The other day my husband and I took our daughter to the pet store to see the animals. My daughter loves animals. Whenever she sees a dog or cat she tries to get them to come to her so she can pet them. She loves watching birds fly or fish swim around in their tanks. I wish I could get her some sort of pet but the apartment complex we live in has very strict rules about pets. While watching my daughter marvel over all the animals it got me thinking about all the pets I had over the years.
My mother liked animals as well. We had an almost constant parade of dogs through my childhood. We never had one for long due to the fact we could afford to feed ourselves let alone a pet or they would run away. One dog made more of an impact on me than the others, our dog Nick.
I met Nick when I was about 5 years old. He belonged to my mother's boyfriend. He was a big wolf and shepard mix. He looked more wolf than shepard and he scared me. Mostly because he was so big. He was kept in a huge kennel because everyone was afraid of how he would react to all the kids. He was such a beautiful animal. He loved my mother from the start. He actually peed on her when they first met. From that moment on my mother was his. He was also protective of my brother who was born shortly after my mother got together with Nick's owner. When my mother and her boyfriend broke up I only saw Nick occasionally which didn't bother me that much. Like I said he scared me.
When my brother was about 5 years old Nick came to live with us. My mother's ex could not keep him at his new place so gave him to us. When Nick came to live with us I was still mildly scared of him. I have always been afraid of large dogs. However my fears soon disappeared. Having Nick in our house was wonderful. He wasn't aggressive towards my brother or myself. We were his pups. We would cuddle on the floor or couch everynight. He was very protective of all of us. He still thought of my mother as his. So much so he peed on the couch once after my mother's new boyfriend got up. If there were men in the house he always sat on my mother. He really was amazing.
We were not allowed to have pets at our place so if there was going to be a chance the landlord would be stopping by we took him to our friend's house down the street. He hated being down there and would howl until my mother or myself went down to see him. Thankfully we didn't have to send him away all that often.
One such time sticks in my head more than others. My mother told me to walk Nick down to the neighbors because the landlord was coming over. I grabbed Nick's tether and led him down the street. I tried to reassure him along the way that I would be back for him soon. I even made a deal with him that we could cuddle on the couch if he didn't howl too much. After making sure he was secure I headed home. He of course howled and whined wanting to come home with me.The landlord came for her visit and left. I'm not sure how it happend but I ended up angering my mother. Things got physical pretty quickly and I tried my best to keep quiet. Suddenly the phone started to ring. My mother answered and after a brief conversation rushed outside. Apparently Nick had heard me screaming and broke his tether to get to me. By the time my mother was outside he was already up the street. My mother met him outside the gate yelling. She went to grab what was left of his tether and he bit her. Hearing her screaming I rushed outside. As soon as Nick saw me he came right to me. I was afraid that he was going to bite me as well but he just leaned his massive body against my legs and pushed me back into the yard. My mother tried to follow but he growled at her. As soon as I was in the yard I tried to calm him down so my mother could come in the house and take care of her wounds. Nick was having none of it. He would not allow my mother through the gate. Everytime she touched the gate or fence he would growl at her. He knew she was angry and didn't want her anywhere near his pups. After about an hour he allowed my mother back in the yard. By this time she had calmed down. Even after letting her in the gate Nick wouldn't allow her near me. We spent most of the day in the living room with Nick sandwhiched between my brother and myself. This happened a few times and Nick always forgave my mother but I don't think he ever truly trusted her. He loved my brother and I and would do anything to keep us safe. He was my furry savior for a while. I always felt safe with him in the house. I knew my mother wouldn't want to risk being bitten again so this was a nonviolent time in our home.
Sadly after a few months the landlord found out about Nick. We were forced to give him back to my mother's ex. I begged my mother to find a new home for all of us so we could keep him. My mother's ex took Nick just down the street from us. The ex's new girlfriend's mother lived down the street. The major problem with that was no one told the old woman Nick was there. She heard him howling and thought a stray dog had been injured and wandered into her yard. Animal control came and took him away. I was under the impression that he had been picked up by the ex and taken to a new home. It wasn't until months later that my mother told me that no one came for him and that he had been put down. I was hearbroken. I still am. My poor furry best friend had been put down for no other reason than no one came to claim him. He died alone and was disposed of as if he didn't matter.
I never forgave my mother for not making it work so we could keep Nick. I was so mad that she didn't go claim him. I never realized when he was with us how much I needed him. He was my best friend and my protector. I will always think of him as my first dog. I really wish I would have been able to hold him one last time.
My life has been shaped by my relationships with other people but my life was forever altered by a fuzzy wolf named Nick. I know that if there is a doggy heaven he is still looking out for me.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Monday, January 21, 2013
The Addict's Child is an Addict
I don't think it is fair to only speak of my mother's addiction when I have struggled with my own addictions. I don't want people to sing my praises without knowing the whole truth: I am an addict. True I don't do meth or any of the other so called "hard drugs". My addiction has been a quiet struggle that surprises most people when they hear of it.
While living with my mother I knew I didn't want to be her. In my mind as long as I stayed away from meth and the like I would be fine. As a child I didn't understand you can become addicted to many things. I smoked my first cigarette at age 10, tried marijuana for the first time at 11 and had been quietly drinking with my mother for as long as I could remember. The only thing I did on a regular basis was smoke cigarettes. They were easy to steal seeing as how all my friend's parents smoked. Not to mention this was before they started putting cigarettes behind the counter. Part of the reason I started smoking was peer pressure. I wanted so much to fit in with my friends I would go along with anything. The other part was my mother didn't smoke. Always seemed strange to me that she didn't, afterall she was a drug user and an alcoholic but she refused to smoke cigarettes. She also didn't smoke pot. My mother is all about stimulants with the exception of alcohol. My smoking came to an end when my brother and I were adopted.
I managed to keep from smoking cigarettes until high school. Sadly I developed another addiction. I started cutting myself on a regular basis. It started out with me cutting when I got into some form of trouble. My new parents only used spanking when the misbehavior was severe. Most times I got a stern talking to and loss of privileges. But in my mind this wasn't enough. I had spent most of my childhood being beaten for the smallest misstep so it only made sense to me that if I got into trouble I should feel it physically. I started out cutting my legs above the knee because I hardly wore shorts. This progressed to carving images in my skin. As time went on I started cutting more and more and I didn't care where or who saw. I believe my adopted parents knew about this and they tried to get me help where they could. Along with cutting I started talking pills. For a while it was just Tylenol PM to help me sleep. Then freshman year a friend slipped me a Vicodin. I started taking those when I could. I loved taking pills. It took the edge off my pain and I could justify my habit by thinking it least it wasn't meth. Of course my parents found out and again did their best to help me through it. Sophomore year I switched from pills to marijuana and cigarettes. To me pot wasn't a big deal because everyone was doing it.
My junior year I started at a new high school. I wanted to get away from the friends at my old school and try to get my head together. During the first month of my junior year my adopted mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I fell off my little wagon. Her illness was too much for me. While they had caught the cancer early she still had to have major surgery and chemo. I often look back at this time and scold my past self. Instead of being strong for my adopted mom I shut down. I started cutting more and more. Everytime I was sad, angry or hurt I would cut. If I was at school I was sneaking off campus to get high. I refused to see my adopted mom's scars, go to chemo with her or see her without her hat or scarf. It would have made it too real for me and I was doing my best to pretend none of this was happening. It was while my adopted mom was sick that my cutting was found out. A girl at school had noticed something funny about my arm and got me to fess up. She then took me to my guidance counselor who called my adopted dad. Once again I was given help that I didn't utilize.
