teen years, Uncategorized

I haven’t quit

I know I haven’t been keeping to a schedule. Okay, scratch that. I haven’t been posting at all. It isn’t because I haven’t been writing because I have. Just not on my blog.

 

First off so far I seem to be having a rough year for a variety of reasons none of which I feel I can write about. Secondly, I got to travel with my daughter which was amazing. I have every intention of sharing photo’s of Europe once I make time. Thirdly, Mercury sucks – at least that what seems to be the common reason for blame this year.

 

Laughter is the best medicine, right? Well, I am giving it a real go and reading for the umpteenth time the ‘Stephanie Plum’ series of books by Janet Evanovich. Even after reading it six times I can still laugh to tears when reading these. It seems to have been helping me find my happy.

 

The great news is I am making great headway finally in organizing my bits into chapters that fall into order. I am not feeling so lost or overwhelmed now with writing the book. I do struggle to shake loose from the grips of emotion each time I write. To live my daily life without letting the past seep into it. Below is a rough draft from one of the chapters I’d thought to share.

 

When I landed at the small airfield and walked inside the airport I looked around and didn’t see my mother or anyone I knew. I retrieved my luggage and dragged it over to a pay phone where I called her. I got no answer.  She still lived at the community with her new husband in a different house. Which was about an hour and a half from the airport I was waiting at. I wasn’t dressed for November weather. I didn’t own appropriate clothing for being far north in the winter. Darkness was falling. Two hours past and still I sat and waited alone.

 

After about three hours a vehicle pulled into the parking lot. It was my mother with her husband. I lugged my big suitcase to the back of the pickup and heaved it in. I got into the back on the little fold-down seat and asked what had taken so long. Her answer: she wasn’t sure she was even going to pick me up at all. She decided to come and get me but I had to leave within a week. I was dumbfounded. Why force me to fly there then? I had had a home and school lined up. Now I was far north turning sixteen in two days and apparently had nowhere to go.

 

I spent my sixteen birthday at my mothers as though I didn’t have one. The children didn’t know it was my birthday and she didn’t tell them. It was as if it didn’t happen. A month later she would call me to sing happy birthday. Apparently, she didn’t know what to say to me on my birthday but at Christmas time felt like it was fitting to call me and sing happy birthday.

 

Anyways I thought to post and share with you that I am still here and working away one letter, one word, one day at a time.

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childhood, Uncategorized

How could she 

So here’s the question of my mid-life emotional crisis. HOW COULD SHE???

I look at my children who are now teenagers. Gangly, pimply, know everything and nothing. Pushing me away and then needing me. Hugging me then turning away from too much contact with “mom”. How they need me and manage to admit it once in a while. The fragile grip they have on adulthood. The guidance needed to help them become confident individuals that are happy and give back to society.

So how could she let me go at 13? How could she deny me at 14 to return? I sat waiting, praying, mentally in anguish begging ‘please let them say yes’. I wanted to come home.  So I sat waiting for the staff meeting to end. Waiting to find out what their vote would be. Would I be allowed to live at home again with my mother or would I be sent away?

What I didn’t know at 13 was that if you left you couldn’t just come back even if your parents were there. I left because I was angry at the lack of understanding over my grief. I left because I was overwhelmed with loss and fear. I left because I never knew if mom would do as she said. Would I come home to an empty house? I never knew if she would be locked in the house in the bedroom in the closet with daddy’s bloody clothes. Or if she would be gone with the little ones. The rifles and ammunition gone as well. Maybe it would be their bloody clothes I would have to add to dads. She kept saying it would be easier to do that. The fear was staggering at that age. She had already proved to me once that she would take the younger ones and abandon me.

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So I left. I said goodbye, got on my bicycle and peddled away. Six months later I wanted to return. I missed my siblings and mother. Mother seemed to be doing better now. It was then that I learned you can’t just move back with mom. That the commune has to vote and decide if I should be allowed home. Who fucking knew that at 13? I should have known. Even though no other child had left like I did I should have known. No other child dare ask the questions that I did. Dared to stand up when I thought things didn’t make sense or seemed odd. I didn’t realize what I pain in the ass I was to those idealists.

So some select commune leaders held a meeting to decide my fate. I sat on pins and needles. My stomach in my throat. If I chewed my nails they would have been bloody stubs that night. The unanimous decision was NO.

I was shocked. I had had a friend on my side in that meeting. I had thought she would sway their hearts and minds. I was born and raised in this lifestyle. They made me! My dad had devoted his life to this lifestyle. He had helped build the world they wanted to hide in. Yet they said NO. I was even more shocked that mom accepted their decision. What kind of mother is that? This is Christianity at it’s finest moments. The golden jewel for their crowns.

I would like to think those adults as they grew old regretted turning me away. Realize how cruel to deny a child her mother. Send her to the streets. They made me for fuck’s sake. I was born into that. It wasn’t my fault my father taught me to not be a sheep. To think for myself, to ask questions, be inquisitive. He taught me to be an individual not afraid to stand on my own. To question and learn, to try and understand.

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I know deep down those people prayed for me. Felt they did the right thing. Maybe they never gave that decision another thought. Over the years they grasped on all the fabricated juicy gossip they could. Adding to it and spreading it further. Trying to condone to themselves what they had done. I hope there is a heaven.  And I hope to hell that at those pearly gates they are reminded of the young me. The child that needed love and understanding, not the boot.

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