"My blood will be on your hands"

If I don't get this out, I'm not sure I ever will.

My 'life story' is fucked. When people hear the details, their first response, guaranteed, is: "You should write a book." I can barely imagine discussing a hard day, let alone combing through my traumatic past in detail.

After weeks of feeling better, I plummeted into another dark depression two days ago. What put me on the brink was seeing an intake counselor at a university psych clinic. I hate intake sessions because in one hour you have to try and summarize every major event that has contributed to, or is a result of, your poor mental health. Every trauma, every sin, every trial, every error, every waking nightmare, every wish for death, everything you've never been able to forgive yourself for, everything you never had any control over in the first place. When you have to hear all of this out-loud, in your own voice, out of your own mouth, it just makes you feel hopeless. I think: is this really me? This sounds like a Hollywood script. I wonder: when will it end? will there ever be a happy ending?'

But something else pushed me off the edge and plunged me into a dark, deep state of unconsciousness - a warm state of relief - all of yesterday. (Ironic? yes, considering I've spent every previous post complaining about insomnia). I'd open my eyes, heavy with sleep, only to realize that it's in this world that my nightmare continues and I'd surrender back to the blissful state of numbness that accompanies sleep during depression. What's anchored me into this depression so rapidly is a conversation I had with my biological mother the night before.


"Exhibits symptoms of severe child abuse"
That's what multiple psychological evaluations, ordered by a judge or a social worker or some other well-meaning civil servant, read. The last one I saw was completed about a year before my first suicide attempt- at age 9.

My mother beat the shit out of me when I was growing up. My first memories are filled with a fear of dying. Children's cognitive functions are limited; my abuse began at such an early age that I was never able to distinguish the concept of surviving or dying at the hands of my mother. Each assault felt like it would be my last. And, not to sound too dramatic, but it easily could have been. One of my mother's favorite forms of punishment was shoving a pillow over my face and placing her 5'10'', 170 lb frame on top of my head. At age 5, I remember choking on tears, gasping for air, seeing stars, and the unforgettable panic that accompanies slow suffocation. She would do it until I was quiet, until I no longer had the oxygen available to plead for air. She said she did it to shut me up. It worked.

Because when your caretaker, the one person who is supposed to make you feel safe, is the monster hiding under the bed, your entire childhood is spent living in fear. Will the monster come out today or won't it? What will lure it out of its lair? One time, when she was teaching me to read at age 3, I forgot how to pronounce qu. I blanked, I stared at the page willing it to tell me what to say, I kept glancing at my mother's reddening face, I started to panic, and sure enough, this resulted in being kicked in the stomach. I still hate the word squash. Another time, at around age 6, I couldn't remember my 12 multiplication times table and she slammed a large piece of pottery (that I had made for her) onto the top of my head. I remember blood dripping down from my fore head onto that stupid math workbook.

I've been thrown down the stairs, dragged down a hallway and around the kitchen by my hair, kicked, punched, slapped, locked in a bathroom for 3 days (fed only one slice of bread and a glass of water, because "that is what prisoners get in jail.") I've had multiple stints in foster homes where one type of abuse was replaced by another; I've hidden bruises from teachers (if they noticed, I was told to say that I had 'fallen of the monkey bars'); I've been interviewed in a janitor's closet by social services. In fact, social services came calling a lot. Without fail, they always made things worse.



 "My blood will be on your hands."
So there is a morsel of why it is still difficult for me to talk to my biological mother. There is more- so, so much more but I don't want to put myself through the retelling, let alone an unsuspecting reader, so let's fast-forward a bit. In a rags to riches story, my absent father gained full custody of me. The circumstances surrounding this case and the storm of testimony from witnesses who saw so many signs of abuse, made the decision legally unprecedented in the state of Georgia. Teachers, neighbors, parents, my mother's own friends, all came forward. So, when I was 8, I was spirited from my House of Horrors across the country to live with my 5 half siblings and my step-mom (who I refer to as my mother, an incredibly selfless person who raised me as her own and on whom I can still rely as a source of support).

Next, my biological mother spent another 8 years inflicting severe emotional abuse. It's amazing what you can do long-distance. I spent multiple summers with her, listening to how she was going to commit suicide once I left. "My blood will be on your hands," she loved to say.

At 16 the court-ordered mandatory visits stopped. After that, I rarely spoke to her. This was during a blur of manic highs, suicidal lows, and incessant binge drinking.  I'm not sure it was ever a conscious choice. I just couldn't do it anymore. For about ten years, I saw her a handful of times and spoke to her on holidays (when I could muster up the strength to hear her voice). Without fail, a conversation with her, regardless of how benign the subject matter, would tear down any semblance of sanity I managed to build up.

This still happens. 


Cat Lady
My mother has alienated everyone in her life. She is virtually impossible for anyone to be around. She is sick; she has always been sick. My stints in foster-care coincided with her being involuntarily committed. I don't know what her diagnosis is. I don't think she is bipolar, I don't think I've ever witnessed her manic. I remember the term 'borderline personality' being tossed around at some point. At the very least, I know she suffers from untreated, almost catatonic depressions.

