I do not know what my definition of a ‘mother’ is but, I know that my bilabial mother isn’t it.  I really don’t believe that I have a mother and I know that I need to stop looking for that role to be filled by someone else.  My aunt says that I should give her a call.  She told me that she’s doing good now.  Even if that is the case, there’s only everything standing between us.  It’s a chasm that can’t be traversed by simply saying ‘I’m sorry.  My bad.’  There is so much more that will have to go into it.  I’m not sure that there is any way to repair what has been broken between us.

My therapist told me that maybe what I am looking for is acknowledgement from her for the rings that I am doing with my life.  Like how I’m raising my girls; for how amazing they are, for the things that I have accomplished in my life.  I believe that at one point she actually blamed my husband for the rift between her and I.  Maybe that’s because he made me look at the value of who I am as a person.

There is truth in T’s statement.  A suggestion that T made was to focus on my inability to write in general as opposed to writing about the sexual abuse.  Here’s another memory.  My stepfather had a cousin named Sally.  Sally had a husband named Bob.  When my family and I lived in Dallas, my sister Suzie and I were sent to Bob and Sally’s during the day through the summer.  Bob and Sally smoked a lot of pot and various other things.  They also dealt drugs so, I’m sure you could tell that it was a real wholesome environment.  

A bonus was that they had a sizable backyard.  I actually tried to scale a huge tree with a garden hose in that very same backyard.  The nub (half limb) that I trued to use, (by all appearances) looked like a solid place to loop the hose.  It snapped and down I crashed.  When I landed, I happened to land on my arm and exposed root.  The root was about a foot wide.  

I was always taught that showing any emotion was bad but crying was worse.  So, I went to hide behind some bushes, crying in my pain.  My arm was throbbing.  When I felt like I had my pain managed, I came out from hiding.  Sally came out into the back yard to check on me.  I pretended that I was fine.  I tucked my hand into my pocket as best as I could and went inside for lunch.  I guess I wasn’t paying attention to the appearances of my left arm.  It had started swelling and turning blue.  When I sat down to eat, I was panicked because I had nothing to hid it with.  Much to my surprise, Sally didn’t say  anything.

After lunch, I went and even played the Atari.  I couldn’t play very well because of the limited mobility.  When my mother showed up to pick Suzie and I up that afternoon, she never commented on it.  We got home and no one said anything either.  The next day was a week day that my stepfather didn’t have to work.  My sister would still go to Sally and Bob’s.  He couldn’t be bothered with taking care of Suzie on a one-on-one basis.  I am happy that Suzie wasn’t left alone with him.  She was only six months old at the time.

On Jack A.’s days at home, I would be made to go with him on his handy man jobs.  I very rarely was ever given anything to do.  I’d just sit in a corner some where.  On this particular day, he was doing a tiling job.  I had to carry twenty five pound units from one pallet to another one on the other side of the room.  My stepfather never had helpers or other people around.  He was just a one man crew doing odd jobs.  By the second unit, my arm was screaming.  I had tears coursing down my face.

Jack A. did not even acknowledge that I was crying or even question what was wrong.  I knew that if I stopped doing what I was told, that my day would be worse than just dealing with the pain.  The pain was easier.  So I carted the one hundred and some odd five pack units from one from one side of the room to the other.

By the end of that day, my arm was so swollen that it was just a sausage.  Nothing was ever done for it.  There was never a visit to the doctor.  Before bed that night and the many afterwards, I would get a glass filled with ice water and take it to my room.  I would pour the water over the towel and wrap it around my arm.  I’d wrap that in a plastic grocery bag and go to bed.

I learned early on that I could sleep through the pain of any physical injury.  It was the closes to being human that I ever felt.  I know that I’m not the only one that belies that emotional pain is harder to handle than the physical kind.  So in a round about way, this was the closest to  normal existence than I came to until I met my husband.