(no subject)
to my birthmother. i wrote this.
For ten years I've wondered who you are. Where you are. What you look like. How old you are, how many kids you have, if you're in jail or not. I found out when I was seven - how many seven year olds understand this? Not many, I think. That's smaller than my nephew, and all he cares about is video games and whether or not I've heard of this one band that he found on iTunes. I worried about if Heather was going to come over or not. But you didn't know Heather, did you. You didn't know anything about me. Other than how much I weighed when I was born and my first two names. Did you choose these two names for a reason, mom? Lorna meaning Alone, Rose meaning...the flower, the symbol of love? And what's your name, mom? I have the entry memorized in my journal. November 6, 2004. That's when I found out, that's when I raced to my closet to grab it after my mom closed my door, that's when I tried to write down every bit of information as fast as I could so I could remember. Shauna? Shayna? There's two names, mom, which one is it?
I've tried to think how you decided to stop having kids with the same man. Your first three were with the same man, why did you change? Why did that stop, mom. Was it your alcohol problem...your drug addiction, your whatever was wrong with you. At the time of my birth, mom, you said that the man you were with wasn't my father...then who was he? And who's my father? Oh wait, I forgot...you don't even know. Where are my sisters...what about the two babies that were born after me, mom. Do they look like me...do they have blonde hair, green eyes? Black hair? Blue eyes? I'm really glad that the government made you tie your tubes, mom. You couldnt even support your first three kids, what made you think that you could keep having more and support those too?
I think about you every day. What you look like. How tall you are (I've heard you're as tall as me). What color your eyes are.
Sometimes I dream about meeting you....will we look the same? Because, if you were young when you had me...you might not look too old. Our eyes will still curve the same way and our mouths both have small lips. Do you have high cheekbones too, or crooked teeth? What about a small forehead, or a tiny nose, or wide shoulders? What about your smile, mom. Maybe you smile with your teeth....maybe you dont, like me. Maybe you laugh when you smile - what if you don't smile, at all? Do you have big hips...or long legs, or a not-so-flat stomach? I wonder about the perfume you wear. Or the makeup you buy. Or where you go shopping. If you even go shopping anymore...if you even have money to waste. Is my grandma still taking care of your first three daughters? How can you do this, mom. Baby's learn their mothers voices, they can smell them. They have connections. Did we ever have that, once upon a time?
Remember that time you called my aunt, drunk? And she asked...hey, do you want to take her back? And you said, flat out - no. And the first two years of my life were spent in cars in the middle of the night, driving from one house to the other, switching from aunt gina to aunt vicky...because they both had kids and both had to work. And it was because of me that they had to drop my cousins and I off at each other's houses. I remember waking up on the ground next to Erica or Shane. And we would wake up and eat froot loops, and then spend our time playing in the sprinklers or with playdough. But you weren't there to put sunblock on my shoulders, or to help me cut out shapes with cookie cutters.
Do you live with a man now? I don't know if I could handle meeting you or not. I don't even think I could begin thinking about how to go about finding you. I don't have anything to go on, other than an aunt's name that I used to live with. I remember her, you know...she had black hair and blue eyes. A daughter named Erica. I even have a picture of me and her, my cousin...your niece. I wish my dad would have replied to my aunt's email awhile ago. She was asking for pictures of me...part of me was hoping that really, you were the one asking for pictures. Because even though you called her house every so often drunk, you and her...you were close. Supposedly you were too shy to ask yourself.
Did you give me these traits? You were diagnosed with major...manic depression? Why, mom? I hope you know that I'm not happy with this addictive personality. I'm not happy with not being happy. So thank you, mom. I'm just glad that I'm not going to become some crack whore who's also filled to the T with meth and speed and marijuana. Who smokes dope and drinks liquor while she's pregnant with a certain child, or smokes a pack of cigarettes a day. I'm glad that I'm not going to sleep around with any guy or that I'll have no idea who the father of my child is. And I'm glad that one day, I'm going to have a child of my own.
I don't care if I have a boy or girl right now. But my child is going to have your features and genetics, and you know what, mom? I'm not glad about that. There's no way that I can erase them. You won't be in the hospital, you won't be by my bedside as my child has his or her first breath of air. You won't shed any tears. You won't be there for anything.
You aren't here right now. I'm actually glad about that, because if you were...I wouldn't see you and I'd probably either be pregnant or in jail.
But hey, mom? You aren't here to help me do anything a real mom is supposed to do. You aren't here to talk to me about boys (and my mother now isn't here in that area either). You aren't here to help me pick out clothes. You aren't here to plan wedding or baby showers. You aren't here to watch my children. My children aren't going to ever meet their real grandmother. You won't be there to make cookies or buy them anything they want. My mother now may not be, either. It's because of you that I have such old parents. My childrens only cousins are going to be 15 years older than they are.
You don't even deserve to be called mom.
You've done nothing for me other than bring me into this world, four pounds, five ounces. With a heart monitor strapped to my body because someone decided to be a druggy and an alcoholic while pregnant with me.