Over the past ten years, my mother has literally become a cat lady. She lives alone, in a big empty house with nine, that's right, nine cats, 3 dogs ,a couple birds, and even feeds a family of raccoons that live under her house. You'll see a dark cloud pass over my face at the mention of any cat lady jokes. I know one. She gave birth to me.

My mother is now a sorry, lonely old woman. She spends her holidays alone, in front of the television, with the phone sitting next to her, hoping someone, anyone, will call. I spend holidays dreading making that phone call, during which she will plead for me to call more often, and beg for me to spend the next holiday with her. I will make vague promises I can't keep, and get off feeling so exhausted it's difficult for me to keep my eyes open. My whole body aches and I curl up into a ball, praying she won't pay me a visit in my dreams.



 We don't get to choose our family 
You could argue she deserves the sorry state of her life. You could be like everyone else I talk to and tell me not to speak to her, but the problem is: she's not your mother, her blood doesn't course through your veins. We don't get to choose our family.

Every day I feel guilt for not calling her more often and guilt for the sorry state of her life. She began expressing remorse for what she did to me about five years ago. Now when we speak there is this devastating sorrow on both ends of the line. Everything about the situation feels hopeless. For me, it becomes a matter of sacrifice. Do I sacrifice my own mental health to ease her suffering?

The thing is, now she earnestly tries. She puts paints on her prettiest face. I am open about whatever current state of hell I am in. Brutally honest, in fact; I think I'm hoping to scare her away. But I don't. Instead her responses are encouraging, supportive, and compassionate and as anyone could possibly be. Many times she'll contribute insight into why I handle things the way I do - where I might get it from. She will commiserate, having coped poorly with stress in a similar manner. She tries so hard to be there for me. I don't believe she is the same woman she used to be. Life has punished her for her transgressions. She's gotten 'what she deserves,' though I'd never wish any of this upon her or anyone else. It would be easier not to acknowledge this change and to blanket myself in bitterness and hate for what she did to me as a child. But I'm not that kind of person and at some point, I started learning how to forgive her.


"I will not leave this house."
 My mother is the quintessential example of why the economy collapsed. For two decades she has not worked, able to survive by paying off one credit card with another. She's taken out two mortgages on her house and finally, it has all caught up with her. Yesterday she told me it is 45 degrees outside but she can't afford to turn the heat on, her electricity is about to be cut, her car repossessed, and worst of all - she is about to lose her house. Last year, at age 64, she went back to school to become a nurse but because of her age, she can't seem to get or keep a job. She had one but was fired for being too slow. Her television, her one source of companionship other than the zoo that resides in her house, has recently been shut off.

She says with a frightening resolution, "I will not leave this house." Although she has threatened suicide before, I know that this time it's not an empty threat. She feels that she is too old to start over. There is some truth to that. She cannot get a job and certainly cannot survive on the street. She tells me acquiescently that she has had "a good past five years."  She spent almost all of that time online, having created an elephant advocate avatar who has hundreds of friends across the globe. She feels she gained some purpose in life going after people that abuse elephants (atonement, perhaps?). People tell me, "She's threatened this before, she's not going to do it." But they don't know her like I do. No one does. And my gut-instinct says this very well may happen. My gut-instincts have always been spot on.


 She seems at peace with death. There is no desperation, just resolve.


So what in the fuck do I do? I have no job, no money. I am not in a position where I can have her come live with me (I live in someone else's house with 4 other people). Plus, I have my own sanity to think about. Talking to her can trigger post-traumatic flashbacks of the abuse. All of a sudden, I'm right back clawing underneath that pillow for air. I cannot get enough oxygen in the present. I tell you, time travel is possible. That stability I work so hard for, gets derailed in an instant at the sound of her voice.

I feel like the way I handle these next few months will be critical to the way I view what kind of person I am, for the rest of my life. Can I muster up the strength and compassion to be there for her at the end? Can I do something as simple as call her more often? It seems to brighten her mood considerably. The surprise, the delight, that my number has unexpectedly shown up on her caller id is evident when she giddily answers the phone. It makes me physically ache to think about how lonely she must be.

I've decided to send her a little money. People advise me against this but no one else is in my shoes. If she dies, and I did nothing to ease her suffering, I don't know how I will live with myself. The least I can do is make sure she has electricity during her last days. If these are her last days. And if they aren't and I sent her money, so what? She doesn't have a drug habit, she's just completely broke.

Where I have to put my foot down is her plea for me to come visit. I can't go back to that house. I just can't. I wish I was a stronger person but I can't step on the same flight of stairs she threw me down. I'm hoping to save up some money and fly her out here in the spring, to the city that she adores, the city in which she grew up. I figure she can take me to her old stomping grounds and together we can visit a time before her mental deterioration and her suffering began. I'd like to learn more about my family history. I'd like to see my mother in a different light.

But if something happens beforehand, will I ever be able to forgive myself for not doing enough? For not calling the police? For not showing up on her front door? For not going to say goodbye?

I just don't know what to do.