My addiction to pills stabilized into recreation over the next few years. I never actively went seeking for pills. I only took them if I was offered by friends. I continued to smoke pot as a way to dull the pain. Strangely I never dated someone who was a pot smoker so I often ended up fighting with my significant other about it. There was quite a bit of alcohol use in my young adult life but always at parties. I never drank just to drink.
After a particularly bad break up I decided enough was enough. I was holding on to anger and pain from my childhood. I couldn't get rid of it because I kept numbing the pain. So I decided it was time for change. I moved into a local woman's shelter where I would be on a strict schedule with no way for me to be able to participate in my normal activities. I loved living there. I was finally able to forgive my mother for my childhood and loads of other offenses that had been done to me over the years. I was doing very well while I lived at the shelter. While I was living there a friend in California confessed to me that she had tried to kill herself and felt totally alone. I decided her need was greater than mine so I left the shelter and moved out of the state. Once in California things got worse. I realized I couldn't help my friend unless she made some changes to her life. By the time I realized this it was too late. I had no job, my driver's license had been suspened due to unpaid tickets and my car had expired tags. I was stuck. I know I could have called my family for help but I seem to have inherited my mother's pride. So I stayed in California. In due time I started smoking pot again. I justified it by saying it was for recreation, that because I had my issues under control it was ok to smoke. I also started taking pills again. It started with painkillers and progressed to mood stabilzers.
The day after christmas 2008 I tried to kill myself. I don't remember being depressed or even wanting to die. The whole event was surreal. My new boyfriend had just dropped me off at home. I was in my room watching a movie. On my nightstand was some anti-nausea pills I had obtained legally from my doctor after fighting an infection that made me sick. I grabbed the bottle and swallowed all that was left, about 8 pills. I sat there for a minute and came back to myself. I remember panicking as I realized what I did. My roomate was home and so was my best friend that lived 30 feet from my backdoor but I didn't call either of them. Instead I called a friend that I only knew from work. He picked me up and dropped me off at the hospital. Once there I told them what happened. I even brought the pill bottle so they would know exactly what I had taken. I ended up having to drink charcoal and spent the night in ICU. While in the hospital they got me connected with Behavior Health. I was set up with a therapist and a psychologist. I'm not really sure what the difference between the two is but through them I was diagnosed borderline bipolar and boderline anorexic. I remember laughing at the diagnoses thinking I could never do anything fully. I was prescribed Lexepro and Lamictal for my depression and Trazadone for my insomnia. The meds helped for a while but I was taking other pills on top of these. My boyfriend had a prescription for Vicodin so he tended to share. On top of that I was taking any other mood stabilizers I could get my hands on. Any given day I had five to six different pills in my system.
Life continued this way for about 8 months. I was having trouble with my insurance and wasn't able to get the pills I was prescribed. Once I ran out the world turned upside down. I spent three days crying for no reason. My poor roommate found me curled around the toilet sobbing and throwing up on the third day. Not knowing what to do she called 911. When the cops showed up they gave me two options: get up and go to the hospital on my own or they would call an ambulance and they would 51/50 me for three weeks. For those that don't know what that means I would have been put in a mental hospital for three weeks. I managed to get myself off the couch and to the hospital. They were able to give me one of my normal pills. Once I was out of the hospital my roommate called my best friend to take me to my hometown for a few days. While I was home my grandfather offered me a place to live and a chance to gain control over my life. I didn't really need to think about it. I wanted to be near my family and be around friends that didn't do pills. I needed that support system without telling them why I needed them.
I have been pill free for just over three years. I have only taken pills when the doctor places them in my hand. After having my daughter I didn't even want to take anything stronger than ibprofen. There have been a few times that I long for a sleeping pill or if I am having a stressful day a mood stabilizer. I have been able to resist these urges. Nothing is worth the pain of pill withdrawl. While I still hate feeling my feelings I do it anyway. I haven't cut myself in over 3 years as well. I don't claim to be cured of my affliction but I have control over it. I won't ever let addiction rule my life.
Taya
While living with my mother I knew I didn't want to be her. In my mind as long as I stayed away from meth and the like I would be fine. As a child I didn't understand you can become addicted to many things. I smoked my first cigarette at age 10, tried marijuana for the first time at 11 and had been quietly drinking with my mother for as long as I could remember. The only thing I did on a regular basis was smoke cigarettes. They were easy to steal seeing as how all my friend's parents smoked. Not to mention this was before they started putting cigarettes behind the counter. Part of the reason I started smoking was peer pressure. I wanted so much to fit in with my friends I would go along with anything. The other part was my mother didn't smoke. Always seemed strange to me that she didn't, afterall she was a drug user and an alcoholic but she refused to smoke cigarettes. She also didn't smoke pot. My mother is all about stimulants with the exception of alcohol. My smoking came to an end when my brother and I were adopted.
I managed to keep from smoking cigarettes until high school. Sadly I developed another addiction. I started cutting myself on a regular basis. It started out with me cutting when I got into some form of trouble. My new parents only used spanking when the misbehavior was severe. Most times I got a stern talking to and loss of privileges. But in my mind this wasn't enough. I had spent most of my childhood being beaten for the smallest misstep so it only made sense to me that if I got into trouble I should feel it physically. I started out cutting my legs above the knee because I hardly wore shorts. This progressed to carving images in my skin. As time went on I started cutting more and more and I didn't care where or who saw. I believe my adopted parents knew about this and they tried to get me help where they could. Along with cutting I started talking pills. For a while it was just Tylenol PM to help me sleep. Then freshman year a friend slipped me a Vicodin. I started taking those when I could. I loved taking pills. It took the edge off my pain and I could justify my habit by thinking it least it wasn't meth. Of course my parents found out and again did their best to help me through it. Sophomore year I switched from pills to marijuana and cigarettes. To me pot wasn't a big deal because everyone was doing it.
My junior year I started at a new high school. I wanted to get away from the friends at my old school and try to get my head together. During the first month of my junior year my adopted mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I fell off my little wagon. Her illness was too much for me. While they had caught the cancer early she still had to have major surgery and chemo. I often look back at this time and scold my past self. Instead of being strong for my adopted mom I shut down. I started cutting more and more. Everytime I was sad, angry or hurt I would cut. If I was at school I was sneaking off campus to get high. I refused to see my adopted mom's scars, go to chemo with her or see her without her hat or scarf. It would have made it too real for me and I was doing my best to pretend none of this was happening. It was while my adopted mom was sick that my cutting was found out. A girl at school had noticed something funny about my arm and got me to fess up. She then took me to my guidance counselor who called my adopted dad. Once again I was given help that I didn't utilize.
My addiction to pills stabilized into recreation over the next few years. I never actively went seeking for pills. I only took them if I was offered by friends. I continued to smoke pot as a way to dull the pain. Strangely I never dated someone who was a pot smoker so I often ended up fighting with my significant other about it. There was quite a bit of alcohol use in my young adult life but always at parties. I never drank just to drink.
