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It Was My Mother; She Was the Problem

It Was My Mother; She Was the Problem
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The saddest person in the universe is someone I know. They are not under privileged or do they go without any luxury their heart desires. Sometimes material things are the most important thing in the world to them and other times it’s about making someone that care about them feel inferior. The extreme that this person will go to in proving their point knows no boundaries, even just straight up lying. Anything to show that you have that power to cause hurt to someone that cared about them, repeatedly, over, and over again. Some of the victims of these sad things are children, as I have said before there are no boundaries to the types of abuse or its victims.

This person is not me, who was severely abused as a child. It is not my mentally ill son who suffers with schizophrenia. It is not my son who has physical problems and is in constant pain at an early age, who also deals with a wonderful special needs child. It is not my son who has a hard time with relationships (like me) and is a father to four beautiful children. It is not any of us who are having a hard time finding our place in life.

Sibling rivalry was an issue and this person was very mean to their sibling, as I have been told. This person has an education, a career, a happy marriage for many years to a person who loved them dearly and believed every word they said. Only to find out in the end, so much had been a lie. In her career, she taught other people’s special needs children. Once they had a child, the child was never with them but with relatives, as they knew how mean they could be and feared for the child. As the child grew older, summers were spent with relatives who were very good to the child. The child was me, the saddest person in the universe is my mother.

The last major abuse that I remember is when I was 7 and I was bent over a bathtub bare-assed. She beat me 20 times with a razor strap because I had to stay after school for talking. Many years later her excuse was because she left my baby brother in his crib while she drove across town to pick me up from 2nd grade. This person was trusted with other people’s children and left her own baby at home alone in a crib and used that to justify beating your 7-year-old.

After that I don’t remember much about the physical abuse until I was 15 although there were other kinds of weirdness I remember. I have blocked so much out to keep some part of my sanity. I don’t want to remember what my brothers do. If it affected them like it did, what will it do to me?

So I guess the weirdness started when I was 12. We moved away from where my mother had grownup. I was a kid, not a girl but still a kid. I started school, had a nice boyfriend. I was known as the girl who would do nothing at the movies, not a title that I ashamed of, heck I was 12. I was raised better than that. One day out of the blue I was told that I was going to be moving to Texas the next day. I had no clue why. I found out that she had told her family that I was caught kissing black boys in my bedroom. At no point in time was there any boys in my room besides my brothers and their friends, I had a boyfriend who when we were brave would give each other a peck, and I was raised in Confederate Texas in a segregated town. I was so hurt I was leaving my new friends, school, and neighborhood. I had just established a new life. So, I went to my grandparents’ house who had this preconceived notion that I like to kiss black boys. They tried to be very good to me and bought me a lot of things everyday if I was good. I had never been bad so I didn’t understand. I started to rebel. I still didn’t kiss boys though. I smoked cigarettes, I even ditched school once (got caught), and wasn’t always where I was supposed to be. I got in trouble some, not for a crime or anything, just being rebellious.

When I was 13 I went back home to a new state that I had never been too. New house and new friends. My mother acted like she couldn’t stand me, she didn’t do my laundry or treat me like I was a member of the family. There was no discussion about the laundry, she just quit doing it. There was no plate set for me at the dinner table. I was not included in family activities unless my dad was there. I had to walk to school, even though she worked at the same school. She didn’t speak to me for almost a year and I had no idea what I had done to her. I got good grades, I was pretty, I had morals. I did stab a guy with a pencil in 8th grade for showing me his penis and trying to make me touch it. That is referred to as the day I went crazy. I was taken to the doctor on more than one occasion to have a gynecological exam so she could determine if I was a virgin. To her disappointment, all three times the doctor confirmed that I had not had sex yet. Where she got these crazy notions I have no idea, remember I stabbed a guy for showing me his penis while the others laughed. The day my mother started talking to me was the day she started buying my cigarettes. I didn’t inhale and smoked to be cool, it was not a serious thing until then. Heck, I was 13 and got free cigarettes. I was still a kid, not yet considered myself a girl, just a kid.

I also remember being thrown out of the house at 14 because she didn’t like me, every night that my dad worked the late shift and then lied to him that I had run away. Never once did I see her out looking for me, but I remembered a very worried father looking for his daughter. I used to see him, but he didn’t see me. That hurt me so bad, but I wasn’t going back home and listen to the lies she told him. I started hanging out with a rougher crowd and started getting in trouble in school. I was getting to a point that anything was better than living with her. I was out on the streets so much that there was a fund for me. The hippies pulled their money and provided me with a meal and a motel room, although on occasion one of my friends would sneak me into their house for the night. The hippies protected me and treated me like a little sister. Never was any payment or sexual favor expected. I was expected to get up for school the next day.

One time I fell off a moving car and hit my head on the pavement very hard. It was my first Harley ride. I was put on the gas tank because I couldn’t hold myself up and taken home by a biker and some of my friends who followed in the car. Upon contacting my mother, instead of acting out of concern, they were told to get me out of there. They couldn’t believe what she said, then they took me to a friend’s house whose mother was a nurse. We couldn’t get me treated without parental consent, so it was taken care of the best way we could. I remember one night she threw me out and as I was walking across the desert to find my friends, a drunk Navajo started chasing me, I was so terrified. I cried as I ran. I was taken to Phoenix to find out what was wrong with my brain. I had so many brain test and once again, to my mother’s disappointment, there was nothing wrong with me. So, then I went to Flagstaff to a psychologist who told my parents, the problem was my mother not me. Not happy with that they took me to weekly therapy and had me evaluated. One again my therapist told my parents that I had no problems, it was with my mother. She was my problem.

