If pain was able to speak, it would scream. But my pain cannot speak, as it cannot find a voice, nor an ear to listen, nor a heart to care. A silent scream, joined with thousands of others, who cry in silence, faces buried in pillows of sorrow. Clenched hands, clenched jaws that ache for relief from the constant crushing force of longing for it all to end. Knowing that, if it spoke, it might say the wrong thing. Or strengthen the already catastrophic force that has been set in motion by some unseen monster.
Should I stay silent? Or do I risk losing something I hold dear by giving voice to my heart's cry. It seems that no matter how many times I have the conversation in my head, it goes bad. But staying silent only allows the cause of the heart ache to continue, unchecked. It's a lose-lose situation in my eyes. Maybe it's because my eyes ache from the constant flow of tears.
Somehow, somewhere, I failed; as a daughter, as a sister, as a mother and a wife. Well, maybe some of that was not completely my fault...except the "mother" part. My failure as a mother is totally and completely my fault.
Motherhood came at a very young age. A son, at 19, father "unknown". Dealing with parents who openly showed their shame and disgust at my obvious indiscretion. I remember the day my mother said, "You haven't let a boy touch you 'down there', have you?" I lied and said "No". What was she wanting to hear? Soon after that, she suggested I go to the 'clinic' for a check-up, fearing I had some STD or worse. It was worse. It was a baby. Out of wedlock. In a christian home. Father "unknown". As I began to show, and it became more obvious to her friends at church, I was sent away for a bit. I always thought it was because my parents wanted to be able to talk freely, or mourn, or figure out what they were going to do. I really don't know the reason, I just know I was being sent away.
When my son was born, my mother was by my side, as well as my brother and sister. I don't remember where my father was. Maybe out in the hallway. Sounds like a supportive family....not completely. My brother was there only because he missed his daughter's birth due to emergency c-section. Guess he felt robbed of the experience and asked if he could be my coach. Sure why not. Beats being alone. My sister was there only because she had her baby the day before me. We shared a doctor and a room. Room 408, bed A and B. My parents never came and visited us. I don't know why.
Going home lacked the normal excitement that comes from bringing home the baby. My mother cared for me as best she could. I cared for my son the best I could. There was none of the normal bonding that happens, or is supposed to happen. All I could do is look at this child and wonder who he was. I attempted to nurse, both of us crying through the process. My son, because he was hungry. Me, I don't know why. Overwhelmed maybe? Ashamed? I gave up and let my mother take over. I wasn't able to "perform my motherly duties". And my family was tired of hearing the baby scream. So I shrank back into the background and let someone else do it, all of it.
I look back and I can see the first step in a long line of failed attempts at motherhood. Rejection, of a sort, from the very beginning. Not because of hatred, but because of the feeling of failure. I was unable to meet the needs of this child that needed me....
That has been the pattern for the last 36 years. I'm unable to deal with the pain I caused him because I could not answer his questions about his father. What was I supposed to say? "Here's the list of possibilities. Take your pick!" How do you explain to a 13 year old that his mom was a slut and a whore, just like her father said she was.
When I was 15 my father decided that I looked and dressed like a tramp, and continued to remind me of it every time I left the house. "Are you gonna wear that? You look like a tramp." (I only wore what my mother purchased for me, blame her!) His constant belittling of me only added to the feeling of failing as a daughter. I was never good enough for him. All too often, as his words ring in my ears, I fight the emotions that come along with the reminder of failing my father.
So, how do you inform your teenage son that mommy was less than perfect. That he was not conceived "in love" but in the back of a car on some dark road, or in a motel with someone who only had a first name. Or behind a filthy bar on top of a corvette by a man whose name I never knew?
My son was a very affectionate child, always wanting to touch me and be close to me. To hold mommy's hand. I remember yelling at him one day to stop. I knew it was wrong, but I could not accept love from this little man who, somehow reminded me of someone that I didn't know. I used to sit and stare at him, hoping to see a glimpse of anyone that I could recognize. I would silently ask him in my mind, "Who are you?" I still ask that question, still no answer.
I will stop for now, for I'm finding it hard to continue....