After a particularly bad break up I decided enough was enough. I was holding on to anger and pain from my childhood. I couldn't get rid of it because I kept numbing the pain. So I decided it was time for change. I moved into a local woman's shelter where I would be on a strict schedule with no way for me to be able to participate in my normal activities. I loved living there. I was finally able to forgive my mother for my childhood and loads of other offenses that had been done to me over the years. I was doing very well while I lived at the shelter. While I was living there a friend in California confessed to me that she had tried to kill herself and felt totally alone. I decided her need was greater than mine so I left the shelter and moved out of the state. Once in California things got worse. I realized I couldn't help my friend unless she made some changes to her life. By the time I realized this it was too late. I had no job, my driver's license had been suspened due to unpaid tickets and my car had expired tags. I was stuck. I know I could have called my family for help but I seem to have inherited my mother's pride. So I stayed in California. In due time I started smoking pot again. I justified it by saying it was for recreation, that because I had my issues under control it was ok to smoke. I also started taking pills again. It started with painkillers and progressed to mood stabilzers.
The day after christmas 2008 I tried to kill myself. I don't remember being depressed or even wanting to die. The whole event was surreal. My new boyfriend had just dropped me off at home. I was in my room watching a movie. On my nightstand was some anti-nausea pills I had obtained legally from my doctor after fighting an infection that made me sick. I grabbed the bottle and swallowed all that was left, about 8 pills. I sat there for a minute and came back to myself. I remember panicking as I realized what I did. My roomate was home and so was my best friend that lived 30 feet from my backdoor but I didn't call either of them. Instead I called a friend that I only knew from work. He picked me up and dropped me off at the hospital. Once there I told them what happened. I even brought the pill bottle so they would know exactly what I had taken. I ended up having to drink charcoal and spent the night in ICU. While in the hospital they got me connected with Behavior Health. I was set up with a therapist and a psychologist. I'm not really sure what the difference between the two is but through them I was diagnosed borderline bipolar and boderline anorexic. I remember laughing at the diagnoses thinking I could never do anything fully. I was prescribed Lexepro and Lamictal for my depression and Trazadone for my insomnia. The meds helped for a while but I was taking other pills on top of these. My boyfriend had a prescription for Vicodin so he tended to share. On top of that I was taking any other mood stabilizers I could get my hands on. Any given day I had five to six different pills in my system.
Life continued this way for about 8 months. I was having trouble with my insurance and wasn't able to get the pills I was prescribed. Once I ran out the world turned upside down. I spent three days crying for no reason. My poor roommate found me curled around the toilet sobbing and throwing up on the third day. Not knowing what to do she called 911. When the cops showed up they gave me two options: get up and go to the hospital on my own or they would call an ambulance and they would 51/50 me for three weeks. For those that don't know what that means I would have been put in a mental hospital for three weeks. I managed to get myself off the couch and to the hospital. They were able to give me one of my normal pills. Once I was out of the hospital my roommate called my best friend to take me to my hometown for a few days. While I was home my grandfather offered me a place to live and a chance to gain control over my life. I didn't really need to think about it. I wanted to be near my family and be around friends that didn't do pills. I needed that support system without telling them why I needed them.
I have been pill free for just over three years. I have only taken pills when the doctor places them in my hand. After having my daughter I didn't even want to take anything stronger than ibprofen. There have been a few times that I long for a sleeping pill or if I am having a stressful day a mood stabilizer. I have been able to resist these urges. Nothing is worth the pain of pill withdrawl. While I still hate feeling my feelings I do it anyway. I haven't cut myself in over 3 years as well. I don't claim to be cured of my affliction but I have control over it. I won't ever let addiction rule my life.
Taya
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Elmo
A few days ago my daughter and I were watching Sesame Street. I have always loved the show no matter my age. My daughter seemed to be enjoying it as well, especially Elmo. As we were watching the show I couldn't help but think of my mother and her love for Elmo. It was then I remembered that I had a first generation Tickle Me Elmo buried in my closet. It looked like the perfect time to dig him out and give him to my daughter. I should have known how that little fuzzy monster effected my emotions...
When I was able 11 years old Tickle Me Elmo hit the market. I remember watching the news and hearing how this toy had sold out and that there were waiting lists. I never once longed for one of these toys. I knew that with my mother's addiction and our living situation money would not be spent on the latest "It" toy. My brother was five at the time and I think he may have wanted one. He had seen it on tv and was in the age group these toys were aimed at. I don't remember hearing him ask for one but he might have. My mother on the other hand, was very vocal in her desire for this toy. I wish I could say that she wanted a Tickle Me Elmo for my brother but that was not the case. She wanted this toy for herself. I never understood why though. Would it help her reconnect with her childhood? Did she really want the toy for my brother but was making it seem like she wanted it for herself to throw us off? Whatever the case may have been she coveted that toy. She wouldn't spend her own money on it because well she didn't have any. All the money we got from welfare went to rent and her habits.
I don't remember exactly how it happened but my mother got the toy she wanted. I think it might have been a christmas gift from my future adopted parents but I can't be sure. Maybe I should ask them. Anyway my mother got her toy and loved it. She slept with it and showed it off to everyone. She let my brother play with it and the two would laugh as Elmo giggled and shook. Shortly after she got Elmo my mother also got a Sleep and Snore Ernie. She wasn't as excited about this new toy as Elmo but she still loved it.
I can't say for certain but I think it was only just a few months after recieving these gifts that my brother and I were removed from her care. We didn't have many pictures of my mother so she sent us away with some her favorite items to remember her by: her Raiders jacket, Tickle Me Elmo and Sleep and Snore Ernie. She may have sent other things but those are the ones that stick out in my head. My brother got Elmo while I took the jacket and Ernie. The jacket was huge even on my mom so when I wore it I swam in it. I wore that jacket everywhere: school, church, the store and to bed. I took Elmo with me to camp one year and I think my brother did the same. These 3 items were like the holy trinity for my brother and I. We needed them because they were a physical connection to our mother. Even after all the horror she had put us through we still longed for her. We still wanted her to be with us and to love us. I know deep down my mother loves her children. Sadly, her addiction has overshadowed that love.
As time past and we got used to not being with her we slowly let these items take a backseat in our lives. We didn't throw them away but we didn't worship them like we did in the early days of our new lives. I think I may have even given the jacket back to my mother on one of the few trips we made to see her. We still longed for her to come home but we no longer waited. We moved on in our lives. Well as much as we could. We still kept Ernie and Elmo. We eventually had more pictures of our mother and that help. As time went on my brother and I started to realize that our lives were meant to continue even if our mother wasn't here. At some point my brother stopped sleeping with Elmo in favor of other toys he had picked out. As we both got older Elmo and Ernie found themselves stored in the garage.
A few years ago my adopted mom R gave me a bag of my things that had been in the garage since I moved out. In this bag I found cds, a discman, some other forgotten treasures and Elmo. My adopted parents had kept him for us. I was so happy to have Elmo back. I had totally forgotten he was in the garage. I pulled him out of the bag and gave him a squeeze. He still talked but didn't vibrate like he used to. Seemed as if the batteries were dead. I took him home and placed him in a bag with other stuffed animals from my youth I can't seem to let go. Once in the bag he went in the closet. I remember talking to my brother about Elmo. He was excited that the toy had been found but didn't want it for himself. In the closet Elmo stayed until just a few days ago when I took him out and gave him new batteries. He is now back to him giggly, shaking self.