Life continued and I turned 15. Things went on in the same manner. It was that summer I met Brian who I would later have two children with. He came from an abusive family constantly seeing his mother beat up by his alcoholic father. Brian was 18 and wasn’t my parents’ choice for me. He was friends with the hippies who look me in. I started smoking pot and tried drinking but discovered that drinking was not my thing. School became less important put I was still elected Sophomore homecoming princess. I did not attend the ceremonies but chose to sit under the bleachers during the game with Brian. Brian and I did become intimate eventually, this was my soul mate. He knew about the abuse and what was going on. Many nights he was helping me find a place to stay. One night he came in because he could hear my mother and I fighting. He walked into my room as she had me by the ears and slammed my head on a cement floor. I thought my 18-year-old boyfriend was going to kill my mother. Instead he called her a bitch and told me to grab some clothes and come with him. We pulled up in front of his house while we went in to talk to his parents. For the next three months, I lived in his sister’s bedroom. I returned home, but it didn’t take long for things to return to normal.

When things were bad at home I started missing school. Brian and I would go hiking all around Lake Powell or do something cool. I got expelled from school due to unexcused absences. I talked to my parents about moving out and getting a job. Brian asked my parents if we could get married, which is not what I wanted. I had just turned 16. Three days later my parents had signed custody of me over to Brian and his parents picked me up and we headed to Vegas to get married. I had turned 16, 10 days prior.

Now my Brian was my legal guardian. He had to sign for my first driver’s license. I tried going back to school, but I was a 16-year-old with a little red MG Midget, my husband’s paycheck (he worked out of town), and a cool apartment. I was a 16-year-old with too much freedom. Pretty soon Brian’s violent streak started coming out. We moved out of state so I could be with him, too much freedom was not a good thing for me. We moved to an old house on a farm. I had to grow up and be a wife. Once he beat me so bad his friend took me across state lines and took me home to my mom, who refused me. Even though I had a broken nose and was black and blue. I didn’t see my dad but I am sure she lied to him. I believe in my heart that if he had known the truth he wouldn’t have let it happen. Brian’s friend was charged with kidnapping for taking me across state lines and I was returned to my legal guardian.

I soon turned 17 and life kept going as usual. Beatings for simple things, one time it was because I didn’t have the right socks for him. I mean I was 17 and using a wringer washer, drying clothes in the house. Another time it was because there was dust on the floor. When he was not violent, this man loved me more than life. He was my soul mate and we were life partners. The violence continued though out our 9-year marriage. When I got violent towards one of my children, I walked out of the house into a blizzard with two babies. No one would abuse my children as I had been.

The domestic violence shelter called my parents and had to beg them to come and get me. My brother left to meet me, as it was a blizzard. During the last two years I had become addicted to cocaine so I came home with an addiction and two kids. My mother’s way of helping was to take custody of one of my kids. Shortly thereafter I met my third son’s father. He would play the dad role for my children for the rest of his life. When I got pregnant, my mom brought my oldest son over to me and said “have him”, I gladly said “ok”.

She would tell me about various affairs she had, which I did not want to know about. Then she would proceed to tell me about other men’s man parts and what she did. I did not want to know these things. I was with her when she hit a car and left the scene. Then in front of my father and the police she blamed me for it. I was in the car with her when she did this.

Little did I know that her abusive nature would carry on towards my children. She used my oldest son to get to me. She played games with him and told him lies about me. She picked him up at her convenience and dropped him off when she was tired of him. She would spend hundreds of dollars on him and spend 2 on his brother which set his step father off. She was told never to buy another thing for my children. When my youngest son was 8 she bought game boys for two of the boys and gave my youngest a used game. More recently her excuse was because she was mad at his dad.

Before my father passed my mother kept pushing me about our problem. I repeatedly ask her to stop as my father was dying. My father asked her to stop, but she wouldn’t so we had it out. I told my father everything. She denied taking me to the doctor for exams until I told her I could get the records as I was an adult. She justified beating me when I was 7 because it happened to her. I got to tell my father that I had never run away. I also told him that I didn’t remember the abuse. My father asked me to try and remember, but I refuse to. I don’t know what I would be capable of if I did. But at least my dad passed with the truth.

I am tired of the abuse; the favoritism meant to bother me and create problems between my boys. She still uses my oldest son to get to me, but I don’t let it bother me anymore. She gave my oldest son ten thousand dollars and couldn’t loan my other son 160.00 to get his little boy out of a very abusive situation. My boys don’t care for their brother because he has had it easy, that is a problem she created. More recently she pushed my second son who has mental illness over the edge purposely.

This is a woman who was a teacher. She cared for other people’s children. Her abuse was only directed at me. My brothers are very traumatized by what they saw happen to me that I don’t remember. They have told their children what they saw me go through. They have both made statements about it to me, in support of me.

I am so done with this woman. She is the Saddest Person in the Universe. I pity her. I am afraid of what I will do if she is given any more time to cause hurt for my children. My children and grandchildren bring me joy. I could not imagine being her. I am probably cut out of her will, but so be it. She taught me how not to be a mom and for that I am thankful. Just today I was told by two of my boys that I am the best mom they could have ask for. That is happiness.

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