The Day You Died

On April 15, 2003, you died, but I died too. The girl I was up until that day, died. She died in a car crash along with her mother. A part of grief that hurts so much is that you’re dealing with a loss and the loss of yourself, because you really do not know how to go on without the person. After that day of loss, I lost myself too. I had to rebuild myself and adjust without you on Earth. The new me, is missing a lot of parts; only ones a mother could fill.

Everyday I hear your voice come out of my mouth, not what you’d say but your actual pitch and tone—It’s terrifying and amazing but it makes me fearful of speaking at times.

Sometimes I see your face in the mirror when I’m putting on my make up, and I briefly gasp and look away. I’m turning into you more and more.

I hear your voice in my head all day-saying what I think you’d reply to my usual million questions. I have conversations with you, and imagine the advice you’d give. I have searched (and will continue to search) everywhere for that feeling only a mother could provide-that calming feeling of relief that “everything will be okay.” To say I miss you does not apply. As miss means “fail to notice, hear, or understand.” I always understood you the most. My entire being aches from your absence. I cry and scream, and hold my two hands together, pretending one is yours, to comfort myself, as you taught me.

Hearing your voice in mine, seeing your face in mine, is all I have left of you.

You’re Just Like Your Mother

Growing up, my father would constantly use this statement as an insult towards me. As if being like her were the worst thing in the world. Sure, she was mentally ill. It was difficult for her to multitask and she was extremely codependent. But, she was also extremely intelligent, funny, and beautiful.

One day, after another session of berating me, I turned to my father and said “good, I hope I’m like her, she’s amazing.” He never said it again after that day.

Despite my rebuttal, this still effects me everyday. When I’m too emotional, I question if I’m acting like my mother. I’m constantly comparing my life and hers. It’s an awful process, and there is a lot of guilt involved. The truth is, I’m terrified of becoming “like my mother.” Towards the end of her life, she was prescribed Thorazine to get through the day. She couldn’t work, and she was living in a rented room. I would like to think I have her best qualities.

Parenting Isn’t For All

Many people want to be parents, but it doesn’t mean that they should be. My mother always wanted children. She didn’t need to say it, I could tell. She was 28 when she had me. My father was 24. He was not ready to be a parent. He once told me that loved her, but he wasn’t ready to marry her. But, she got pregnant, and his parents forced him to-I think. Anyway, he was definitely not ready. He was handsome and had a lot going for him.

My mother was attractive too. She lacked self esteem. I know she was heavy growing up, and she was bullied. Her mother was physically ill, and she was left to do a lot of chores. Otherwise, she seemed to have a pretty normal childhood.

I think she got pregnant on purpose. My mother was textbook codependent. Her happiness came from others. After her divorce, she dated anyone.

My father was very angry after their divorce. I could see why he was bitter. He married a woman when he wasn’t ready, bought a home, and created a good life for his family. He became an adult too soon. Then, the woman he married left him, and took away his children. He knew she wasn’t mentally fit, but the court decided she was. After that, he made it his life’s work to destroy her…and eventually he did.

My mother was fragile and needy. She would do anything for the man of the moment. Once, she woke us up at 2am on a school night because her boyfriend needed to make an emergency trip to Manhattan. Once my father found out, child protective services showed up at our school. My mother loved us, she truly did. Her love is probably what got me through all of her bad decisions.

When my mother would do irresponsible things, like taking us to a shady NYC neighborhood at 2am on a school night, my father would retaliate. That would usually come in the form of consistent bad mouthing to us-as if two little girls could do anything about the situation. Or, he wouldn’t give her child support (which wasn’t much anyway). Again, not really great outcomes for two little girls.

So, as you can see, parenting isn’t for everyone. I often question why my mother wanted us so badly. I know part of it was because she lacked so much in herself. She was an intelligent and beautiful woman, but she did not go to college. Did she purposely get pregnant because everyone else was? Society expected her to? She once told me that even though she was smarter, than her brothers, her parents would not pay for college.

I get so angry at both of them. Why did they have us? Why did they bring us into this world, give us a crappy childhood, and then die young? Leaving us to pick up the pieces. I’m still very angry. So I stand by my statement, that parenting isn’t for all.

In Hiding

The neighborhood that I grew up in was and still is predominately white. Everyone was white, catholic and Irish and/or Italian. We weren’t. I guess that’s what made me start to hide our realities, starting at a very young age. Our reality was poverty. We were on welfare. We received Medicaid and food stamps. My mother was mentally ill. She needed massive amounts of medication to function. My father was so angry and bitter about their divorce that he did not provide her with much child support. It was difficult for my mother to maintain a job. We were Jewish, but my mother loved Christmas, so we celebrated that, maybe she was into hiding too?

