then her verbal filter was non-existent, tempered with misery and topped off with neediness-she was a fucking force of a hurricane to be reckoned with. So, when she spoke to me (at the age of five) about my father being a dust head it wasn’t out of concern. How could it be? I was too young to understand that factor. She told me out of plain disdain for my father. She wanted to destroy and tarnish how I seen him. I have learned in life that when you go out of your way to make someone look stupid; you usually end up being the one who’s embarrassed, humiliated or left to explain your position.

My mom spent a great deal of time talking horribly about my father to me. She made it clear that he had not a good bone in his body. She made it clear that she hated him. Very often she would verbalize that she wouldn’t mind if he would get hit by a bus or something else equally horrible. I mean…like…she really hated him. And, I felt it. Looking back, I realize that probably most of the reasons behind how horribly she’s treated me over the years is because she hated him. I think that I am just now realizing that. The fact of the matter is that when a parent constantly speaks horribly to a child about the other parent it sends a number of messages to the child. By speaking so badly of my father all she did was demean herself; because with all that was bad, horrible and abusive about that man; she still decided that he was good enough at a time to procreate with.

I can count on one hand exactly how many interactions that I remember having with my father. One significant time that I remember seeing him occurred when I was twenty seven years of age. I remember coming out of a cell phone store on the boulevard in New Haven, next to Olympias diner. A man, my uncle saw me and called me over to his truck. I walked over, because he was my father’s brother and he too hadn’t seen me since I was a young girl. As we talked and wrapped up our conversation I asked, “hey, how’s my father doing?” to which he responded, “girl, I am your father!” I felt so stupid and embarrassed that I spent like four minutes talking to a man that I did not even know was MY dad. And, then I thought, like…why do I feel stupid? I just did. Shit, he’s dead and I still feel stupid about that day.

Though I do not have many significant, positive memories of my father being present in my life; adversely, I do have many memories of his absence. And, because of that I am sure that I will be mentioning him in future blogs.

My mother is my stormboard. She is the reason why I need therapy. I am joking, but a bit serious. As an aside, I do in fact need therapy. Shit, I actually have gone to see two different therapists through the Employee Assistance Program at my job. The problem is that one of my therapist was like this damn near one hundred year old, white woman with the shakes. And, the other one was an Argentinian woman with the thickest accent; both of which I am not and I do not identify with. Every time that I sat down to have a conversation I felt like I was being judged. Is that how therapy is supposed to go? I mean, I guess to a degree it is, but I don’t give a fuck. I went there to speak to someone and get help with my issues and that old bitch called me defensive. I was like, bih fuck do you know with your geriatric ass? No, of course I didn’t say that. I respect my elders, especially the old, crotchity ones. But, that is just how I felt. Needless to say, those ladies weren’t a good fit. So, here I am…expressing myself. My bad, I digress.

My mother is a pivotal factor in much of my life story because, well, she IS my mom. And while I genuinely don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks about my way of expressing myself; I still do not want to give off the impression that I am trying to demonize or tarnish my mothers character or reputation as an individual. The fact is that everything that I am saying is the truth and I cannot be responsible for the truth that my story may imply about her.

#firstpost #zerotohero #mom #therapy #truthteller

Published by Indigosblue

This blog will be a vessel of honesty and vulnerability. Writing is a release that has kept me whole and sane for a lifetime but a newness starts today. What is a true story if it isn't told? No longer will I just hold on to my story because it's too much to handle on my own. Every truth is relative to the teller. Indigos blue sunshine are my truths. πŸ˜’πŸ’™πŸ¦‹πŸŒπŸŒ€

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