by Band Back Together | Sep 15, 2015 | Blended Families, Cancer and Neoplasia, Caregiver, Chronic Illness, Coping With Cancer, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Help A Friend With Chronic Illness, Loss, Parent Loss |
Part I Here
My memories of the time between when Mom was admitted and when she left for Houston are jumbled. I know with Mom gone, running the house largely fell to me. I would get me (age 8), my sister (age 3-4) and my Dad up in the mornings and make breakfast. I remember having burns on my thighs from wearing my night shirt while cooking bacon in the morning and the grease would pop and splatter me. I remember learning how to do laundry and having to have a step stool so I could climb on top of the washing machine so that I could reach the soap. I remember sitting on the sofa attempting to hand-sew a hole in my underwear closed.
Through out the summer we spent a lot of time with various family members and random people from our church who volunteered to look after my sister and I for a day. That was probably the hardest. Every house had different rules. One house I sat until I was near starved b/c I’d been taught it wasn’t polite to ask people for food. When the woman found out she was like “oh honey you just have to speak up or better yet go serve yourself!” Then the next house I got in trouble for trying to do just that. Some houses they’d tell me I could eat anything I wanted and others I was told that beggars can’t be choosers and I should eat ONLY what they offered me and eat every last bit.
Then there was the boredom. Some people had kids who would share their toys. Others did not – either the kids were grown or the kids wouldn’t share. Or they’d want to watch a movie I wasn’t interested in or what not. The sweetest woman, I have no idea what her name was or I’d write her a big fat thank you note all these years later, discovered I liked to draw and she bought me a BIG thick fat loony tunes coloring book and a box of 64 crayons. I swear that book saved my life with all those days of house hopping.
I also discovered reading. But mostly I discovered how to fake reading…. Nobody would tell me exactly what was up with my Mom. They made this big show of how Momma would do 6 weeks of chemo therapy (counted it off on the calendar with us and everything) and then she’d be all better and could come home. That was a lie. I don’t know if it was intentional or just misinformed but either way when the info changed they didn’t tell me directly.
And so I’d pretend to read a book and listen while Daddy talked on the phone. I even remember him saying “Oh nah, its okay, she’s reading a book. She’s not listening” and he would talk about chemotherapy and radiation and bone marrow transplants. I didn’t understand what those words were exactly but I caught the gist of it. Daddy seemed to underestimate my vocabulary and comprehension back then. Where as my Mom always just talked to me like I was an adult and I’d just have to stop her occasionally to have her define things.
It was funny, at one point they put me in class with one other little boy and some type of teacher there at the hospital where she tried to give us the “My Mommy has Cancer” after school special or some such thing. I was so excited to finally have a person to ask all my questions to. I immediately started asking about chemo etc and she about freaked. I think she would have put her hands over the ears of the other kid if she could.
As it was class was HASTILY broken up – me with one teacher where I asked all my questions and the little boy went with some other person to get the kiddie version.
Our days went something like this: we’d get dropped of with whoever was watching us that day, Dad would go to work, then he’d come and pick us up, we’d go visit Mom in the hospital. My sister and I would wear masks b/c the docs explained that we had cooties and would make Momma sick (oddly enough she never once got sick from my sister and I but she caught a dozen things from Dad). And then later in the evening we’d head back home and I’d lay across the foot of my Dad’s bed pretending to read Black Beauty while he talked on the phone.
In retrospect, Momma mostly looked good at the time. I remember she lost some weight and when the chemo got started a friend of hers who was a beautician came the hospital and gave her a hair cut. My Mom had had the 80′s big curly shoulder length hair and her friend cut it off to a ultra short pixie cut. They explained that this was better since the chemo would probably make her hair fall out and it wouldn’t make such a mess this way. I remember being shocked but liking it.
I missed being able to give my Momma kisses but at least we could scramble up into her bed and cuddle with her and get hugs. We’d bring her pictures we’d drawn to decorate her hospital room. And we always loved to see when other people would bring her balloons. She couldn’t have flowers so if somebody forgot and sent her them they’d hold them out at the nurses station and we’d take them home with us at the end of the night. I liked that part because I loved fresh flowers but I sure wished I could share them with Mommy.
