Memories
I think it's funny. My parents had 3 kids. And of you sit each of us down and ask us about growing up. We all have three different views on our childhood. But none of them are all to pleasent. We did all three have good moments. But still 3 very different stories. My older brother holds so much resentment towards both of my parents it scares me. And I can't blame him. One of my earliest memories of my older brother was making the 3 of us eggs in the microwave because we needed to eat and we were all to young to know how to really make anything worthwhile. So thinking about it, I don't blame him for his resentment. He had a lot of responsibility growing up. But his reaction was to run from all of it. Once he hit 11 or 12 he wasn't around much. He always had his friends he would cling to. Rarely home except for at night. Even most weekends was gone. He didn't want the responsibility. So then it landed on me. And I held that against my older brother for the longest time. My little brother was only a year and a half younger. So I had no clue what I was doing. All I knew is I wanted to protect my little brother from as much pain as possible. I tried. I know he felt abandoned when I moved to Georgia when I was 18. And I know he still wasn't protected from all of it. But he was from enough. I think he's the most stable out of all of us as adults to tell you the truth. I may not agree with how religious he is now days. Or like his wife that much. But when you think of a great family, you think of his. He is an amazing father. A good husband. And someone I am so very proud of. I just don't know how to tell him that....
When I was 16 I had made my confirmation. And my parents were asked to write me a letter. I didn't really expect them too but they did. My mom's I don't remember much. I think because my mother has always had a way with words and somehow always made things sound so much better then they really were. But it was my father's letter that surprised me so much. My mother's was neatly typed, put together perfectly like she had re-written it a million times. But my father's was hand written and oddly open. He has never been a emotional person. At least never openly with any of us. And suddenly I receive a letter that seemed so real. In it he thanked me for always being a mother figure to my little brother and told me he was proud of the woman I was becoming. Now for my father to admit he was proud of anything especially back then. It was unheard of. So even though my mother probably spent more time on her letter it was his that stuck. It was real. My mom's was so well put together it was almost fake. It was what she pictured in her head and wanted it to be. Yes there was a lot of I love you's and so many I'm proud of you's. And I'm sure she ment it. And even tho the emotion appeared to be there, it still felt empty. Like it wasn't really me she was seeing but something she made herself believe. So what letter do I still have today? My father's. I'm sure if my mom knew she would think it's because I favor my father. And she may be right to a extent. But that isn't why I have my dad's letter. I have it because it's a reminder that my father saw more then he let on growing up. And that he appreciated it. My brother always said I raised him. He has always given me the cridet. And always been greatful for what I did do. That alone made it worth it. But having my father see it, added some sort of reassurance for me. My mother will never be able to give me that cridet. I think it's because then she would have to own up to her own failures in life. That's just something she can't mentally do.
There were times going up she would ignore me for weeks at a time. Like I didn't exist. I would get to the point where I would be screaming in her face just to get her to react. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier to deal with if she just would have beaten the crap out of us. She was always so proud that she didn't beat us like her mother used to beat her. But there were times I would beg her to. Because then she would have had to acknowledge me. Then I got sick. And in some ways that made things better, and some worse. She saw me then. But some how she always found a way to use it for herself. She seemed to like the attention it brought. Which was hard, because I hated the attention it brought. My mom seemed to feel better when people felt sorry for her because she had such a sick daughter. And I didn't want to be seen as the sick daughter. The worst part is everyone who felt sorry for her never knew the whole truth. I started chemo when I was 16. From then until now I have had a total of 42 chemo treatments. She has never been to one... not a single one. But poor Linda. She must have it so hard because I am sick. The only reason I made it threw those first few years without completely losing my mind was because of Debbie. My mom worked swing so she would be gone by the time we got home from school, and wouldn't get home till we were already in bed. And asleep when we would be leaving to school. So we saw her twice a week. One day I remember trying to talk to her about some of the stuff going on and she told me to leave her alone, that she didn't want to have to deal with me on her day off. She just wanted to relax. Well that about summed it up. We didn't see her all week and when we did she didn't want to deal us. She holds a lot of resentment towards Debbie. Will say Debbie had a anger issue. And she did. But she had reasons for it. And how she put up with my mother is beyond me. I honestly think she stuck it out for so long because of us. She was the one who helped us with our homework. Or would make dinner with me. Or come to my room with raw cookie dough when she herd me crying. My mother would ignore the sound of me crying. But Debbie never did. So yes she wasn't perfect, but she was a parent to us when we didn't have one. She took responsibilities off my shoulders. I will always be grateful to her for everything she did for me. She would sit and go over my meds with me. Explain what the medication was for, what the side effects were that might come along with them. She helped me take control over my health in ways my mother didn't know how to. So it's hard for me. I still hurt when I think of my mother. I love her and I will always watch out for her and take care of her. But I will always use her as an example of the type of mother I will never become. So in a way she did help me be the person I am today. But not in the way she believes she did......