My daughter at first didn't know what to do with this giggling, vibrating monster. She hid from him for a while. Once I gave the toy a kiss and hug I set it on the floor and walked away. Eventually my daughter got curious and picked Elmo up. She felt his softness and looked into his now slightly yellow eyes and pulled him into a hug. While watching her I couldn't help but think my mother should be here. She should be the one giving her granddaughter a Tickle Me Elmo. But the more I watched my daughter I realized that if my mother and daughter were to meet this is what would happen. My daughter is cautious of everyone who is not her parents or her grandparents(my husband's mother and her boyfriend or my adopted parents). If my daughter were to meet my mother she would treat my mother just like she did Elmo. I like to think of Elmo has that part of my mother that is good and healthy. She gave my brother and I Elmo, the thing she wanted most in this world. I know that under her addiction she is the good person I caught glimpses of as a child. I hope someday my daughter will get to see it too.
Taya
P.S. Don't forget to check out The Addict's Child on Facebook.
When I was able 11 years old Tickle Me Elmo hit the market. I remember watching the news and hearing how this toy had sold out and that there were waiting lists. I never once longed for one of these toys. I knew that with my mother's addiction and our living situation money would not be spent on the latest "It" toy. My brother was five at the time and I think he may have wanted one. He had seen it on tv and was in the age group these toys were aimed at. I don't remember hearing him ask for one but he might have. My mother on the other hand, was very vocal in her desire for this toy. I wish I could say that she wanted a Tickle Me Elmo for my brother but that was not the case. She wanted this toy for herself. I never understood why though. Would it help her reconnect with her childhood? Did she really want the toy for my brother but was making it seem like she wanted it for herself to throw us off? Whatever the case may have been she coveted that toy. She wouldn't spend her own money on it because well she didn't have any. All the money we got from welfare went to rent and her habits.
I don't remember exactly how it happened but my mother got the toy she wanted. I think it might have been a christmas gift from my future adopted parents but I can't be sure. Maybe I should ask them. Anyway my mother got her toy and loved it. She slept with it and showed it off to everyone. She let my brother play with it and the two would laugh as Elmo giggled and shook. Shortly after she got Elmo my mother also got a Sleep and Snore Ernie. She wasn't as excited about this new toy as Elmo but she still loved it.
I can't say for certain but I think it was only just a few months after recieving these gifts that my brother and I were removed from her care. We didn't have many pictures of my mother so she sent us away with some her favorite items to remember her by: her Raiders jacket, Tickle Me Elmo and Sleep and Snore Ernie. She may have sent other things but those are the ones that stick out in my head. My brother got Elmo while I took the jacket and Ernie. The jacket was huge even on my mom so when I wore it I swam in it. I wore that jacket everywhere: school, church, the store and to bed. I took Elmo with me to camp one year and I think my brother did the same. These 3 items were like the holy trinity for my brother and I. We needed them because they were a physical connection to our mother. Even after all the horror she had put us through we still longed for her. We still wanted her to be with us and to love us. I know deep down my mother loves her children. Sadly, her addiction has overshadowed that love.
As time past and we got used to not being with her we slowly let these items take a backseat in our lives. We didn't throw them away but we didn't worship them like we did in the early days of our new lives. I think I may have even given the jacket back to my mother on one of the few trips we made to see her. We still longed for her to come home but we no longer waited. We moved on in our lives. Well as much as we could. We still kept Ernie and Elmo. We eventually had more pictures of our mother and that help. As time went on my brother and I started to realize that our lives were meant to continue even if our mother wasn't here. At some point my brother stopped sleeping with Elmo in favor of other toys he had picked out. As we both got older Elmo and Ernie found themselves stored in the garage.
A few years ago my adopted mom R gave me a bag of my things that had been in the garage since I moved out. In this bag I found cds, a discman, some other forgotten treasures and Elmo. My adopted parents had kept him for us. I was so happy to have Elmo back. I had totally forgotten he was in the garage. I pulled him out of the bag and gave him a squeeze. He still talked but didn't vibrate like he used to. Seemed as if the batteries were dead. I took him home and placed him in a bag with other stuffed animals from my youth I can't seem to let go. Once in the bag he went in the closet. I remember talking to my brother about Elmo. He was excited that the toy had been found but didn't want it for himself. In the closet Elmo stayed until just a few days ago when I took him out and gave him new batteries. He is now back to him giggly, shaking self.
My daughter at first didn't know what to do with this giggling, vibrating monster. She hid from him for a while. Once I gave the toy a kiss and hug I set it on the floor and walked away. Eventually my daughter got curious and picked Elmo up. She felt his softness and looked into his now slightly yellow eyes and pulled him into a hug. While watching her I couldn't help but think my mother should be here. She should be the one giving her granddaughter a Tickle Me Elmo. But the more I watched my daughter I realized that if my mother and daughter were to meet this is what would happen. My daughter is cautious of everyone who is not her parents or her grandparents(my husband's mother and her boyfriend or my adopted parents). If my daughter were to meet my mother she would treat my mother just like she did Elmo. I like to think of Elmo has that part of my mother that is good and healthy. She gave my brother and I Elmo, the thing she wanted most in this world. I know that under her addiction she is the good person I caught glimpses of as a child. I hope someday my daughter will get to see it too.
Taya
P.S. Don't forget to check out The Addict's Child on Facebook.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
The Addict's Child on Facebook
I keep forgetting to let everyone who reads my blog know that I have a Facebook page. Please feel free to check it out. It's mostly just a page to let people know when I have posted a new blog entry. So please check it out and share with your friends.
http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Addicts-Child/129218913905529
Taya
http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Addicts-Child/129218913905529
Taya
I just want to be pretty inside and out.
"No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl. All little girls should be told they're pretty, even if they aren't." - Marilyn Monroe.
As a child I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. I'm sure all children have this same thought about their mothers. Even when my mother was at her worst in her addiction I thought she was beautiful. I'm sure to an outsider my mother was not ugly but could have been prettier. My mother had her own style which was never in style. She wore her hair in the same feathered mullet fashion from the '80's for most of my childhood. She wore tank tops and sleeveless shirts to show off her tattoos. She favored black eyeliner and Aquanet. Her favorite jacket was leather with fringe all over it. Looking back I guess you could say my mother was a fashion victim but as a child I thought she was gorgeous and I knew I could never be as beautiful as she was. And she made sure that I knew I wasn't beautiful or even pretty. In fact according to my mother I was ugly.
I have no memory of my mother complimenting me on anything. She often made fun of my blonde hair and blue eyes saying I belonged more with Barbie and Ken than with her. I was always told that no one would want some one as ugly as myself. I never understood why she would say these things. It wasn't like I was calling her ugly or anything like that. I longed to be pretty like her. I hated my blonde hair and wished it was the beautiful red that her's was. Even my blue eyes bothered me. My mother has blue eyes as well but says I got mine from my father. There was nothing redeemable about me in my mother's eyes. Because of all the comments about my looks from her I believed it.
I did get compliments from her friends. My mother mostly hung out with men who had a history of drug/alcohol abuse and had been in and out for prison. Most of these men were very racist. Whenever they were over we were not allowed to watch a tv show that had anyone who was not white. These same men praised my blonde hair and blue eyes, calling me the perfect Aryan daughter. Telling me if I ever dated a man that was not white both of us would be killed. My mother tended to agree with them. It was about the only time I remember my mother being happy about the way I looked. I still didn't find solace in this. As a child of a meth addict I felt I already had a sign above my head that told the world what was going on at home. Add to the fact that these men and my mother were using my hair and eye color to make them feel good about their race made it worse. It didn't help that one of her many boyfriends loved calling me beautiful. He used to say I was his California girl. I hated this man. His comments made me uncomfortable. It was only a matter of time before his comments went from innocent to sinister. He was always trying to get me to sit on his lap and told me that wearing pajama pants to bed would hurt my female parts. Needless to say I was molested my this man. After being molested I truly started to feel ugly. I hated the way I looked and felt that it was because of my looks that I was molested. If I didn't have this blonde hair maybe he wouldn't have found me appealing. If I wasn't so slim or if I wasn't so weak this wouldn't have happened.
