I sat across the table from two people I have known a very long time. I felt this instant need to be on the defensive. I did not need to be. Somehow that 16 year old girl came back to the surface. It was like she was right there. Like I had to speak for her. I had to defend her. She was voiceless before. She had to remain quiet. She had to get the punch in the gut and just take it. Put her head down and surrender because the very woman who gave her life told a different story about her. No one would believe her. She had no one. Her mother made sure of that.
I sat at that table with these two people. Speaking for that younger version of me. Not in bitterness or shame, but in sharing what happened in her point of view. Her part of the story. I asked what happened with the friendship. I explained timeline of my own life and what happened. She just listened. No justification needed. But someone needed to stand up for her. Today I did just that. I stood up for that 16 year old version of me. I did not need to do it in a way that put down my mother.
The truth and my version of it is just as important as what my mother had to say what she thought happened. She told people I was an out of control teenager. And to her, I may have been. She was entitled to that opinion of me. But in fairness, I am entitled to my opinion about who she was to me as well. I will not hide what she did to me. Nothing can be done about it now other than my truth can be told in the time that it needs to be. There are no more secrets and they will not die with me. My mother was an alcholic and she was physically abusive. She kicked me out at the age of 16 years old. She had mental issues, she had mental problems. I am not free from them. But I do not mimic them. I will not carry them on.
I have not left marks on my children that are so large they cover their entire thighs. I have not left marks from my own hands that have left bruises that remained for over a month. I did not do that kind of damage to my children, any of them. I am not that kind of mother. I did not pass that on to my children. I did not leave my child to get up and out to school every day for years on end. I did not leave my child to cook dinner and breakfast for themselves years on end. I did not leave and not tell my child when I would be home or not be home. I did not do any of those things. I was not neglectful to my children emotionally. My children always knew that I loved them because I told them all the time. I did not withhold my love or hugs from them. I did not withhold affection to them, ever. I never left them behind. I attended their games, their events, the things that were important to them. I gave them what I had. I sacrificed what I had to give them what they needed. I laughed with them and danced with them. Sang songs with them and played games with them.
All these things I have no memories of with my own mother. What a gracious gift I was given by being a mom four times to four beautiful, unique children. I was able to give back the love that I never got to four beautiful souls who came right through me. Who made me the best version of me. I did the whole Mom thing well. I think I still do. I am still learning. But shit, I never did what the woman who gave me life did or did not do for me. She did not do mothering well. Some people don’t. I am far from perfect. But I tried my best, and I gave it all I could. I learned by knowing what I would have wanted and that is the best way to be.
Today, I went back for the 16 year old version of me. It was a weird feeling. It was a bag of mixed feelings. I have a lot of healing to do. But I also feel like I am finally finding my voice in it all. I am finding that I had the voice, it came out here and there for certain things. Mainly to defend others. Now it is my time to defend me. To stand up for me. To be there for me. I may stand alone, but these two feet stand strong. They always have. They have carried me and they will continue to carry me through this life.
In the middle of the night, I awoke after writing this entry. I pictured myself as I am now. I walked into that bedroom that day when it happened. I moved past my mother who was hurting the younger version of me. I reached out my hand to my younger self and grabbed her hand. She couldn’t see me at first as she was hiding her face with her hands. The monster was just coming at her punching her. But the punching stopped. That little girl opened her tight shut eyes and reached out to me. She climbed out of the small bed and put her feet firmly on the ground. She looked over at her mother who had her head down. She had her hand in mine and I led her out of the that room and safely out of that house. It would be the last time she would be touched in that way by that woman. She would never again by in that situation. She was safe now. She was free.
Quiet Intensity 