Girlfriend, I'm writing to you this morning. Because you are always there for me. I'm kind of choked up. Sister, you don't care what kind of shape I'm in. You take me as I am.
I don't know, Girlfriend, if I could make it without you. Yes, I'm talking to you. I'm grateful for your love. Even if I haven't seen you in so long that it hurts. When I hear your voice, time disappears. I tell you that I love you. You tell me in so many ways.
I take things too seriously sometimes. I am 51 and phobic about readership, for example. Posting in this weirdly impersonal and highly personal way is helping me break down internal barriers. You know what I'm talking about. When I say I am still that 16 year old, I really mean it. I am still suffering from rejection that is now 35 years old.
You know the story, Sister. Even this morning I had to remember it, as I woke up wondering if you would still love me after reading these innocuous posts.
Can I forgive my Mother for reading my innocent journal back in 1976?
Can I forgive my Father for telling me that my Mother had committed suicide because she read it? Then their removing me from the family, forcing me to say goodbye "forever" to my five younger siblings, telling me they were putting me in foster care because of what I had done and written about? It's so painful to write that I'm having a hot flash.
I need to let this go.
My Mom was visiting San Francisco this year and for the first time in 35 years I wanted to talk about that painful time. She said she didn't know that my Dad had told me she'd killed herself. She forgot about his rage when I said I'd take the one-way plane ticket offer instead of foster care. She was sitting in the car when he put me in a police choke hold on the sidewalk. We were on some forgotten street in Canoga Park. He stopped choking me before I passed out. Mom said she has no recollection of any of this. That she was just so numb that it was all a blur.
Now that I have three kids who are all older than 16 and have all taken more drugs than I have and are sexually active and still seem extremely healthy (not in spite of but because they are experienced), I had the courage to ask my Mom, why? What had she read in my journal that upset her so much?
She said, "It was that you were not like me. I just couldn't understand how you had become that way."
At first I felt compassion for her as a parent. I understood. It's hard when you realize your kid is not like you.
Then, as the days passed and she was back home several hundred miles from here, I felt rage and sadness that her response to my difference was so violent - that even though she did not choke me, or rip me out of my home and take me to the LAPD for interrogation by my Dad's police buddies, she allowed it.
Girlfriend, you know this story. You've heard me tell it, and held me through the rage and sadness. Will you help me get over it now? I need to let it go. 35 years is long enough.
I need to forgive my Mom so I can write and feel okay about someone reading my words.
I feel like I'm getting close. I'm grateful, Girlfriend, for your loving support.
Soon I will be strong enough to forgive my Dad. Then, maybe I will be free enough to finish my novel.
I don't know, Girlfriend, if I could make it without you. Yes, I'm talking to you. I'm grateful for your love. Even if I haven't seen you in so long that it hurts. When I hear your voice, time disappears. I tell you that I love you. You tell me in so many ways.
I take things too seriously sometimes. I am 51 and phobic about readership, for example. Posting in this weirdly impersonal and highly personal way is helping me break down internal barriers. You know what I'm talking about. When I say I am still that 16 year old, I really mean it. I am still suffering from rejection that is now 35 years old.
You know the story, Sister. Even this morning I had to remember it, as I woke up wondering if you would still love me after reading these innocuous posts.
Can I forgive my Mother for reading my innocent journal back in 1976?
Can I forgive my Father for telling me that my Mother had committed suicide because she read it? Then their removing me from the family, forcing me to say goodbye "forever" to my five younger siblings, telling me they were putting me in foster care because of what I had done and written about? It's so painful to write that I'm having a hot flash.
I need to let this go.
My Mom was visiting San Francisco this year and for the first time in 35 years I wanted to talk about that painful time. She said she didn't know that my Dad had told me she'd killed herself. She forgot about his rage when I said I'd take the one-way plane ticket offer instead of foster care. She was sitting in the car when he put me in a police choke hold on the sidewalk. We were on some forgotten street in Canoga Park. He stopped choking me before I passed out. Mom said she has no recollection of any of this. That she was just so numb that it was all a blur.
Now that I have three kids who are all older than 16 and have all taken more drugs than I have and are sexually active and still seem extremely healthy (not in spite of but because they are experienced), I had the courage to ask my Mom, why? What had she read in my journal that upset her so much?
She said, "It was that you were not like me. I just couldn't understand how you had become that way."
At first I felt compassion for her as a parent. I understood. It's hard when you realize your kid is not like you.
Then, as the days passed and she was back home several hundred miles from here, I felt rage and sadness that her response to my difference was so violent - that even though she did not choke me, or rip me out of my home and take me to the LAPD for interrogation by my Dad's police buddies, she allowed it.
Girlfriend, you know this story. You've heard me tell it, and held me through the rage and sadness. Will you help me get over it now? I need to let it go. 35 years is long enough.
I need to forgive my Mom so I can write and feel okay about someone reading my words.
I feel like I'm getting close. I'm grateful, Girlfriend, for your loving support.
Soon I will be strong enough to forgive my Dad. Then, maybe I will be free enough to finish my novel.
I am waiting to read your memoir, seriously. I have been reading a series of memoirs, not of famous individuals, but people making sense of what is dished up. (Most recently "Live through This" written by a mother who's two young teenage daughters run away from home and disappeared into the streets for a number of years.
ReplyDeleteMy realization with family is that we hang this tags on everyone based on structure/birth order not how the roles play out. I realized this when I saw that my youngest son was actually the rock solid oldest son, my sister the parent to my proud and angry father. It helped me to really see my family.
Deep breath for Now.
ReplyDelete