Thursday, February 17, 2011

Pardon Me Sir, May I Have Another Part One

I've come to some realization that I've referred here to having been raised with no parents, yet have references parental units on a couple of occasions.   I thought that a little queer when I considered it more introspectively, so I thought I would let my newly learned concept of "word vomit" have its run.   I hadn't planned to make this more than one post, but the process of writing out these words below has left me bereft and a little lost in a storm of emotion.

My mother is/was/will be a very ill person.  She is a severe Borderline, with depressive features.  She was born the daughter of a teen mother who had been born the daughter of a teen mother, both of whom ( my grandmother and great-grandmother) had been unwed upon experiencing the miracle of conception.  My mother never met her biological father, and it does appear that he wasn't much of a human being to start with.  Being born of Original Sin in the first 40 years of the last century carried a woeful stigma and might lend a young woman to carry a few issues of shame and regret.  Into this maelstrom of putridity my mother was born.  My grandmother was a foul, foul person.  She wrecked everything she touched, and infected it with her poison.  That is both my personal experience, as well as my collection of impressions from others who knew her.  There were two golden people in her life, one being my father and the other being yours truly.  No kidding.  She worshiped both my father for his intelligence and profession, and me for being obviously much smarter (in her estimation) that my siblings.  Until she died in the mid-90's she was nasty and mean to everyone else, but sweet as sweet can be to my father and I, even after my parent's divorce.  It was always surreal.  

My grandmother connected up with a very prominent news and sportscaster in the area they lived.  That man, who is still of some repute, violently and sadistically raped and violated my mother from a very early age until well into her teens.  I know this, as an adult, much later.  At this point, I am feeling very tired and worn out, but I'll keep going for a bit, as I am obviously feeling the impact of the emotions welling up around my mother. I feel a great sense of loss and grief on what I never had, and even in intellectualizing it with words describing her experience, it still feels like I lost so much.  I am trying to breathe through the emotion, and let it feel its way out, but it hurts.  

My mother was hospitalized many times for mental issues when I was a child.  She was sweet at times, but I can't shake the sensation of her general absence in my life.  There is no doubt that I was important to her, but that her precipitous defenestration into the rabbit hole of madness overcame her.  As I've said before, her abuser died and two weeks later I came home from school one day to her gone.  I knew nothing.  I was 10.  I will continue this reportage in my next post, barring any late breaking story tomorrow, but in this moment, my word vomit engine is spent, as is my capacity to handle the unexpected depth of emotion I breached in the process of writing this. 

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