For ten years I've wondered who you are. Where you are. What you look like. How old you are, how many kids you have, if you're in jail or not. I found out when I was seven - how many seven year olds understand this? Not many, I think. That's smaller than my nephew, and all he cares about is video games and whether or not I've heard of this one band that he found on iTunes. I worried about if Heather was going to come over or not. But you didn't know Heather, did you. You didn't know anything about me. Other than how much I weighed when I was born and my first two names. Did you choose these two names for a reason, mom? Lorna meaning Alone, Rose meaning...the flower, the symbol of love? And what's your name, mom? I have the entry memorized in my journal. November 6, 2004. That's when I found out, that's when I raced to my closet to grab it after my mom closed my door, that's when I tried to write down every bit of information as fast as I could so I could remember. Shauna? Shayna? There's two names, mom, which one is it?
I've tried to think how you decided to stop having kids with the same man. Your first three were with the same man, why did you change? Why did that stop, mom. Was it your alcohol problem...your drug addiction, your whatever was wrong with you. At the time of my birth, mom, you said that the man you were with wasn't my father...then who was he? And who's my father? Oh wait, I forgot...you don't even know. Where are my sisters...what about the two babies that were born after me, mom. Do they look like me...do they have blonde hair, green eyes? Black hair? Blue eyes? I'm really glad that the government made you tie your tubes, mom. You couldnt even support your first three kids, what made you think that you could keep having more and support those too?
I think about you every day. What you look like. How tall you are (I've heard you're as tall as me). What color your eyes are.
Sometimes I dream about meeting you....will we look the same? Because, if you were young when you had me...you might not look too old. Our eyes will still curve the same way and our mouths both have small lips. Do you have high cheekbones too, or crooked teeth? What about a small forehead, or a tiny nose, or wide shoulders? What about your smile, mom. Maybe you smile with your teeth....maybe you dont, like me. Maybe you laugh when you smile - what if you don't smile, at all? Do you have big hips...or long legs, or a not-so-flat stomach? I wonder about the perfume you wear. Or the makeup you buy. Or where you go shopping. If you even go shopping anymore...if you even have money to waste. Is my grandma still taking care of your first three daughters? How can you do this, mom. Baby's learn their mothers voices, they can smell them. They have connections. Did we ever have that, once upon a time?
Remember that time you called my aunt, drunk? And she asked...hey, do you want to take her back? And you said, flat out - no. And the first two years of my life were spent in cars in the middle of the night, driving from one house to the other, switching from aunt gina to aunt vicky...because they both had kids and both had to work. And it was because of me that they had to drop my cousins and I off at each other's houses. I remember waking up on the ground next to Erica or Shane. And we would wake up and eat froot loops, and then spend our time playing in the sprinklers or with playdough. But you weren't there to put sunblock on my shoulders, or to help me cut out shapes with cookie cutters.
Do you live with a man now? I don't know if I could handle meeting you or not. I don't even think I could begin thinking about how to go about finding you. I don't have anything to go on, other than an aunt's name that I used to live with. I remember her, you know...she had black hair and blue eyes. A daughter named Erica. I even have a picture of me and her, my cousin...your niece. I wish my dad would have replied to my aunt's email awhile ago. She was asking for pictures of me...part of me was hoping that really, you were the one asking for pictures. Because even though you called her house every so often drunk, you and her...you were close. Supposedly you were too shy to ask yourself.
Did you give me these traits? You were diagnosed with major...manic depression? Why, mom? I hope you know that I'm not happy with this addictive personality. I'm not happy with not being happy. So thank you, mom. I'm just glad that I'm not going to become some crack whore who's also filled to the T with meth and speed and marijuana. Who smokes dope and drinks liquor while she's pregnant with a certain child, or smokes a pack of cigarettes a day. I'm glad that I'm not going to sleep around with any guy or that I'll have no idea who the father of my child is. And I'm glad that one day, I'm going to have a child of my own.
I don't care if I have a boy or girl right now. But my child is going to have your features and genetics, and you know what, mom? I'm not glad about that. There's no way that I can erase them. You won't be in the hospital, you won't be by my bedside as my child has his or her first breath of air. You won't shed any tears. You won't be there for anything.
You aren't here right now. I'm actually glad about that, because if you were...I wouldn't see you and I'd probably either be pregnant or in jail.
But hey, mom? You aren't here to help me do anything a real mom is supposed to do. You aren't here to talk to me about boys (and my mother now isn't here in that area either). You aren't here to help me pick out clothes. You aren't here to plan wedding or baby showers. You aren't here to watch my children. My children aren't going to ever meet their real grandmother. You won't be there to make cookies or buy them anything they want. My mother now may not be, either. It's because of you that I have such old parents. My childrens only cousins are going to be 15 years older than they are.
You don't even deserve to be called mom.
You've done nothing for me other than bring me into this world, four pounds, five ounces. With a heart monitor strapped to my body because someone decided to be a druggy and an alcoholic while pregnant with me.