Then they began to talk in earnest of transplants. Momma needed a donor and a hospital. At the time there were only 3 hospitals in the country that did the transplant – one in Tucson, one in Seattle and one in Houston. At the time we lived in Phoenix and so Daddy asked the doctor, “Well, Tucson is closest… whats the difference between the them?” The doctor replied that, “Well, right now, Tucson has about a 13% success rate, Seattle is running 20% and Houston is doing 50%”. My Dad stared at him for a minute and went “Ya know Houston sounds GREAT to me.”
I remember the search for a donor. They started by testing all of my Mom’s brothers. Adam and Sam went first and neither was a match. They’d wanted to avoid putting Uncle Mike through the stress because he had a heart condition, but he agreed to be tested. By this point, I’d caught on that if Mommy didn’t have a bone marrow transplant that it was going to be bad. I wanted them to test me. I didn’t care if it hurt. I was willing to do anything to save my Mommy.
Momma was dead set against my even being tested. She said it hurt too much and she didn’t want me to go through that. I was set and ready to be stubborn and fight long and hard for this if I had to but thankfully it turned out my Uncle Mike was a match.
So now we had a donor and a hospital there was just one more major roadblock: money. The insurance company was refusing to pay for treatment. There was some sort of government assistance available but they didn’t want to pay either and MD Anderson wouldn’t let us come unless they got a down payment that was either 30k or 3k I don’t remember. I was 8 at the time but I remember it was wayyyy more money than we had. My parents had always been on the verge of broke though they worked hard to provide for us but the medical bills quickly piled up and wiped out whatever was left of their finances.
And so, I don’t know who all organized it but they had a big benefit dinner to try to raise money for my Mom. A local grocery store donated steaks, family friends provided entertainment, and Kodak (my Dad was a professional photographer at the time) donated door prizes. I know the tickets were like 100 bucks each. We raised a ton of money with that dinner (I can’t remember exactly how much) but it was still far short (less than half if I recall) of what we needed.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, my father’s childhood best friend, an attorney, sent a letter to the hospital and the government and explained that if they continued to delay my mother’s treatment while they quibbled over the money and she died that we would sue them for everything that the mother of two small children was worth.
The day after the benefit dinner, we got word from the hospital that they’d let us come after all. We only needed to pay less than half the previous amount in advance. I don’t remember the numbers but I remember it was almost the exact amount we’d raised at the dinner the night before. It was a miracle.
A small army of sisters from church came to the house and packed up everything. My sister and I went to live with my grandparents while Mom and Dad went to Houston.
The day they left we went to the hospital early. Mom was in street clothes for the first time in months. They wheeled her in a wheel chair out of the hospital and to a waiting limo. I was so excited, I’d never been in a limo before. Daddy explained that taxis had too many cooties and they wanted all of us to be able to ride together so they’d gotten a limo. I remember my Mom and Dad piling into a little leer jet complete with a small medical team to monitor Mom through out the trip.
I hugged my Mother goodbye for what I was scared might be the last time. I had know idea if I would ever see her again. And then I stood next to my Grandma with her arms wrapped around me and I sobbed my little heart out as I watched the plane back up and take off.
Part III Here
by Band Back Together | Aug 28, 2015 | Anxiety, Blended Families, Breakups, Depression, Divorce, Help With Relationships, Infidelity, Stress |
Well, it’s been a long while since I’ve revisited this, and rather a lot has happened…
When last we met, dear readers, your hero was making it work, and getting by. So much change …so much upheaval.
When I left off, I mentioned that I was married, but we need to go back to the beginning of that relationship, as the background is important. I hope you’ll all bear with me again; getting these stories out is much like excising vital organs for me. It’s a painful process, and I’m very protective of them, and by extension, of myself.
My divorce from the wife in the first story was final in 2006. Around that time, I became reacquainted with an old friend, Becca. We caught up over the course of a couple of days, and later had dinner. At the end of the evening, she kissed me. This was confusing, as she had always been fairly …”butch,” for lack of a better term. We had a conversation about it, and she told me that her sexuality was uncertain; she was still figuring it out.