How did we hide? I would clean our entire apartment. I would organize and redecorate. I would spend my babysitting money on anything to improve our apartment: new curtains, tiles, artwork, paint, and more. I would hide all of my mother’s pills. I would drape a blanket over the couch and arrange our throw pillows. I staged a “normal” home. I made our outside look “normal” too. I’d make my mom bring me to buy flowers, bushes, and gardening supplies. Then, I would spend hours gardening. I started “staging” our life when I was 9 years old. Have you ever seen a 9 year old use hedge cutters? I did.

This facade wasn’t just physical. I would lie when anyone inquired about my religion. I would insist that my mother was catholic and my father was Jewish. My mother didn’t care, she was so depressed and anxious, she’d do anything I told her to do. She knew I meant well. Keeping up this facade, was so exhausting. I didn’t have time to be a child.

I’ve only admitted to myself recently, even after I put myself through Catholic religious classes and received sacraments, that I am actually Jewish.

I’m not sure I have a religion, but I’m happy I was finally able to admit who I really am, 35 years later. I’m done hiding.

Bad Week

I wish I could have written more this week, but it’s been rough. I’ve been crying for no reason, practically on cue. I Googled, and it’s a symptom of my severe depression. Someone gave me a compliment the other day and I cried in the car. I thought about how far I’ve come, how I’ve had to do everything on my own, and how I’m actually proud of myself. I thought about how I had the task of “raising” my mother. I thought about how I tried to hide her mental illness. How I spent my first paycheck, on re tiling our kitchen floor, so that it looked like we lived in a “normal” house. How I hid in a corner when she paid with food stamps at the grocery store. I thought about how we hid that we were Jewish. It made me cry to think about all of these obstacles I had battled and overcame, and how I received a compliment, a really nice compliment. Something I wasn’t used to receiving. So I cried.

Snippets of the Theme

How do I know you only need yourself to be successful? I read that I should only share snippets of my theme with you. This is not my autobiography. This is the beginning of my memoir.

My earliest memory, I must have been 3 or 4, consisted of me hunched underneath a futon, holding my sister, who was 18 months younger. We lived in a middle class suburb in New York. My father owned his own business, he had learned a trade in high school, and decided to start his own business rather than pursuing his actual dreams. My mother was a genius. Women were not sent to college during her time, so her family paid for secretarial school. She funded her own education, learning how to Bookkeep. They were married when my mother was already pregnant with me. More about their backgrounds later.

Back to the futon: I remember I was trying to calm my sister and tell her we were safe. We were in a room in our house that was designated as a playroom. It was basically a room where my mother could throw all of our toys, and us, pop on a VHS tape, and not be bothered. My parents made arguing a sport. It was violent. They would scream and yell at each other, a neighbor would hear, the police would show up. They would calm down, life would go on, and then this would occur again. We were on a rinse and repeat cycle. So, I would protect my sister during their battles. We would hear objects being thrown, cursing, doors slamming. I don’t know how or why, but it has always been my instinct to protect her. Maybe because I am the older one? I would stay calm, and eventually I’d tell her when it was safe. My parents never hurt either of us, physically that is. Hearing your parents scream at each other is terrifying. I remember thinking “is daddy going to hurt mommy?” There was nothing I could do. If he was going to hurt her, I couldn’t stop him. The police showing up, was a relief. How awful it was, two parents arguing so violently and aggressively, that police needed to separate them.

I’ve thought about it so many times: Why would parents think it was a good idea to argue like that in front of their 2 small children? Why did they even have children? Why did they even get married? Why did the police not take us away to a safer (normal) home? I would never let my children hear my husband and I fighting that way. Why did they allow themselves to get to that place? I was 3 or 4 years old. Did I need anyone? NOPE. Did I have anyone comforting me? Calming me? NOPE. I was a little girl, and I didn’t need anyone, I survived.

What is the theme?

If you want to write a memoir about your life, you should choose a theme. I reflected on my life, and pulled some themes: Strength, independence, perseverance, be yourself-which led me to: You Only Need You. As I think about all of the struggles of my life, that is the theme. How did I overcome loss, heartache, poverty, abuse? Myself. So, You only need you will be the theme of this blog, and maybe eventually my memoir. What is the theme of your life?