Even after being removed from my mother's care I struggled with they way I looked. While I was no longer being told I was ugly I was still feeling the effects of those words. I was 12 years old when my mother sent us away. I was about to enter middle school and I was terrified. Having had to grow up at an early age and what not I already longed for a boyfriend. But whenever I saw a cute boy at school my mother's voice rang through my head. And it got worse as the years went on. I got glasses and braces in 7th grade which pretty much sealed my boyfriendless fate. I knew I didn't want to be one of the "popular" girls so I dressed as uniquely as possible. I was loud and rude. I figured if people thought I was ugly I might as well act the part. I did have a few boys in middle school ask me out but I was just as shallow as all the other kids in my school and said no because they didn't look right.
As I entered high school things got a bit better. My freshman year I got my first boyfriend. He was a junior and liked me. Looking back I can see what attracted me to him: he told me I was beautiful. Oh the joy of hearing those words from a boy!!! I was on top of the world. Well at least until my adopted parents found out and promptly disapproved of him. This of course added fuel to my fire. I did everything I could to keep this boyfriend. As an adult I often look back at that relationship and laugh. I can't believe I spent so much time on someone who I didn't really even want to be with and that treated me like a toy. When he broke up with me for not having sex(of course that is not the excuse he gave me) I started thinking again that my mother was right.
Over the years I have had numerous boyfriends. I have put myself in situations where I am dating more than one guy because it made me feel good to be desired by men. For me it was validation that I was pretty and wanted. Of course I never believed them when they would say I was beautiful. I remember one boyfriend would get so mad when I would roll my eyes after he said he thought I was beautiful.
It took a long time but I finally am at a place where I know that my looks don't define who I am. I have an amazing husband who thinks I am beautiful even when I was hugging the toilet during morning sickness. My husband tells me every day that I am beautiful. And while I may not be Hollywood beautiful I am finally ok with that. I tell my daughter everyday that she is beautiful. She has no idea what it means yet but I don't want her to doubt herself the way I did. I want her to grow up being proud of who she is on the inside and outside. I think that's what every little girl needs, just to be told she is beautiful inside and out.
Taya
As a child I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. I'm sure all children have this same thought about their mothers. Even when my mother was at her worst in her addiction I thought she was beautiful. I'm sure to an outsider my mother was not ugly but could have been prettier. My mother had her own style which was never in style. She wore her hair in the same feathered mullet fashion from the '80's for most of my childhood. She wore tank tops and sleeveless shirts to show off her tattoos. She favored black eyeliner and Aquanet. Her favorite jacket was leather with fringe all over it. Looking back I guess you could say my mother was a fashion victim but as a child I thought she was gorgeous and I knew I could never be as beautiful as she was. And she made sure that I knew I wasn't beautiful or even pretty. In fact according to my mother I was ugly.
I have no memory of my mother complimenting me on anything. She often made fun of my blonde hair and blue eyes saying I belonged more with Barbie and Ken than with her. I was always told that no one would want some one as ugly as myself. I never understood why she would say these things. It wasn't like I was calling her ugly or anything like that. I longed to be pretty like her. I hated my blonde hair and wished it was the beautiful red that her's was. Even my blue eyes bothered me. My mother has blue eyes as well but says I got mine from my father. There was nothing redeemable about me in my mother's eyes. Because of all the comments about my looks from her I believed it.
I did get compliments from her friends. My mother mostly hung out with men who had a history of drug/alcohol abuse and had been in and out for prison. Most of these men were very racist. Whenever they were over we were not allowed to watch a tv show that had anyone who was not white. These same men praised my blonde hair and blue eyes, calling me the perfect Aryan daughter. Telling me if I ever dated a man that was not white both of us would be killed. My mother tended to agree with them. It was about the only time I remember my mother being happy about the way I looked. I still didn't find solace in this. As a child of a meth addict I felt I already had a sign above my head that told the world what was going on at home. Add to the fact that these men and my mother were using my hair and eye color to make them feel good about their race made it worse. It didn't help that one of her many boyfriends loved calling me beautiful. He used to say I was his California girl. I hated this man. His comments made me uncomfortable. It was only a matter of time before his comments went from innocent to sinister. He was always trying to get me to sit on his lap and told me that wearing pajama pants to bed would hurt my female parts. Needless to say I was molested my this man. After being molested I truly started to feel ugly. I hated the way I looked and felt that it was because of my looks that I was molested. If I didn't have this blonde hair maybe he wouldn't have found me appealing. If I wasn't so slim or if I wasn't so weak this wouldn't have happened.
Even after being removed from my mother's care I struggled with they way I looked. While I was no longer being told I was ugly I was still feeling the effects of those words. I was 12 years old when my mother sent us away. I was about to enter middle school and I was terrified. Having had to grow up at an early age and what not I already longed for a boyfriend. But whenever I saw a cute boy at school my mother's voice rang through my head. And it got worse as the years went on. I got glasses and braces in 7th grade which pretty much sealed my boyfriendless fate. I knew I didn't want to be one of the "popular" girls so I dressed as uniquely as possible. I was loud and rude. I figured if people thought I was ugly I might as well act the part. I did have a few boys in middle school ask me out but I was just as shallow as all the other kids in my school and said no because they didn't look right.
As I entered high school things got a bit better. My freshman year I got my first boyfriend. He was a junior and liked me. Looking back I can see what attracted me to him: he told me I was beautiful. Oh the joy of hearing those words from a boy!!! I was on top of the world. Well at least until my adopted parents found out and promptly disapproved of him. This of course added fuel to my fire. I did everything I could to keep this boyfriend. As an adult I often look back at that relationship and laugh. I can't believe I spent so much time on someone who I didn't really even want to be with and that treated me like a toy. When he broke up with me for not having sex(of course that is not the excuse he gave me) I started thinking again that my mother was right.
Over the years I have had numerous boyfriends. I have put myself in situations where I am dating more than one guy because it made me feel good to be desired by men. For me it was validation that I was pretty and wanted. Of course I never believed them when they would say I was beautiful. I remember one boyfriend would get so mad when I would roll my eyes after he said he thought I was beautiful.
It took a long time but I finally am at a place where I know that my looks don't define who I am. I have an amazing husband who thinks I am beautiful even when I was hugging the toilet during morning sickness. My husband tells me every day that I am beautiful. And while I may not be Hollywood beautiful I am finally ok with that. I tell my daughter everyday that she is beautiful. She has no idea what it means yet but I don't want her to doubt herself the way I did. I want her to grow up being proud of who she is on the inside and outside. I think that's what every little girl needs, just to be told she is beautiful inside and out.
Taya
Saturday, January 12, 2013
A few days ago I celebrated my 27th birthday. The whole day I wondered if I would hear from my mother. I wasn't really expecting anything from her since she disowned me on Facebook a few months back for calling my adopted mother mom in a picture. So I was surprised when I recieved a text message from my mother at about nine o'clock on the evening of my birthday. The text contained birthday wishes and also a phone number so I can call her "if I want". Those were her words. She had a phone in hand with my number and yet wanted me to call her. I did not call her and my husband and brother agreed with my decision.