We continued to see one another for a few months, and anytime things would become more intense, she’d slow it down. This was fine with me, as I was still pretty vulnerable from my marriage. We had a good time, and I always had a sort of unspoken understanding that we were going to end up together.
Things changed.
Eventually, it came to the point that she was just using me for “stuff,” and I distanced myself from her. All well and good, but it was still hurtful.
In 2007, I met a woman who changed everything. Long distance again. (Yes, I know.) She was intelligent and well-educated and fun. We would visit one another around every other weekend. Lots of activities, and the intimacy was there, too.
Then, she started shopping for a home in my hometown. It meant so much to me that she was willing to uproot herself so that I could be near my family. We found a wonderful fixer-upper for a good price, and started working toward buying it.
Those of you who have bought a home know that it is a very stressful process, and the stress took its toll on her immensely. She wasn’t the fun-loving Jen I had gotten to know, anymore. Still, I stuck it out, but eventually, I wanted the “old Jen” back badly enough that I told her to let the house go. She did, and I hoped for things to go back to normal.
Shortly after that, her father became seriously ill, and she was heavily stressed over that. Still no good old Jen. I was right beside her through his surgery and recovery, still hoping for a return of what we used to have.
She bought a house in her hometown, which stressed her out even more.
I proposed to her in 2009, and she said yes. Surprise, surprise, planning a wedding is very stressful as well. I was at wits end by this point, but I was committed to giving this relationship the best possible chance.
We married in 2010, and my daughter and I moved into the house she had bought. Stress. I was in a new city, in a job I hated, with no friends, and nobody to talk to but the woman who was increasingly frustrated with me. She had never lived with anyone before, and had all her ducks firmly in a row, and suddenly she had a husband and a stepchild, in her space, all the time.
We enrolled my daughter in the private school that Jen had gone to as a child. The people there were horrible and elitist, and my daughter acted out. The intimacy Jen and I had went away. First, Jen started sleeping on a mattress on the floor in the bedroom, because she said it was better for her back. Later, she started sleeping in the guest bedroom, because she couldn’t stand the sight of me. She worked nights, and I worked days, so we managed to barely see one another. I would come home from work and do my best to drink myself into a stupor, and she would constantly berate me about the things she needed help with.
I am not a smart man. If you want me to dust the dining room, just say, “medic77, dust the dining room for me,” and I will do it. If you want me to clean the guest bathroom, just say so, and it will be done. Jen, however, believed that I should be able to see what needed done and take the initiative. It wasn’t an easy concept for me, but I won’t make excuses.
She would catch me in the middle of a project she had given me, and ask me to, for instance, mow the lawn. Ten minutes later, once I had gotten to a stopping place in project one, I would go outside to find her mowing the lawn herself, and mad about it. It made me crazy. She was a therapist, so she KNEW it made me crazy. I turned into a “yeller.” I’m not proud, but we would have epic screaming matches while my daughter cowered in her bedroom and wished for it to be over. Jen threatened to have me committed.
In February of 2011, after living under the same roof for less than nine months, we separated, and I came back to Ohio. Jen later told me she was mad about that, too. She thought I should have gotten an apartment where she was. It just wasn’t possible. I didn’t have any savings, and I had only worked my current job or a few months. It just wasn’t possible.
Back in Ohio, I went back to work, and got a second job with state benefits, which eventually became my only job. Jen and I weren’t interested in communication at that point, so I was very low.
We went through cycles of talking and silence. I had friends, but Jen always suspected me of being in secret relationships with the female ones. It was just another lack of faith. A couple of years ago, after we had been separated almost longer then we were together, I met a girl at work, Lorrie, and we started a relationship. I was happy.
One night, Lorrie and I were laying in bed talking, and I heard a noise. Suddenly, Jen was standing in the bedroom. It was as bad as it sounds, but it could have been worse. At least we were clothed and only talking. Still, not long after that, our divorce moved forward and was final.
I am still with Lorrie, but our intimacy is gone. We haven’t had sex in months. She says she loves me, but she just isn’t interested in sex. I feel as though I did something to cause it. She doesn’t touch me. She doesn’t kiss me unless I initiate it. She SAYS that if I want sex, I should just say so and do it, but it doesn’t feel right to me. I feel like sex should be a union; a collaboration. Not just, “Hey, hold still a minute.”
