The Realization
I wouldn't say that life as a single mother is the hardest - because everyone's life is different, and I have personally met a lot of people with a much harder life than me. However, being a single mother is never something one would dream of being as a child.
When I was too young to know what a family really should be like, I always dreamed of having my own home, with no one to intrude on my personal space, or ever have the capability of telling me how to live my life. I guess at such a young age, I was simply yearning for a life away from my parents, their rules, and authority as a whole. Personally, I was not interested in even having a family of my own until I made a very monumental realization: The family I was a part of was not how a family really should be.
I was in the fourth grade, finally establishing female friendships - we are brutal from a young age - when "The Realization" hit me. I was partially listening to the first girls to ever treat me like a decent human (most of my childhood before this, was spent being bullied, but that is a story for another day). Each one of them had a different version of what they wanted to be when they grew up - all of them of course, ending in being a wife and mother. Some had jobs, some were the breadwinner, others had the cliche, fairytale bullshit we were brainwashed to adore.
The other part of me, was staring blankly into space, while my mind showed me flashes of the family I was a part of; Their naive ideas of their future family, childish as it might have sounded - then and now - were all better, than the family I was being raised in.
I saw my father, maybe two or three months out of the year, due to his job. I have heard stories that he had attempted a regular job, where he could be around every day, but that attempt crashed and burned when he was incapable of running a business; Giving friends free furniture when owning a furniture store tends to cause said furniture store to not stay open for long.
Oh, but how I worshiped and adored him. I used to count the days until I got to see him again. Eager for his love, and the security I felt in his arms. He used to wake me up every morning, as soon as the sun would rise, and take me to the center of town with him, for a breakfast sandwich and orange juice, while he drank his espresso coffee and smoked unfiltered Pall Malls. Just me and him.
I never thought about why he did not bother to wake up my sibling - I always just thought that my father craved quality time with me, as much as I craved it with him. He would then buy me a whole book of scratch-offs and just sit there, watching me scratch each spot off in excitement.
We would go to my uncle's farm and help with the animals, and spend the whole day out of the house. By the time we would come home, I had stories for days, and endless showers, because my mother would complain that I still smelled like the animals from the farm.
Yeah, I loved my father. When the summer would end, and he would leave to return to work, I would always be left feeling empty and alone. My mother and older sister were a team, while my team member was a part-timer, due to an economic necessity. Little did I know that the reason the other female members of my household would exclude me, was because I reminded them of him. Little did I know, that the person I loved the most, was an asshole.
To return back to the initial story of this....well... story.. Sitting with those girls at school during recess, being told their countless versions of the family they will have when they become adults - well - it made me think of moments in my family that I had ignored over being made to feel important - even if it was only for two months out of the year.
Things were made clear to me. Yes, it was in fourth grade, and no, you do not have to believe me, but people do age differently, and I was one of them. I started remembering little moments I had shrugged off for such a long time:
My mother being left for months at a time, alone to raise two kids, in a country that she was never born or raised in. She learned the language at the same time my sister and I were - with our school books, and only the patience of my aunt to carry her through. As alone as I felt, I could not imagine what it felt like for her to only have her husband by her side for such a short amount of time.
When he was there, he was no prince charming to her - at least, he definitely did not act like it. My mother was always tense, and reserved when he was around. She never shared her opinion, and even if he was insanely wrong, she would rather suck in her lips and bite on them, than speak her mind. He used to call her "stupid" and "crazy" in a "joking way" every time she would allow herself to have fun, or every time she forgot something - granted, my mother forgot things a lot.
We were raised to believe that speaking to her in such a condescending way was the norm, because our father did so. We were raised to believe that she was incompetent, a child, a crazy lady that forgot everything she did not write down - a lady that needed to be taken care of, because she could not take care of herself.
Yes, "The Realization" helped me see the victims in the household. My mother was the first, and from that point on, I promised to take care of her.
I struggled internally with how to approach the subject - not wanting to get in trouble. At first, I started with little things that did not require me to speak of my opinions: I started begging to sleep with her - creating a million different reasons as to why, from monsters and bad dreams, to wetting the bed. It got so excessive, that sooner or later I no longer needed a reason - it was just the norm.
I would help out a lot around the house. I learned my own lemonade recipe, that I barely ever had a chance to enjoy, because it would disappear as soon as I would make it. I made a cake once that had the same effect. By all means, I was never treated as her best friend, or her favorite daughter - those things were reserved for my sister - but I was something.