I have always been the one that dragged my mother along in our relationship. I have been the one to call or text. She has never put any effort into our relationship. For a long time I was okay with the situation. However in the last few years things have gotten worse. Whenever I get her on the phone she doesn't talk to me, she talks to whoever is in the room with her. She never wants to hear how things are going with me or my family. It is all about her and the people she is with. She thinks I care about people I don't know and have no desire to know.
I have noticed that with my mother's addiction she is very selfish. She expects me to be available when she calls even if it is at midnight. She truly believes that my brother and I are completely devoted to her and will do whatever we can to get her what she wants. I think she still thinks of us as a 6 year old little boy and a 12 year old girl. She really doesn't understand that we are both adults that have our own lives.
I mentioned my mother disowning me a few months back for calling my adopted mother mom in a picture. What is really messed up is that she did it in a very public way on my Facebook page. I really tried to explain that she should only be angry at herself. She is the one that chooses to stay away and not participate in my life. While I don't address my adopted mother, "R", as mom I do call her mom when I am talking to other people about her or share things about her on Facebook. Looking back on my life R has really been a mom to me. We have fought, laughed and cried with each other. She went to my sports games, choir concerts and dance recitals. When my homecoming date senior year ditched me as soon as we got to the dance, R was on the phone the next morning ripping him a new one for making me cry. She has always been there for me when I needed her. We haven't always gotten along but we always try to make an effort to keep our relationship going. She helps me with my daughter when I am sick and watches her so I can work parttime. I will always be grateful for all that R and my adopted father S. They showed me what a family is supposed to be.
And for all these things my mother is jealous. That's the only reason I can think she would disown me and not talk to me. I think another thing is she feels guilty. She knows she should be here with her kids and yet her addiction keeps winning. I hope one day my mother is strong enough to win her battle with alcohol and drugs. I truly believe that she has the strength hidden deep inside of her and if she just tapped into that strength her addiction would not stand a chance.
Taya
I have always been the one that dragged my mother along in our relationship. I have been the one to call or text. She has never put any effort into our relationship. For a long time I was okay with the situation. However in the last few years things have gotten worse. Whenever I get her on the phone she doesn't talk to me, she talks to whoever is in the room with her. She never wants to hear how things are going with me or my family. It is all about her and the people she is with. She thinks I care about people I don't know and have no desire to know.
I have noticed that with my mother's addiction she is very selfish. She expects me to be available when she calls even if it is at midnight. She truly believes that my brother and I are completely devoted to her and will do whatever we can to get her what she wants. I think she still thinks of us as a 6 year old little boy and a 12 year old girl. She really doesn't understand that we are both adults that have our own lives.
I mentioned my mother disowning me a few months back for calling my adopted mother mom in a picture. What is really messed up is that she did it in a very public way on my Facebook page. I really tried to explain that she should only be angry at herself. She is the one that chooses to stay away and not participate in my life. While I don't address my adopted mother, "R", as mom I do call her mom when I am talking to other people about her or share things about her on Facebook. Looking back on my life R has really been a mom to me. We have fought, laughed and cried with each other. She went to my sports games, choir concerts and dance recitals. When my homecoming date senior year ditched me as soon as we got to the dance, R was on the phone the next morning ripping him a new one for making me cry. She has always been there for me when I needed her. We haven't always gotten along but we always try to make an effort to keep our relationship going. She helps me with my daughter when I am sick and watches her so I can work parttime. I will always be grateful for all that R and my adopted father S. They showed me what a family is supposed to be.
And for all these things my mother is jealous. That's the only reason I can think she would disown me and not talk to me. I think another thing is she feels guilty. She knows she should be here with her kids and yet her addiction keeps winning. I hope one day my mother is strong enough to win her battle with alcohol and drugs. I truly believe that she has the strength hidden deep inside of her and if she just tapped into that strength her addiction would not stand a chance.
Taya
Saturday, January 5, 2013
The Monster Strikes
A year ago today my daughter and I were in a grocery store parking lot when the U.S. Marshals showed up to catch a fugitive. The young man they were after decided to use his car as a battering ram so the Marshals were forced to open fire on his vehicle. When all was said and done the young man was dead and I had a bullet hole in my car that could have easily hit my daughter if it had hit the car 12 inches to the right. My inlaws came to pick up the baby while my husband and I stayed behind to give our statements. I was a wreck. I could not stop sobbing and shaking. I was baffled at the reactions of those around me. I felt I was the only who was freaking out. I asked my husband what was wrong with me, was I just overly sensitive to things like that? As he took me in his arms he gently reminded me that because of the violence I lived with as a child I tend to have stronger reactions to it. For days after the shooting I didn't want to leave the house. If a car door slammed I jumped a foot in the air. I was having nightmares so I had trouble sleeping. After about a week I started to calm down. It was then that I realized my husband's words to me were true.
As I have said before when my mother is clean and sober she is a wonderful person. Sadly, most of my life my mother has not been clean and sober. When she is using drugs and alcohol she is a monster. She is violent and uses her words as weapons. No one is safe with her under the influence, not even her children.
My brother and I lived in a constant state of fear. We never knew what would set our mother off. One night I was in the kitchen preparing to make dinner for all of us. I had the skillet on the burner as it heated up for hamburger. I'm not sure exactly what happened but the next thing I knew my mother was screaming at me. I tried to figure out what was going on while at the same time trying to make sure my mother's attention stayed on me. She kept screaming and yelling at me for things I had no control over or that I didn't do. Out of nowhere she started hitting me. I learned early on never to try to fight back or defend myself too much. That would just spur her on. So I just took the beating. At some point she grabbed the skillet off the stove and threw it at the wall opposite the stove. It hit the wall then the floor landing right side up. As my mother continued to rage I tried to calm her down. At this point she grabbed me by the hair and threw me across the room. I hit the wall and when I landed on the floor my hand came down inside the skillet. It was still hot from the stove and immediatly gave me blisters on my palm. As I grabbed my hand I cried to my mother I was burnt. She kept screaming she didn't care and that I did it to myself. I kept asking her to stop and to help me but my mother had been replaced by a monster. She screamed at me to get out. To leave and she didn't care where I went. All the while my little brother was sitting on the couch in the living room. He was quiet through the whole thing. Probably hoping the monster in the kitchen would run out of steam before she noticed him there. As I tried to get the pain in my hand under control my mother kept screaming at me to get out. That she didn't want me anymore and that she never did. The only thing to do was leave. If I stayed she might have killed me. So I went to the one place I knew I could go, the neighbors. Their daughter was my best friend and they knew what happened in our house. I ran over there to find my best friend's grandma home alone. She let me in and asked what happened. I told her I burned myself but I needed to get my brother. She put some burn creme on my hand and that was when I hear more screaming from my house. It was my mother again only this time the screaming was directed at my brother. As I got out the front door I saw my little brother running down the street away from me with no shoes on. He had no idea where I was so he made for his dad's house down the street. I managed to grab him and take him to the neighbors with me. The grandma would not let me go check on my mother no matter how much I begged. Even at the age of 11 years old I already knew that there was a difference between my mother and the monster that threw us out of the house. I knew that drugs and alcohol made my mother crazy.