I know I’ve got depression and anxiety, but I can’t help wondering just what it is that makes me so forgettable. Why I can’t seem to find anyone who just WANTS me.
So, yeah. I’m surviving, but just.
by Band Back Together | Nov 13, 2010 | Adoption, Anxiety, Blended Families, Family, Love |
I sing you to sleep.
The boys, whom I gave birth to, wouldn’t fall asleep to my singing. We sing together at night, before they go to sleep, but their song is filled with silliness and laughter. But you relax as soon as soon as I start your song.
I didn’t meet you until you were five months old. I was your fourth mother. I was nervous that you wouldn’t bond with us, after having been uprooted so many times. But, the second time we visited you, it was clear you recognized us.
The weekend you had your first sleepover with us, we went out to dinner. A woman stopped by our table to tell us how beautiful you were, and how she loved watching you stare at me.
“Babies always know their mommies,” she said.
I may be your mommy, but you are still not my daughter. We wait. The court is still considering its decision. It is a decision I am glad I do not have to make myself. We have come to know your birth mother, your birth father, your birth family. Both of your birth parents love you very much, and would like you to be with them. Part of me hopes they can do all the things they need to do to make their lives safe and secure enough to have you back. But, another part of me knows that it is a herculean task.
I also know that if you do go back, we will be devastated. Your father has already started looking into therapists, just in case. Your silly brothers, who adore you and compete to make your smile, will have a really hard time adjusting. I suspect this will make my postpartum depression look like a party. But what really worries me is you. Will you be safe? Will that nice lady and man you have playdates with be able to continue their progress? Will you miss your brothers? Will you grow up to be the happy, healthy, amazing woman I know you can be?
Who will sing you to sleep?
by Band Back Together | Nov 9, 2010 | Anger, Blended Families, Breakups, Coping With Divorce, Divorce, Emotional Abuse, Infidelity, Marriage and Partnership, Marriage Problems, Psychological Manipulation, Suicide |
Fourteen years ago, I was a carefree college student. I was content with life, was climbing the proverbial ladder as if there were no obstacles in my way, but I longed to be in a relationship. I spent much of my time kissing frogs and drinking far more than my share of tequila. Six months later, I found you.
I should have seen the warning signs early on in the relationship, but I forged ahead. Six months turned into a year. One year turned into five. And by our seventh year together, we had a child, a mortgage and a blended family of sorts. A yours & ours. I was happy, the kids were happy. You were not, and you had an affair.
Again, I should have seen the signs. We argued, I fought for the relationship, you blamed me for the affair. We worked through “our” issues, I thought.
We added a child, lost family members, added a house and then the ugly monster reared it’s head. You were not happy again. And again it was my fault. There was no affair – just a threat of suicide. I talked you out of it. I thought we worked through “our” issues and we forged ahead.
Eight months later, you were unhappy again, you were suicidal again.
And again you felt it was my fault.
You came home because you had no where else to go, but you tricked me into thinking that you wanted to be here. You insisted you wanted a “normal family”. But when push came to shove, you finally admitted that you really never wanted to come home, never wanted to be with me, you just had no where else to go, no job, and no family.
So you have decided that you are done with me, you don’t want to have the “stress” of owning a house (or two). You say you want nothing, but refuse to leave until your “name is off the house”. You say you need no one, and that you can do it all on your own. Yet we all know you are wrong. You know you are wrong.
Your anger and your blame has nothing to do with me. It has to do with whatever it is that you are hiding from. You need to find help, we need you to find help.
Help doesn’t mean you have to stay with me and your family. Help means fixing you, and whatever it is that is making you unhappy. Because fixing you is fixing our children. Because when you are broken, it breaks them.
You deciding that we are not going to be “us” anymore is probably the best decision you have made for all of us. Because I can no longer take the blame for your shortcomings and insecurities. I have my own, and I need to be the best example I can be for our children. I know I am not strong enough to leave you on my own and I still want to “fix” you/us.
So while you waver in the wind and deny you need help, I’m going to get help for myself, my children and my own well being. I will seek out legal advise and I will seek out counseling for me and for our children. I will find my way from here.
