This morning, I came across a box shoved on a shelf. I obviously didn't know where to put it when we moved.
I opened it to find cross stitched towels given to me by my grandma about eight years ago. On the top were two pictures of an elderly lady holding me.
I've no clue who the lady is, but she looks happy to be holding me. I'm sure she is a great or great great grandma. I'm still researching. It's not like I can call up my parents and ask.
Finding this picture is what I needed today. I needed to see that someone held me as a baby and looked at me with love.
That wasn't how I remember my childhood. At one time, I went through all my old pictures and could not find one where I looked happy or there was an adult who looked loving. At the time, it broke my heart and validated that I wasn't loved.
I often forget, probably intentionally repress, that I called my my mom. I wanted to know if she would acknowledge that I was her daughter. Friends from back home had told me that she claimed to have two sons and no other children. I needed to know from her if she still claimed to be my mom.
She didn't. She said I was dead to her. I'd had the courage to call, but not the strength to handle the truth. With her reality slapping me in the face, I asked a question I wish I hadn't.
I asked her why she had me, kept me if she wasn't going to claim me. Her answer still makes me physically ill.
She said she never wanted kids. She claimed that my dad forced her to have children so he could molest them. She went on to say I had ruined her life. I had been such a terrible child that I caused my dad to be mean. She told me I was dead to her and to never call again.
I collapsed into a ball on the floor. I didn't have tears. I was writhing in pain, an excruciating pain in the pit of my stomach that radiated all over my body.
At that moment, I knew there would never be a reconciliation between us. Any mother who could so easily emotionally destroy her own daughter was not anyone I could ever be near.
That's the kind of thing that settles in this time of year. That truth is what hurts so badly when I see families celebrating together. My mom never wanted me, blamed me for what my dad had done, and has hatred toward me that is beyond comprehension. My dad only wanted my brothers and I to subject us to the evil he had hiding inside him. How could I not think of that during a family oriented time of year?
So, it soothed a small part of my aching heart to find this picture. At some point, I was shown love and affection. It may have been minimal and I don't remember it, but I'm glad to know it happened. Every baby should be loved, even if it's just once.
No comments:
Post a Comment