We were in the center of town, just her and I. My hand in hers as we were preparing to cross the street. Some recent events had caused me to adopt a life of brutal honesty, whether it caused me to be loved or hated, and I was having a very easy time falling asleep at night. That was when I finally started voicing my opinions to her.
"Mom? When are you going to divorce dad?". It was that simple. I said it in English so no one around who might potentially know us would be able to overhear. Any plans she might have had of crossing the street were soon forgotten. I saw the shock in her face. Now, having a daughter of my own, I can only imagine the dread she must have felt at that moment - no mother dreams of her child asking for the dismantling of their family, yet here I was, asking her exactly that. "He always makes you sad, and never makes you happy. Why are you still married to a man that doesn't make you feel like he loves you? When are you going to divorce dad?".
She faced me fully, and I respected that. I was asking a grown-up question, and she was treating it as seriously as I was.
"If I leave your father, would you want to stay with him, or would you like to come with me?" That was all she asked - not really an answer to my question, but I read between the lines, and got one regardless. The truth is, that in my head at that time, I had picked my father. He might have been an asshole to her, and I might have vowed to protect her, but I could actually feel like he loved me all the time, without any resentment - I could not say the same for her. But, she looked so wounded, and although my new-found life of honesty made me satisfied with myself, I also wanted to prove her wrong; Just because I reminded her of my father, did not mean I would hurt her like he did. So I lied. I lied through my teeth.
"Of course I would live with you. You're the one who has been around all the time."
We left it like that - crossing the street and going about our errands, as if nothing had been said. The entire time, I was trying to come up with plans to stay with my father when it all went down.
I ended up asking her that same question for over ten years in a row. Even after we moved back to America without him. Even after I ended up being as dumb as she had been at the time by marrying a man who then moved me to a foreign country.
She finally divorced him after I had my own daughter, and was stuck in my own one-way street called marriage. I helped by getting the papers mailed out to him twice. I helped by watching as he initialed where the red post-its were, and signed were the pink post-its were placed.
The day she received her divorce in the mail, we were both celebrating - hers was a celebration of freedom, while mine was one of accomplishing a vow I made.
I made a lot of vows, and have not yet been successful at any other than this one.
This, is my box of secrets, memories, and thoughts. Whether you choose to open it or not is your own choice to make. But it all began right here.
When I was too young to know what a family really should be like, I always dreamed of having my own home, with no one to intrude on my personal space, or ever have the capability of telling me how to live my life. I guess at such a young age, I was simply yearning for a life away from my parents, their rules, and authority as a whole. Personally, I was not interested in even having a family of my own until I made a very monumental realization: The family I was a part of was not how a family really should be.
I was in the fourth grade, finally establishing female friendships - we are brutal from a young age - when "The Realization" hit me. I was partially listening to the first girls to ever treat me like a decent human (most of my childhood before this, was spent being bullied, but that is a story for another day). Each one of them had a different version of what they wanted to be when they grew up - all of them of course, ending in being a wife and mother. Some had jobs, some were the breadwinner, others had the cliche, fairytale bullshit we were brainwashed to adore.
The other part of me, was staring blankly into space, while my mind showed me flashes of the family I was a part of; Their naive ideas of their future family, childish as it might have sounded - then and now - were all better, than the family I was being raised in.
I saw my father, maybe two or three months out of the year, due to his job. I have heard stories that he had attempted a regular job, where he could be around every day, but that attempt crashed and burned when he was incapable of running a business; Giving friends free furniture when owning a furniture store tends to cause said furniture store to not stay open for long.
Oh, but how I worshiped and adored him. I used to count the days until I got to see him again. Eager for his love, and the security I felt in his arms. He used to wake me up every morning, as soon as the sun would rise, and take me to the center of town with him, for a breakfast sandwich and orange juice, while he drank his espresso coffee and smoked unfiltered Pall Malls. Just me and him.
I never thought about why he did not bother to wake up my sibling - I always just thought that my father craved quality time with me, as much as I craved it with him. He would then buy me a whole book of scratch-offs and just sit there, watching me scratch each spot off in excitement.
We would go to my uncle's farm and help with the animals, and spend the whole day out of the house. By the time we would come home, I had stories for days, and endless showers, because my mother would complain that I still smelled like the animals from the farm.