But, I hope someday you will realize how much you are loved, how much you have hurt us and how badly you need to be fixed. I hope that you make the choice of life and that you realize your kids need you, not a “replacement daddy”, as you like to say. I hope you that you make the choice to fix you, so that they too can be fixed.
by Band Back Together | Nov 9, 2010 | Anger, Blended Families, Breakups, Coping With Divorce, Divorce, Emotional Abuse, Infidelity, Psychological Manipulation, Suicide |
Fourteen years ago, I was a carefree college student. I was content with life, was climbing the proverbial ladder as if there were no obstacles in my way, but I longed to be in a relationship. I spent much of my time kissing frogs and drinking far more than my share of tequila. Six months later, I found you.
I should have seen the warning signs early on in the relationship, but I forged ahead. Six months turned into a year. One year turned into five. And by our seventh year together, we had a child, a mortgage and a blended family of sorts. A yours & ours. I was happy, the kids were happy. You were not, and you had an affair.
Again, I should have seen the signs. We argued, I fought for the relationship, you blamed me for the affair. We worked through “our” issues, I thought.
We added a child, lost family members, added a house and then the ugly monster reared it’s head. You were not happy again. And again it was my fault. There was no affair – just a threat of suicide. I talked you out of it. I thought we worked through “our” issues and we forged ahead.
Eight months later, you were unhappy again, you were suicidal again. And again you felt it was my fault.
You came home because you had no where else to go, but you tricked me into thinking that you wanted to be here. You insisted you wanted a “normal family”. But when push came to shove, you finally admitted that you really never wanted to come home, never wanted to be with me, you just had no where else to go, no job and no family.
So you have decided that you are done with me, you don’t want to have the “stress” of owning a house (or two). You say you want nothing, but refuse to leave until your “name is off the house”. You say you need no one, and that you can do it all on your own. Yet we all know you are wrong. You know you are wrong.
Your anger and your blame has nothing to do with me. It has to do with whatever it is that you are hiding from. You need to find help, we need you to find help.
Help doesn’t mean you have to stay with me and your family. Help means fixing you, and whatever it is that is making you unhappy. Because fixing you is fixing our children. Because when you are broken, it breaks them.
You deciding that we are not going to be “us” anymore is probably the best decision you have made for all of us. Because I can no longer take the blame for your shortcomings and insecurities. I have my own, and I need to be the best example I can be for our children. I know I am not strong enough to leave you on my own and I still want to “fix” you/us.
So while you waver in the wind and deny you need help, I’m going to get help for myself, my children and my own well being. I will seek out legal advise and I will seek out counseling for me and for our children. I will find my way from here.
But, I hope someday you will realize how much you are loved, how much you have hurt us and how badly you need to be fixed. I hope that you make the choice of life and that you realize your kids need you, not a “replacement daddy”, as you like to say. I hope you that you make the choice to fix you, so that they too can be fixed.
by Band Back Together | Oct 12, 2010 | Abandonment, Anger, Blended Families, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Divorce, Estrangement, Grief, Guilt, Loneliness, Loss, Psychological Manipulation, Sadness, Self Loathing, Sociopathy |
I’ve never written for a blog. I mean, I tweet, but to share something so insanely personal? I can’t believe I’m doing this…but then hell, the guy with one ball had the courage to tell his story, so surely I can muster up the courage to tell mine! Single-jingle, you’ve inspired me! Well, okay, that’s a half-truth. Aunt Becky inspires me too; and can I say that I secretly want to be her when I grow up? (ed note: *blushes*)
I know you may be shocked with the title of this. I mean, come on, what parent would ever admit that they would give back their precious little heathens?
I am an eternal optimist. My glass is always almost-full & I can always find something positive in every person and situation. I am the oldest of six children, raised in a home that cherishes family. My parents are both alive and still married. My mother’s parents were married for 68 years and they raised eighteen children. My grandmother died first and when she did, my dear grandfather told me that he would die from a broken heart; and he did, six weeks later.
So, when my ex-husband (the charmer that he is) and I divorced almost nine years ago I was the second one in my mother’s entire family to divorce. As painful as the divorce was, little did I know that I would experience a pain so great, and so severe, that it would cause me to question my very existence.