A few hours later my friend came home with her parents. When they heard what happened they decided we were staying the night and sent their oldest son next door to make sure my mother was at least alive. He found her laying in the hallway passed out. He moved her to bed and let her know where her children were. The next morning she came to get us. Naturally my brother and I were iffy on going near her but when I looked into her eyes I saw no trace of the monster from last night. My mother seemed remorseful about what happened the previous night. She cried when she saw my hand and apologized. She hugged and kissed my brother and I. Just like that things were back to what they were. The monster was sleeping again.
This is just one story of many. The monster showed up at least once a week, sometimes more. I never felt safe with my mother because she fed the monster. It is because of these acts of violence against myself and my brother I react the way I do to it. I still suffer flashback nightmares of the things my mother has done to me or my brother. When I was in my early twenties I decided to get some help and talk to someone about all this. I was told I suffer from mild PTSD or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This is the same things soldiers suffer from when they come home from war. I never thought that it was something I could have. I've never been to war or saw anything overly traumatic. However it was explained to me that my childhood is considered traumatic and therefore it is not surprising I would still feel the affects into adulthood. Since I was told about PTSD I have done my best to try to control it. I did not want it to rule my life.
I can proudly say that I don't have nightmares every night. Not even once a month anymore. Last year's shooting caused nightmares for a while but that was the exception and not the norm. This is the reason I am telling my story. I want people to know just how far addiction reaches. I have not seen my mother in 12 years and haven't been under her care in 15. Yet I still have to live with the aftermath of the first 12 years of my life. I may not be able to change that period of time in my life but I can change how it affects me. I want people to know that children of addicts need just as much help as the addict themselves. Just as much love and support in the many years it takes to heal.
Taya
As I have said before when my mother is clean and sober she is a wonderful person. Sadly, most of my life my mother has not been clean and sober. When she is using drugs and alcohol she is a monster. She is violent and uses her words as weapons. No one is safe with her under the influence, not even her children.
My brother and I lived in a constant state of fear. We never knew what would set our mother off. One night I was in the kitchen preparing to make dinner for all of us. I had the skillet on the burner as it heated up for hamburger. I'm not sure exactly what happened but the next thing I knew my mother was screaming at me. I tried to figure out what was going on while at the same time trying to make sure my mother's attention stayed on me. She kept screaming and yelling at me for things I had no control over or that I didn't do. Out of nowhere she started hitting me. I learned early on never to try to fight back or defend myself too much. That would just spur her on. So I just took the beating. At some point she grabbed the skillet off the stove and threw it at the wall opposite the stove. It hit the wall then the floor landing right side up. As my mother continued to rage I tried to calm her down. At this point she grabbed me by the hair and threw me across the room. I hit the wall and when I landed on the floor my hand came down inside the skillet. It was still hot from the stove and immediatly gave me blisters on my palm. As I grabbed my hand I cried to my mother I was burnt. She kept screaming she didn't care and that I did it to myself. I kept asking her to stop and to help me but my mother had been replaced by a monster. She screamed at me to get out. To leave and she didn't care where I went. All the while my little brother was sitting on the couch in the living room. He was quiet through the whole thing. Probably hoping the monster in the kitchen would run out of steam before she noticed him there. As I tried to get the pain in my hand under control my mother kept screaming at me to get out. That she didn't want me anymore and that she never did. The only thing to do was leave. If I stayed she might have killed me. So I went to the one place I knew I could go, the neighbors. Their daughter was my best friend and they knew what happened in our house. I ran over there to find my best friend's grandma home alone. She let me in and asked what happened. I told her I burned myself but I needed to get my brother. She put some burn creme on my hand and that was when I hear more screaming from my house. It was my mother again only this time the screaming was directed at my brother. As I got out the front door I saw my little brother running down the street away from me with no shoes on. He had no idea where I was so he made for his dad's house down the street. I managed to grab him and take him to the neighbors with me. The grandma would not let me go check on my mother no matter how much I begged. Even at the age of 11 years old I already knew that there was a difference between my mother and the monster that threw us out of the house. I knew that drugs and alcohol made my mother crazy.
A few hours later my friend came home with her parents. When they heard what happened they decided we were staying the night and sent their oldest son next door to make sure my mother was at least alive. He found her laying in the hallway passed out. He moved her to bed and let her know where her children were. The next morning she came to get us. Naturally my brother and I were iffy on going near her but when I looked into her eyes I saw no trace of the monster from last night. My mother seemed remorseful about what happened the previous night. She cried when she saw my hand and apologized. She hugged and kissed my brother and I. Just like that things were back to what they were. The monster was sleeping again.
This is just one story of many. The monster showed up at least once a week, sometimes more. I never felt safe with my mother because she fed the monster. It is because of these acts of violence against myself and my brother I react the way I do to it. I still suffer flashback nightmares of the things my mother has done to me or my brother. When I was in my early twenties I decided to get some help and talk to someone about all this. I was told I suffer from mild PTSD or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This is the same things soldiers suffer from when they come home from war. I never thought that it was something I could have. I've never been to war or saw anything overly traumatic. However it was explained to me that my childhood is considered traumatic and therefore it is not surprising I would still feel the affects into adulthood. Since I was told about PTSD I have done my best to try to control it. I did not want it to rule my life.
I can proudly say that I don't have nightmares every night. Not even once a month anymore. Last year's shooting caused nightmares for a while but that was the exception and not the norm. This is the reason I am telling my story. I want people to know just how far addiction reaches. I have not seen my mother in 12 years and haven't been under her care in 15. Yet I still have to live with the aftermath of the first 12 years of my life. I may not be able to change that period of time in my life but I can change how it affects me. I want people to know that children of addicts need just as much help as the addict themselves. Just as much love and support in the many years it takes to heal.
Taya
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Upcoming Posts!!!!
I'm sorry but I won't really be posting much the next few days. I will be working on a post. I'm spending the time I would be blogging doing research. This idea has been stewing in my mind the last few days and I really want to do it justice. It is a subject that I feel is often overlooked when dealing with a child of an addict. I'm very excited about sharing this information with you all!!!
Have a wonderful few days!!!!! See you soon!!!!!
Taya
Have a wonderful few days!!!!! See you soon!!!!!
Taya
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
My Mother in Me
My almost 18 month old daughter loves to brush my hair. She's not very good at it yet and tends to smack me in the head more than actually brushing. She gets so excited when she does get it right and manages to brush my hair. She is all giggles, smiles and kisses. Whenever I am getting ready for the day I put the baby gate in the bathroom doorway and she hangs out while I do my hair and make up. I teasure those times with her because they are the same things I loved doing with my mother.
While there are a lot of negative memories and feelings associated with my mother there are a few good memories I hold onto. I loved when my mother would hold still and let me play with her hair. That's how I learned to braid. I would love fixing her hair into whatever crazy hairstyle I could think up. What I really loved was the fact that she was sitting there just for me. That she wanted me to be by her and to love on her. When she used to do her make up and hair I would sit on the edge of the tub and watch. I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the whole world and when she got dolled up no Hollywood starlet looked better in my eyes. These are some of my favorite memories because they are peaceful. And they are one of the few memories of my mother and I spending mother/daughter time together. Most of the time, due to my mother's addiction, I was acting as the parent or the best friend. I love the memories of my mother letting me be a daughter most. They are few.
