This one is was a hard one…
It’s time to take this seriously. There is so much I want to talk about. I have pages of plans on topics I want to write about; to the point that it has caused a little overwhelm. There is also fear. Fear of backlash, fear of not being believed, fear of losing more people in my life simply because I am speaking out. These are my illogical fears. Some of them could come true, maybe not to the degree that my mind is coming up with, but to a smaller degree.
My knee-jerk reaction is to talk about the good stuff first, lay the groundwork, and give a history. In reality, I just want to word-vomit, to get everything out all at once and fill in the blanks as I go. So, I’m torn between organizational and chronological thought and pure chaos. In my last post, I said this was my truth, my story, my experiences. Others may come forward and give their thoughts, memories, and experiences; and that’s ok. Just don’t gaslight or invalidate mine or anyone else’s story.
Nina (my biological mother), what do I say, where do I start? My therapist wanted me to write a letter telling her why I was angry. I ended up with an incomplete 4-page outline for an essay of Why I’m resentful/angry at Nina. I say incomplete because the farther in therapy I get, the more I piece together, the longer that outline gets. Some of it repeats because it falls into different categories, it bleeds into different areas. Some things tie everything together, but don’t explain everything. I think that’s part of the overwhelm and frustration, the need to give a complete picture, the feeling of needing to justify myself and the overwhelming need for others to understand that she is not what they believe she is.
I keep getting asked “why didn’t I ever say anything growing up, why didn’t I tell someone?” Who was I supposed to tell? Who was going to believe me? My teachers thought she was a wonderful, attentive parent. She went to school with half the police force, including graduating either in the same class or within a few years of the police chief. Doctors have always trusted her, praising her, and saying she would have made a wonderful nurse. Her employers always held the utmost praise for her. Family and friends alike said she was loving, compassionate, giving, blah, blah, blah. Fellow Christians would say how pious and godly she was. So many people would compare her Mother Theresa, or some other saintly figure. Praising her for how strong and righteous she was. It just goes on and on. The older I became, the more I questioned my own sanity. The more I wondered what was wrong with me, why couldn’t I see it? Maybe I really was such a bad person that I deserved the punishments.
I grew being told that I was physically weak, a sensitive child, a rebellious spirit, easily influenced, a poor judge of character, intellectually slow, not very smart, and that I was a sickly child. And the absolute best one…. I was just like my father. I need to pause for bit…
I have sporadic memories of growing up. I have a few pleasant memories of Nina, but even those have an underlying taint of something. Sometimes it’s a memory of an emotion or a thought I had at the time. Any and every happy childhood memory is with other people when Nina wasn’t present. I remember baking literally hundreds of cookies at Christmas as gifts for friends and family. I love baking. It is an absolute passion for me. But having that joy sucked out of me by doing this with her was another level. She would sit at the table doing the mixing, measuring out the cookies and putting them on the cookie sheets, like anything that she could do without moving. I was the runner. Cleaning dishes when my grandmother (Leve) was tired, getting ingredients from the cabinets or other places she had them stored. Putting the sheets in and out of the oven and transferring the sheets to the garage to cool. I wasn’t allowed to “help” actually make cookies because she assumed I didn’t know how to measure things and mix properly. I couldn’t move fast enough, if I rested, I was lazy and in her way. If I questioned anything, she would get upset. I remember feelings of being torn. I wanted to help make baked goods, but I didn’t want to spend time with Nina. Any time around her was dangerous and could turn volatile at any moment…. But sometimes it was ok. You just never knew; it was like Russian Roulette with her temper.
She had time for everyone else but me. My grandparents helped me with homework. Leve (my step-grandma, I hate saying that) helped me for as long as she could. Billy (the grandad, the best) helped me once I got in High School up to a point. I learned in third or fourth grade to no longer let Nina help with essays or reports. My teachers began pointing out that they could tell when “she helped” and allowing me to redo those assignments when Nina’s signature bad grammar was evident. Often lovingly being told that I could this, that I was smart and very articulate with my written words. After I stopped letting her see my homework, my grades in English and Writing greatly improved. I loved school, I loved big, impossible-looking assignments. This was my time to shine. When I did stumble, and my grades took a hit (for various reasons), she was harsh. I learned by Middle School/Junior High to keep the bar low. Do not overachieve unless I was sure that I could actually do it. There was no room for failure, because failure equaled pain. Instead of trying to find out why I was struggling, or what could be done to help me, there was blame and pain/punishment. The story of how she struggled in school and it’s not surprising that I wasn’t smart either. Then the short “lecture” of how slacking was unacceptable, the spanking, and subsequent grounding until things improved.
Nina didn’t go to any of my school functions till I was in High School. Then it was choir performances, because she had “other kids” in choir, too. Are you fucking kidding me? Dad and Leve would go to the Halloween carnivals with me. Leve tried to make it to every elementary performance and Junior High band performance. I didn’t have to look for my Leve, I knew she was there. Dad tried to make the Science Fairs, carnivals, and would even just show up (under the guise of visiting old friends). I had a few teachers who would help me after-school or at other times during the day, rather than deal with Mother. They would tell me that they didn’t see the need to involve her. Looking back, maybe some of them knew there was something going on at home.
