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A ramble.

The comments and support I have had through sharing this is amazing.  So many of you have reached out to me to let me know that you appreciate my sharing.  Some of you have shared that you have gone through a similar experience, some of you have apologized for not seeing the signs, and some of you have just sent wonderful and heartfelt messages.  I truly appreciate them all.

Please, if you knew me back then, don’t apologize for not knowing.  I pushed most people away on purpose for that very reason—I didn’t want anyone to know.  Only certain members of our family even knew what a fraction was going on.  It was a very big secret for a very long time.  Could things have been done differently?  Of course.  But it isn’t anything to dwell on.  I’m not dwelling on this stuff now, just simply sharing.

The experience I described in my last blog was not successful (thank goodness) and I was left to wonder what to do.  I actually attempted to do something like that and I failed at it.  I remember falling asleep with a picture of my parents next to my head.  They were going through a very difficult time in their marriage, in addition to what my mom was struggling with.  I felt very much alone and withdrawn, and I felt there was no other answer.

I think back to that now, and I am unbelievably lucky that I survived that.  When I awoke, I remember seeing the picture of my mom and dad and for one minute believed that I had been successful at such a horrible thing.  But then the phone rang.  It was my mom calling to check up on me.  She had left for a few days (I can’t remember where she went) and she wanted to see how I was doing.  I remember crying with her on the phone, saying I missed her.  She promised me she was coming home soon (and she did).  I remember my dad being devastated with her being gone because even though it felt like they fought ALL THE TIME, he couldn’t stand to be without her.

I saw my dad in pain and heard my mom in pain and I it dawned on me how much more in pain they would have been had I been successful at such a thing.  Even though I felt low enough to attempt it, it resonated with me that I wasn’t successful.  I saw and felt their pain, and never once  attempted to do such a thing again.  It didn’t mean I had answers.  It meant at that point in time that was not my answer.  As low as I felt, and as distraught as I felt, I believed there was a reason I survived.  Even though I wasn’t sure what the reason was yet.

I am not a perfect person.  I am certainly not a perfect mother and I know I was not a perfect teenager.  Yes, I had to deal with a lot of issues going on at home.  But I am sure, on more than one occasion, my nasty side came out.  I know it did.  I remember having fights with my mom and dad.  My mom especially because a lot of moms and daughters fight during the teenage years.  But at one point, I took on the role as caregiver and our roles were reversed, for lack of a better word.  No matter how angry I got at my mother, I still felt empathy and sympathy.  I still wanted to fix it.  I think I accepted that this was my world and there was a reason I was put there.

I survived school, but did not thrive in it.  It wasn’t until my senior year (more on that later) that I came out of my shell somewhat.  I did what I had to do to get done.  I even attempted to ask for help from our guidance counselor, which I am sad to say, was not helpful at all.  Her solution was for me to go to my room and work on my homework when my parents were arguing or my mom acting strange.  That only solidified to me that no one could really help me.

When I would find the empty pill bottles of Xanax, Vicodin, and Esgic, I called each and every pharmacy and asked to speak to the pharmacist.  I told them that my mother had a drug addiction problem and begged them not to fill her refills anymore.  Some listened, I think…or I hoped.  But one pharmacist blatantly told me that she was going to get the prescriptions filled somewhere, so why not there?  I am still stunned by this comment today.

I called individual therapists and doctors in the yellow pages, begging for help.  They all told me the same thing—and they were correct.  That I could make any appointment for my mom, but that it had to be up to her to change herself, and if she was not ready, she would not change.

I cried at my mom’s bedside and begged her to change.  Begged her to stop.  BEGGED her to stop.  “Please mom, it doesn’t have to be this way.  I can help you. I can help you.  I can help you.”

I couldn’t help her.

A memory came to me, while writing this.  My biggest fear is that people will see my mother as a monster, which she was not; in any way, shape, or form.  She didn’t get the right help.  But my mom was not a monster.  She was loving, affectionate, and kind…until she lost her strength.  Her resolve.  Her will to live.

I was playing on the merry-go-round, I think in the fourth grade.  When I jumped off my knee hit it in just the right way and I sliced my knee straight open.  I had to have stiches put in and went to the doctor’s office, the one that she actually worked in.  She held me, the entire time, while the doctor put the stiches in.  She rubbed my forehead when they put the shot in and I cried in pain.  She comforted me.

Another memory flashes.  I had an asthma attack after or during a basketball game.  But she is there, calming me down, making me breathe, and talking me through it.

My senior prom night.  We joke around in the front yard and take pictures.  She tells me I am beautiful.

My wedding day flashes.  She tells me that she is so happy for me, and can’t wait for me to have babies.  I laugh with her and joke…”Mom, I’m only getting married.  No babies yet.”

My graduation from college.  The first one in my immediate family to finish a higher degree.  She is proud, but she is ill.  But she is still proud.

April 28th, 2005.  I am driving to the hospital and a feeling overwhelms me that I cannot and will not be able to ever describe in words to anyone.

She is gone.

March 2nd, 2007.  2:36 am in the morning.  My son is born, followed by my daughter in one minute. I think of my mom.  How I wish she were here to be in this moment.  To hold me and tell me how beautiful my babies are.  To hold both of my babies, but especially my baby girl, whose middle name is after her, and tell her that life will be different.

It will be.

Christmas morning, 1980 something.

Christmas morning, 1980 something.

Family pic, 1980 something.

Family pic, 1980 something.

 

My babies.

My babies.

Comments

  1. Beautiful.

  2. I love you racheal and always will. I wish I got to spend more time with you growing up . you were my partner in crime . always letting me play in your makeup and I remember the herbal essence spampoo you had.! I loved it. Lol I remember the wedding you showed me how to make the heels have grip by scraping them on the ground and I showed everybody how to dance. So much fun. And I know aunt sue wasn’t a monster . she was the best great aunt I could ask for . since I been reading your blog I started thinking how my life would be if she was still around still helping her with Christmas decorations and her seeing kass ! I miss all of you. Jason . Lenny . Michelle . Helen EVERYBODY . all the dogs. But I truly miss the house . the fun the parties the love. Just glad that you still talk to me. I love you

  3. This is such a beautiful remembrance of your Mother, Rachel. She sounds warm and loving, and troubled. Just like mine. Unfortunately, those troubles impacted us similarly. I too, am still struggling to figure out why living this way impacted me with a weight problem that started in my 20′s, not in my childhood, and that still plagues me. Your posts have been very insightful and thoughtful. Thank you for sharing, and letting others know that they are not and were not alone.

    It’s been 18 years since my mother passed away, and I understand what you mean by ‘knowing’ that while you were driving to the hospital, she was gone. I had a similar experience the night my mother died. After 18 years you would think some of those issues from before would have been resolved. But our Mothers leave such an impression on us, that I think it lasts a lifetime.

    Again, thank you for sharing. To know that there is someone else ‘out there’ who understands, is so meaningful to me.

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