Yeah, I loved my father. When the summer would end, and he would leave to return to work, I would always be left feeling empty and alone. My mother and older sister were a team, while my team member was a part-timer, due to an economic necessity. Little did I know that the reason the other female members of my household would exclude me, was because I reminded them of him. Little did I know, that the person I loved the most, was an asshole.
To return back to the initial story of this....well... story.. Sitting with those girls at school during recess, being told their countless versions of the family they will have when they become adults - well - it made me think of moments in my family that I had ignored over being made to feel important - even if it was only for two months out of the year.
Things were made clear to me. Yes, it was in fourth grade, and no, you do not have to believe me, but people do age differently, and I was one of them. I started remembering little moments I had shrugged off for such a long time:
My mother being left for months at a time, alone to raise two kids, in a country that she was never born or raised in. She learned the language at the same time my sister and I were - with our school books, and only the patience of my aunt to carry her through. As alone as I felt, I could not imagine what it felt like for her to only have her husband by her side for such a short amount of time.
When he was there, he was no prince charming to her - at least, he definitely did not act like it. My mother was always tense, and reserved when he was around. She never shared her opinion, and even if he was insanely wrong, she would rather suck in her lips and bite on them, than speak her mind. He used to call her "stupid" and "crazy" in a "joking way" every time she would allow herself to have fun, or every time she forgot something - granted, my mother forgot things a lot.
We were raised to believe that speaking to her in such a condescending way was the norm, because our father did so. We were raised to believe that she was incompetent, a child, a crazy lady that forgot everything she did not write down - a lady that needed to be taken care of, because she could not take care of herself.
Yes, "The Realization" helped me see the victims in the household. My mother was the first, and from that point on, I promised to take care of her.
I struggled internally with how to approach the subject - not wanting to get in trouble. At first, I started with little things that did not require me to speak of my opinions: I started begging to sleep with her - creating a million different reasons as to why, from monsters and bad dreams, to wetting the bed. It got so excessive, that sooner or later I no longer needed a reason - it was just the norm.
I would help out a lot around the house. I learned my own lemonade recipe, that I barely ever had a chance to enjoy, because it would disappear as soon as I would make it. I made a cake once that had the same effect. By all means, I was never treated as her best friend, or her favorite daughter - those things were reserved for my sister - but I was something.
We were in the center of town, just her and I. My hand in hers as we were preparing to cross the street. Some recent events had caused me to adopt a life of brutal honesty, whether it caused me to be loved or hated, and I was having a very easy time falling asleep at night. That was when I finally started voicing my opinions to her.
"Mom? When are you going to divorce dad?". It was that simple. I said it in English so no one around who might potentially know us would be able to overhear. Any plans she might have had of crossing the street were soon forgotten. I saw the shock in her face. Now, having a daughter of my own, I can only imagine the dread she must have felt at that moment - no mother dreams of her child asking for the dismantling of their family, yet here I was, asking her exactly that. "He always makes you sad, and never makes you happy. Why are you still married to a man that doesn't make you feel like he loves you? When are you going to divorce dad?".
She faced me fully, and I respected that. I was asking a grown-up question, and she was treating it as seriously as I was.
"If I leave your father, would you want to stay with him, or would you like to come with me?" That was all she asked - not really an answer to my question, but I read between the lines, and got one regardless. The truth is, that in my head at that time, I had picked my father. He might have been an asshole to her, and I might have vowed to protect her, but I could actually feel like he loved me all the time, without any resentment - I could not say the same for her. But, she looked so wounded, and although my new-found life of honesty made me satisfied with myself, I also wanted to prove her wrong; Just because I reminded her of my father, did not mean I would hurt her like he did. So I lied. I lied through my teeth.
"Of course I would live with you. You're the one who has been around all the time."
We left it like that - crossing the street and going about our errands, as if nothing had been said. The entire time, I was trying to come up with plans to stay with my father when it all went down.
I ended up asking her that same question for over ten years in a row. Even after we moved back to America without him. Even after I ended up being as dumb as she had been at the time by marrying a man who then moved me to a foreign country.
She finally divorced him after I had my own daughter, and was stuck in my own one-way street called marriage. I helped by getting the papers mailed out to him twice. I helped by watching as he initialed where the red post-its were, and signed were the pink post-its were placed.
The day she received her divorce in the mail, we were both celebrating - hers was a celebration of freedom, while mine was one of accomplishing a vow I made.
I made a lot of vows, and have not yet been successful at any other than this one.
This, is my box of secrets, memories, and thoughts. Whether you choose to open it or not is your own choice to make. But it all began right here.
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