I love that I now get to experience the mother/daughter relationship in a new way. I get to be the mother this time and I am cherishing every minute of it. My daughter brings a smile to my face every day. She is growing so fast. Even at such a young age my daughter has developed a beautiful personality. I can't wait to see the type of woman she grows up to be. I know that I won't be a perfect parent because there is no perfect parent. I will however do my very best to be the best parent I can be. And when mistakes are made they will be my own and not my mother's.
Taya
While there are a lot of negative memories and feelings associated with my mother there are a few good memories I hold onto. I loved when my mother would hold still and let me play with her hair. That's how I learned to braid. I would love fixing her hair into whatever crazy hairstyle I could think up. What I really loved was the fact that she was sitting there just for me. That she wanted me to be by her and to love on her. When she used to do her make up and hair I would sit on the edge of the tub and watch. I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the whole world and when she got dolled up no Hollywood starlet looked better in my eyes. These are some of my favorite memories because they are peaceful. And they are one of the few memories of my mother and I spending mother/daughter time together. Most of the time, due to my mother's addiction, I was acting as the parent or the best friend. I love the memories of my mother letting me be a daughter most. They are few.
I love that I now get to experience the mother/daughter relationship in a new way. I get to be the mother this time and I am cherishing every minute of it. My daughter brings a smile to my face every day. She is growing so fast. Even at such a young age my daughter has developed a beautiful personality. I can't wait to see the type of woman she grows up to be. I know that I won't be a perfect parent because there is no perfect parent. I will however do my very best to be the best parent I can be. And when mistakes are made they will be my own and not my mother's.
Taya
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Another Year and Still no Mother
Today is the start of another year. A chance to start over and achieve your goals. This year I have resolved to get more organized in my home and to get my family finances under control. While I'm making these goals I wonder if my mother made any resolutions this year and what they are. The more I think on it the more I wonder when was the last time my mother set a goal for herself.
I don't want to come off as a goal oriented person. I tended to set the bar really low for myself just so I don't have to feel the sting of failure. Growing up with my mother I learned how to get by on the bare minimum. She did not graduate from high school and did not encourage my education. I pretty much dropped out of school halfway through fifth grade. I felt the need to stay home with my brother to make sure he was ok. I remember a truant officer was looking for me and my mother enouraged me to not answer the door or phone just in case. She collected welfare and did not have any ambition to get an actual job. Why work when the state will pay enough to keep us alive? I did not learn anything about goal setting or wanting to acheive anything greater in my life. I knew I did not want to turn out like my mom but that was it. I thought I would be considered a success if I didn't get pregnant in high school and I stayed drug free. I managed only the former.
It wasn't until after my brother and I were removed from our mother's care did I learn to set and achieve goals. My adopted parents challenged me to be more than I was. They wouldn't let me get away with the bare minimum because they knew I could achieve more than that. At the time I thought it was harsh to expect me to get mostly A's and B's in school. Looking back though if I had just taken some pride in what I was doing and applied myself it would have been easy. My adopted parents set goals for me not to see me fail but challenge me to be better than I was and to set goals for myself. I have achieved only one goal I have set for myself: graduate from high school without a baby. I haven't set any goals for myself beyond that. I have worked jobs I hated just because they were entry level and paid my bills. I have dated men that I knew I had no future with but justified it as love. I have been in unhealthy relationships simply because I had no desire for anything more. I have spent my whole life surviving on the bare minimum. That will be changing.
I am choosing this year to no longer allow myself to be hindered by fear of success. I will better my living situation and my families by going back to school and take it seriously. I will get my home under my control and spend more time outside the home as a family. My mom did not instill in me the qualities I want my daughter to have. It will be hard for me to change how I choose to live but I am determined. I want my daughter to achieve her dreams whatever they may be. I will encourage her in everything she does. I never got any encouragement from my mother. She has told me a few times she is proud of my achievements but she never made a point to be there to witness them. I wish she would have been there at my graduation. Or at the birth of my first child. Or when I married the man I had been waiting my whole life for. She knew about these things well in advance and still made no effort to be a part of them other than telling me she was proud.
One final goal I am choosing to set this year is to change the view I have on the relationship with my mother. So often I dwell on what she missed in my life. The years that we have not seen each other. This year I want to focus on the time we have left. My mother is at a point in her addiction I can see it killing her. I hope and pray that she will get help before then and we can work on repairing our relationship. There are many things I know I can still learn from her but that will not happen while she is still a practicing addict. So this year I look forward to the future in hopes of seeing my mother healthy again. I know it's a long shot and I won't get my hopes too high. I just want to take this moment in the ephoria of the new year to dream of what could be.
Happy New Year to all of you. Hope the new year brings much love and joy your way.
Taya
I don't want to come off as a goal oriented person. I tended to set the bar really low for myself just so I don't have to feel the sting of failure. Growing up with my mother I learned how to get by on the bare minimum. She did not graduate from high school and did not encourage my education. I pretty much dropped out of school halfway through fifth grade. I felt the need to stay home with my brother to make sure he was ok. I remember a truant officer was looking for me and my mother enouraged me to not answer the door or phone just in case. She collected welfare and did not have any ambition to get an actual job. Why work when the state will pay enough to keep us alive? I did not learn anything about goal setting or wanting to acheive anything greater in my life. I knew I did not want to turn out like my mom but that was it. I thought I would be considered a success if I didn't get pregnant in high school and I stayed drug free. I managed only the former.
It wasn't until after my brother and I were removed from our mother's care did I learn to set and achieve goals. My adopted parents challenged me to be more than I was. They wouldn't let me get away with the bare minimum because they knew I could achieve more than that. At the time I thought it was harsh to expect me to get mostly A's and B's in school. Looking back though if I had just taken some pride in what I was doing and applied myself it would have been easy. My adopted parents set goals for me not to see me fail but challenge me to be better than I was and to set goals for myself. I have achieved only one goal I have set for myself: graduate from high school without a baby. I haven't set any goals for myself beyond that. I have worked jobs I hated just because they were entry level and paid my bills. I have dated men that I knew I had no future with but justified it as love. I have been in unhealthy relationships simply because I had no desire for anything more. I have spent my whole life surviving on the bare minimum. That will be changing.
I am choosing this year to no longer allow myself to be hindered by fear of success. I will better my living situation and my families by going back to school and take it seriously. I will get my home under my control and spend more time outside the home as a family. My mom did not instill in me the qualities I want my daughter to have. It will be hard for me to change how I choose to live but I am determined. I want my daughter to achieve her dreams whatever they may be. I will encourage her in everything she does. I never got any encouragement from my mother. She has told me a few times she is proud of my achievements but she never made a point to be there to witness them. I wish she would have been there at my graduation. Or at the birth of my first child. Or when I married the man I had been waiting my whole life for. She knew about these things well in advance and still made no effort to be a part of them other than telling me she was proud.
One final goal I am choosing to set this year is to change the view I have on the relationship with my mother. So often I dwell on what she missed in my life. The years that we have not seen each other. This year I want to focus on the time we have left. My mother is at a point in her addiction I can see it killing her. I hope and pray that she will get help before then and we can work on repairing our relationship. There are many things I know I can still learn from her but that will not happen while she is still a practicing addict. So this year I look forward to the future in hopes of seeing my mother healthy again. I know it's a long shot and I won't get my hopes too high. I just want to take this moment in the ephoria of the new year to dream of what could be.
Happy New Year to all of you. Hope the new year brings much love and joy your way.
Taya
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