If it was ever needed to involve the Principal, they all knew Dad and would call him. The nurses would either call Dad or Leve if I needed to go home. By High School, Nina was contacted less and less. Growing up in a small town had its advantages and disadvantages. I do have memories of Carolyn (my maternal Papa’s 4th? wife) would come randomly check me out of the school on a Friday, sometimes Thursday. She had already been by the house after Nina left for work, and Leve would help her pack a bag. Back then, because Carolyn was on the list of emergency contacts, she was allowed to sign me out. It was great!
I know she would be pissed, because she would call Papa’s house later that night and Carolyn would just hand the phone to him. He would tell her I was fine, they just wanted to spend time with me and that I would get my schoolwork done. He would tell her to calm down and stop yelling. I do remember him getting angry with her a few times. I loved going out the country in East Texas with Papa and Carolyn. Those were the best memories. I was a kid, getting dirty, eating carrots straight from the garden and bonfires. Sleeping on the front porch with my cousins on piles of blankets. It was so different from home. The love was tangible there.
Eventually I had to go home and be reminded that the only reason she allowed Papa and Carolyn to do that was because I was spoiled, and she had no authority to tell them no. That there was always hell to pay from everyone if she told me no. Not exactly true. Those people she was referring to just simply didn’t listen to her. My Aunt Tina, who is like 11 years older than me, was the same way. She called it kidnapping. And kidnapping always involved horses, and dogs, and bunnies, and cats, and a fostering of my endless love for animals. Yeah, I literally got ponies for Christmas. The blind, the lame and abused. The ones that needed love the most. Aunt Tina would say, just like me. I didn’t see it then. She taught me early on that “can’t” was not allowed to be in my vocabulary.
I had friends that Nina didn’t approve of, because I was a “poor judge of character”. Those were the best friends, the most loyal friends I ever had. The ones she wanted me to be around…well, let’s say they were the delinquents. Drinking, drugs, porn. Jeez, how I came out of that “clean “sober” I will never get. Shear willpower, I think. I’m getting lost in good and crying for the heroes that have gone away. It’s how I cope with the pain.
The pain is what I’m here to get out though. Dad would half-laugh when he called Mother, the long arm of the law. She may be small standing at four feet, ten inches, but she could slap you from across the room. Paint stir sticks, yard sticks, rulers, hangers, dowels… it seems like anything could come out of nowhere and hit you. Think Highlander and pulling the sword from the nether. Dad tried to make them disappear as often as possible, but something would turn up to fill the space. If she used a belt, it was Dad’s western dress belt with the intricate working. I remember a few times, she made him do the spanking, and he cried after, like the next day. You could see the guilt on his face. And she would get mad at him that he was soft and needed to learn to be more of a man and discipline me. Dad’s idea of “discipline” was to talk to me or ground me. One time he cut the brake lines on my bike and felt so bad, he saved up and bought new cables and repaired it without telling me. Nina was pissed, saying he gave in.
At one point, we were able to carpet the house. Worst decision ever. It was this horrible 1980’s low-shag carpet. After that, my punishments often consisted of kneeling up on my knees, in my under-garments (until a certain age, then I was allowed short-shorts) with my nose to the wall. I don’t remember how long I had to kneel there, it varied. If I cried or complained, she would spank me with the belt. You didn’t cry, just take the penitence. It didn’t matter if it was a small transgression or something more, it was punished harshly. I got in trouble a lot for “back-talking” or “being a smart-mouth”. Eventually I learned to just shut up. Don’t defend yourself or Dad, or anyone. If I brought home a C on a report card, it was the same as “smarting off”. I got my toys taken a lot. Even though Billy and Leve told her numerous times, it was ok to leave them in bins in the living room. Bottom line, she just didn’t want to see them.
Crap just goes on and on. By the time I was in High School, I was starting to question if Nina even wanted to have me, or if she had delusional reasons why she even got pregnant in the first place. Every birthday and Christmas was the same. I was reminded that the only reason I got the gifts that I did was because I was spoiled. And she would point out who bought or picked out each gift. Family would come over for Holiday Dinner, and she would point out that everything under the tree was for me because everyone spoiled me. This became a damn mantra growing up. To the point that she made it a point to tell both my first husband and my second husband that I was spoiled and used to having my wishes granted when I asked. So, they better be prepared. And both of them went out of their way to get me things. “What do you want for your birthday/Christmas?” My response was something along, “I don’t want anything, I’m good. I just want to spend time with you and the kids. Giving to you and the kids is enough for me.” When you lock yourself in your closet after everyone is done unwrapping to open the t-shirt your best friend got you because you can’t bear to let others see you grateful…. Is a horrible existence! I shouldn’t be like this Damnit!
Wait! There’s more…but that’s for another day. I’m drained. I’m gonna cut this here. Yeah, word-vomit with some kind of flow feels right. Thank you for spending time to read my story.
Break Ground by Blue October
If I could be good enough, then I would be blown away.
And I could be their everyone, and I could be there everyday.
If I could be good enough, then I could just glow.
If I could let go, then I could change the world, but I can’t stop always tearing myself down.
I can be good enough. Yeah, I will break ground.
Written by Justin Furstenfeld
First published December 15, 2023