My ex told me on 9-11 that he wanted a divorce; that he had never loved me. Great, gee thanks you asshole. He was psychologically and verbally abusive for most of our marriage. He wasn’t like that when we dated, or even for the first two years that we were married.
Honestly, it was as if a light-switch had been flipped the day we brought our daughter home from the hospital. He was angry with me because I was giving our newborn too much attention. WHAT?!? Are you fucking serious?? Yes, he was. That started the downward spiral of our marriage. He would tell me to do something, but when I did what he asked, he yelled at me because I either didn’t do it exactly as he thought I should, or he denied ever asking me to do it in the first place. In a nutshell, he expected me to play ball but kept changing the rules of the game without telling me.
I decided that I didn’t want our daughter thinking that our marriage was the example she should use as a basis for her future relationships. I knew our marriage wouldn’t last, but I had to wait for the right time. During our separation we worked with a child psychologist negotiating our co-parenting plan. Afterward, the psychologist told me that she believed that he was a sociopath. Perfect…and I have a child with this guy.
The first three years after we were divorced weren’t bad. We actually got along well and cooperated. Don’t get me wrong – the guy was still an asshole and thought he could/should control me, but I guess he was just less of an asshole. Well, that lasted until he met and married his current wife. Now, I’m not blaming her, but she certainly hasn’t told him to straighten his shit up. In fact, I believe that the two of them feed off one another.
You see, as parents, we all know that kids naturally try to pit us against one another, right? Well, it can be even worse with children of divorce. As soon as these two yahoos got together, they began telling my daughter what a terrible mother I am and how I must not love her because I don’t do this, or a I don’t do that. Step-monster has told my daughter that she thinks I’m a bitch; they both told my daughter that they think I dress funny, I’m stupid, I’m fat, I talk funny, etc…the list goes on and on.
I share this with you for you two reasons:
1.) If you’re a parent and pulling this bullshit – STOP THE SHIT NOW! You think you’re hurting your ex, but really what you’re doing is demoralizing and destroying your child. My divorce attorney said to us (before he would take my case), “it’s not divorce that screws up the kids, it’s the parents.” That was the smartest thing that man ever said.
2.) When I divorced, I made a promise to my daughter that she would never know exactly how I feel about her father; that while I may not agree with what he does, what he says, or how he lives his life, I would demand that she respect him as her father. I’m not perfect but I’ve done a pretty good job of this. I think I’ve called him an asshole a couple of times, immediately realized what I had done and asked her for her forgiveness.
Last July, after picking up my 13-year old daughter from an extended weekend with her father and step-family, she got angry with me and became belligerent and uncontrollable on our way home. I will say right here that I believe in corporal punishment, but only when it’s used sparingly. There are just some kids that need a good swat on the behind – mine being one of them.
So, I did what many parents have done and will continue to do and that was to swat (there IS a difference between a swat, a spanking, and a beating) her.
It was done to get her attention and only after I had pulled over on the side of the road in an effort to calm her down and talk through why she was so angry. I swatted her on the leg – she was wearing shorts – there was no redness, no mark, no nothing. That night she was hugs & kisses begging to do ‘girls night’ (girls night consists of us hanging out doing whatever she wants to do & always ends up with us giggling and snuggling in bed).
The next day she went back to her dad’s and thus began my personal journey in hell.
My beautiful, precious daughter accused me of beating her. Yes, beating her. I’ve never even kicked a dog, how could I beat my child? I may have had visions of killing severely maiming my ex, but I could never intentionally harm my child. Because my ex never questions anything that our daughter says and wants so badly to believe that I am the bitch that has made his life hell (it couldn’t possibly be because HE’S made his life what it is today), he believed her and hot-lined me.
Then, he took her to a therapist (which may just be the smartest thing the asshole ever did), and the therapist hot-lined me. It was at this point that I suddenly realized that if my daughter was so willing to make these false accusations against me, what would she say about my husband, her step-father? I emailed her father and suggested that until our daughter have several therapy sessions and we figure out what’s going on, that I thought it best that she stay with him. And there she has remained.
Working with the division of family services, or children’s division (whatever clever name your state has given it), is akin to having your annual exam (ladies) and inviting everyone in to see your vagina. They invade every freaking part of your life. Fortunately for me, the caseworker I was assigned to work with was thoughtful and compassionate.
