When I was four, my brother died. He had many birth defects. Just one of those things that happen. It wasn’t even the birth defects or the surgeries that took him. It was pneumonia. I became the strong one for my mother. Her support.
When I was eight, another brother was born. As each child was born, I was given more responsibility. I had two sisters, one of them four, one of them two. After school, I was to help take care of them.
When I was ten, I failed my first subject in school. That was the first time I learned what a disappointment I’d become. I wasn’t as pretty as the four year old, and I wasn’t as smart as the six year old. If I kept on this path, I would never amount to anything.
When I was twelve, I got my first bike. I rode it everywhere. God, how I loved that thing. 10 speeds, fancy brakes, the whole bag. I was so proud of it!!! I was told that night, the night I got it, that the cost of that bike was more than what I’d shown I was worth. I was not to forget that, and to never fail to be grateful.
When I was fourteen, I got in my first fight. And when I say fight, I mean I got the crap kicked out of me because I smiled and chatted with another girl’s boyfriend. The boyfriend and I were in band class together. We rode the bus out to the high school for marching practice every day. We were friends. She hated that I spent time with him, and that he had the nerve to consider me a friend. When I was walking home from school one day, she attacked me. I lost two teeth, some of my hair, I had a few broken fingers and a couple of cracked ribs. By the time I managed to crawl through the front door, Mother was already angry at me for being late. When she saw me, she did ask what happened. I told her. She told me it was what I deserved for acting like a whore. I tended to my own wounds that night.
When I was sixteen, I found friends. Great friends. Pot-smoking, sex-having friends. It was wonderful. They accepted me, they liked me, they listened to me. Until the day my mother found my stash I’d hidden in my bedroom: my pot, my bowl, my Wicca books, my spell books, my journals. Within two days, we were all suspended from school, grounded, and my friends never spoke to me again.
When I was seventeen, I got pregnant. While it wasn’t what I expected, I took the hand I was dealt. My then-boyfriend and I went to my parents and told them. I can only compare the situation to Eve being cast out of the Garden. I was worthless. I was useless. I was a disappointment. I was a whore. I was not her daughter anymore.
When I was twenty-four, I was divorced. I’d lost my sense of self. I’d been beaten, humiliated, degraded, and demeaned in every possible way. I was told it was no less than what I deserved, for the life I’d led.
When I was twenty-six, I was baptized. I’d been a regular attendee at church, I’d said my prayers, I’d asked for forgiveness, and I’d received it. She was happy. Six months later, I had a minor mental breakdown. I wasn’t made to fit in to the church, and forcing myself to conform for her broke me. I left religion behind me. For myself, I was myself again. For her, I was nothing. Less than nothing, perhaps.
There are no phone calls anymore. She doesn’t ask how I am. She doesn’t stop by to say hi to the kids. There were no birthday presents; there was barely a birthday phone call. She has managed to make me doubt everything I have become; everything I was proud of. I have been handed some pretty awful cards in my life, and I’ve been expected to fold, walk away, and keep my head down. I’ve played on, I’ve bought in, and I’m still at the table. And for this, I’ve been rejected. I’m still not pretty enough, smart enough, or the right sex. I’m still not a Republican, a Christian (or any denomination, for that matter) and I still like to drink more than is proper. I will never be anyone that she will be happy to claim as one of her own, much less be proud of.
And I am okay with that.
