I need, I covet validation. I crave being wanted, admired and adored. But it is never enough. When I don’t get the constant feed and attention my monsters being their chant of worthlessness. “You are forgotten, you are invisible, you are not worth enough to notice.” This refrain will build to ‘they know’. “They see how broken and used you are. They see how worthless you are and have moved on, they will turn away in disgust.”
In part of the program I am using we are encouraged to look at our traumas, what we used to survive and how that may have set the stage for patterning later on. The ‘first’ thing that I am evaluating was not my first remembered trauma. There were violations that had taken place before the conversation that comes to mind. However, looking back, this highlights that even before birth there was a chance I was being wired with little sense of independent self worth.
Something my Mother told me before she died, that had happened when she was pregnant with me. Both my parents had been married before. Both had children from those marriages. The vague story I had been told for my very young years was the typical- they met, fell in love, got married and had me. As I got older and more adept at math I realized that my Mother would have actually been pregnant with me when they got married (I am a March baby and my parents got married in August). When I was about nine, I came across my parents marriage certificate in a random box. The story changed yet again. I was born in 1973, they were married in 1973, August, not 1972- I was actually five months old when they got married. This discovery was upsetting for a bit, except neither of my parents would talk about it, no one in the family did. They just brushed it aside, like it was not real.
It wasn’t until my Mother knew that she was at the end of her life that she told me the following. It came in whispers in her hospital room. I was twelve. It’s funny, I know she spoke in quiet tones as it took great effort to speak by then, but to this day I hear each word with a deafening volume. “Oh baby doll, I am so sorry.”
“For what Mommy?” I had gone back to calling her mommy when we were together some months before, I was so scared of losing her and it made me feel like such a baby.
“For leaving you with all of this. You’re so young. I am sorry, so sorry you have to fend for yourself. I am sorry about your father.”
“Mommy, I don’t understand. But it’s going to be ok. I am going to be ok.”
“It’s not Baby doll, you need to know, and I am so sorry.” I held tightly to her dry hand, we had lowered the railing on the hospital bed. I leaned over from my chair and laid my head on her stomach. The hum and beeps of the monitors crisply present. The dry antiseptic smell of the hospital room, the faint smell of decay coming from my Mother. How hollow and small she felt. It had been weeks since she had been able to have more than liquids, cancer had been feasting on her for four years. Softly she began to stroke my hair.
“Dee Dee, I don’t want to leave you, I worry. Nana is already gone. I am so sorry. I love you my baby doll. But you should know I never wanted you.” The sting cut deep, I could feel tears coming, I tried my best to hold my breath, not to say a word. It really had to be the drugs she was on, to tell me this now. I held back the tears, remained quiet. By this age I was well versed on not expressing much emotion. It was a matter of safety sometimes, staying calm was important.
She poured out the story of how I came to be. By accident. She was thirty-two, divorced, two children (9/11) and living with her Mother. My father was divorced, three children (8/10/13) with which he had a fractured relationship.
They were not an entirely serious item. (I would come to learn later, by accident of finding an old cassette, how ‘party fuelled’ their relationship was). She had no intention of having another child. She thought it proper (although she didn’t tell me why) to tell him. For many years after I questioned why she should have told him at all, until I was faced with a similar decision.
My father begged her to have the baby. He made good money and could provide a comfortable home for her, her two girls and a baby. She would not have to work. He wanted a chance at having another family. To make this one work. I truly believe she had no idea the muck she was entering into. She eventually agreed. The whole time she spoke, she stroked my hair, and periodically remind me that she loved me and how sorry she was.
This woman, who had a choice, who did her best given the circumstance and time. She believed she was creating a future for her and her children by agreeing to my father’s suggestion. I was a trade, a bartering chip. Yet I also know I was loved by her.
She did her best to shelter me from some of the darker moments of my young life. As I grew older, more aware and she got sicker, she did her best to keep me safe. It was becoming more volatile with my father as he became more unhinged. We spent hours driving around, hiding, or keeping the house in lock down. She would try to keep me distracted by TV, crafts and food.
To think of it, it felt like a moment of clarity had hit me. (I realize now that this was the first real identifiable monster rally, where my safety/survival mechanisms failed me.) I was a bad trade. Somehow all this horror had been my fault. I was not good enough. My Mother had placed her hope in the thought that bringing me into the world would create something better. Instead she lived with a psychotic alcoholic and was dying, painfully and slowly. I had failed in my job. I had taken her mother from her (That is a whole other blog). My very existence was supposed to make life better, yet it was not good at all. These were the thoughts created, that I had no human value, I was a very worthless trade commodity.
My Mother never framed it to me that she blamed me for anything. She kept apologizing, she kept stroking my hair. She carried so much guilt about bringing me into this life, that she did not follow her original instinct, and now I was being left to fend as best as I could. She felt remiss at how young I was.
I was in anguish over her pain. I felt it so deeply. Somewhere buried a lot of anger formed to. So much had happened to me by then, I had an easy time believing I was poison, damaged. Another monster being given strength was the one that has me utterly convinced at times that if I could always be what was needed and useful, I may be able to keep my true vile nature hidden. and I would not be alone. This would become a reenforced thought pattern over time affected by other traumas and behaviours. I had for many years seen my self as a useful commodity, worthy of use but not love.
There was buried anger but all in all I still carried a fairly idealized picture of my Mother, even after her admission of not wanting me. I did not have a ‘whole’ view of her until more recently. I had discovered an old cassette tape a couple of years ago. The beginning part of it is me (I am about age 4) and my Mom talking about the dog we had at the time. It is a sweetly beautiful moment that was captured. But as I have come to expect, most of my sweet moments can be tinged with salt.
The tape went on, there was a click of it being shut off, and another click of it being turned on again. There is a party in the background, voices I have not heard since I was a child. My Mother holding court as a story teller. She told the story of the night I was born, amongst other tales. I had never been told about the night of my birth, and now I know why. The details broke my heart, some being told to humiliate my father. It showed me that my Mother had not only traded me, she had traded pieces of herself too. She was bitter, even from the start. I have not let a soul hear the second part. It stoked the fires of some of the monsters and emotions in me that I am still processing. Reenforcing again my damaged core. My failures, my unworthiness. That I needed to work harder to please, to earn a place in my life.
From birth the seeds had been sown for the never ending reassurance, the never-ending need to be wanted. “Fill me up. Tell me I am worthy. Love me. I will be exactly the girlfriend/friend/employee that you need. Because if you see what I truly am…………”
But the seeds were also sown for my ability to ‘see’ people with compassion and love. What I crave, but seldom trust that I am worthy of. My nature of wanting people to know they have worth, that I appreciate every kindness and connection they bring to my life. I love when I can do this well. It is destructive when I can’t.
I will learn to cultivate the seeds of love and compassion for myself, for that little baby that had no idea what was coming. Forgiveness.
Standing Still at the Speed of Light 