I spoke with her on the phone and she explained to me that I was being accused of physically abusing my daughter. I felt as if I had been kicked in the stomach. I wanted to vomit. How could the child I so dearly love and would give my very life for say such monstrous things?
The only logical, rational reason I could come up with was that she was being influenced by her father and step-monster.
The case worker then proceeded to tell me that after her interview with my daughter and her father, she had decided not to interview me. Her conclusion: “This is not a case of abuse or neglect, but a custody issue and I am closing the case.” Thank God – what a relief!
My hell isn’t over. I haven’t seen or talked to my daughter in over three months. While I retain joint physical and legal custody of my daughter, I don’t want her here if she doesn’t want to be here. Do you know the story of Solomon? If not, look it up…you’ll understand me.
So, why do I not want to be a mother?
The pain I have experienced over the last three months is so intense that there are many, many days that I just don’t feel like I can go on. I have been rejected. Repudiated by my own daughter. She won’t return my calls; won’t respond to texts or emails; won’t have anything to do with me. I sit down every Sunday and hand-write her a letter updating her on what’s happening in our family. I tell her about Buddy, the family dog she left behind and how he lays down in front of her door almost every day waiting for her to come home; I tell her about her new cousin Ainsley that has a hemangioma on her eyelid and may go blind; I tell her that all of her aunts, uncles and cousins ask about her every time I see them. I also tell her that we love her and miss her.
What I don’t tell her about is the intense sadness and pain my husband and I have inside as a result of what’s been happening. I struggle most days just to get out of bed. I don’t want to go to work, I don’t want to do the things I used to love doing, I just don’t want to do anything, or be anywhere. I cried everyday for two months. There are still days when all I do is sit with a box of Kleenex and cry all day. Seriously. All day. I hate coming home – because it reminds me of her. But where else would I go? Dying seems like an attractive alternative sometimes, but then I realize that would give my ex too much pleasure. Fuck him.
I don’t want to write to her anymore. In fact, I don’t want to be a mother anymore. There’s just too much heartache and pain. Where the hell is the reward? She doesn’t respond to any of my communications, so why keep up the charade?
Through this experience I am learning what it truly means to love another human being. To be able to look past the faults of another and still love them with all your heart and soul is an incredible place to be. I’m also learning what it means to forgive. Not to just say “I forgive you,” but to really feel it in your heart.
Wait, wait, wait a minute! I’m not forgiving that son-of-a-bitch father of hers, not sure that I will ever be at a point where I can forgive him for what he’s doing to her. I’m working on forgiving her. I realize that this isn’t all her…she’s torn. She is a true ‘daddy’s girl’ and adores her father. However, she needs to bear some responsibility in this. I have to believe that as she grows and matures she’ll realize what she’s done and she’ll be embarrassed and will regret her actions.
I’ve also learned that to be rejected by one’s child is perhaps one of the most painful experiences, other than the death of a child, that a parent can ever experience. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. I tried that…there’s this guy that I really can’t stand, yet I pray that he never experiences the pain and agony I live with every day.
What do I say when people ask how my daughter is; how is she liking the 8th grade; how is she doing in school; what sports is she playing this year? Uh, hell if I know. Call her father. I’ve moved all of her pictures from public viewing at home – it’s just too painful. I put away all of her personal belongings in her bathroom and have redecorated it…again, too painful to see her stuff. Her bedroom door is closed and I haven’t been in there for two months. Too painful. When I go in there I am reminded of all of the love and the fun that we shared together. I am also reminded that she’s not here.
For all you out there that are divorced with children, please let this be an example of what NOT to do and remember what my attorney said, “it’s not divorce that screws up the kids, it’s the parents.” Your children deserve the best of what you have and that includes treating your ex with kindness, compassion, and respect.
I will see her for the first time next week in a joint therapy session. I’m sure it’s going to be awkward and I expect her to be cold and distant. I am going to do my best not to cry. I’m going in armed with drugs. Buspar and I have become very close friends in the last couple of months.
In my heart, my hope is that next week will be the beginning of the end of my personal journey to hell.
