Day 3: It’s Been A Long Hard Road Without You By My Side

Sep 22, 2010

I have never had the best relationship with my parents. In fact as a child I hardly knew them. My mother was constantly absent and my father, unable to cope with her absence succumbed to drowning his pain with alcohol.

I grew up raised by my maternal grandmother and nannies. My sisters and I are close because we only had one another to lean on and couldn’t count on our parents to be there. It’s a sad truth but one I have long since come to terms with.

When I was a child, I remember the first day of kindergarten. I was so excited, so happy. My mother did what any mother would do on the first day of school for her child- she walked me to the bus stop and saw me off. It wasn’t until later that day when I realized I was of no importance—when I realized that her friends meant more to her than I ever could.

I recall the bus pulling up and looking out the window searching for her. Eager to tell her about my day, about my teacher and about the students in my class. I looked out that window for her. I looked so hard that I think for a brief moment I imagined she was there and yet, the moment I stepped off that bus, I knew she wasn’t and it broke my heart.

As I grew older, I learned that the only people I could rely on was myself and my sisters. I never asked my parents for things I needed– though a large part of that was a result of my mother brainwashing us into believing our dad would get so angry with us if we did. So if there was something I needed, I resulted to stealing it—from classmates, from the stores, from whoever or whatever place had it. The alternative in my eyes was worse.

Growing up is a memory that I try not to revisit. My dad eventually stopped the drinking and my mother for a time was a mother, but as with most Aquarians, she rebelled against being chained and let her friends delude her into believing she deserved more. I recall the day that she left. It’s so clear in my mind and ironically enough, even then my intuition was a force to be reckoned with.

My dad had just returned from deployment and they got in a fight because she wanted to go play Bingo and he felt that she didn’t care that he was back. In some ways she didn’t. I remember watching her walk out that door and feeling unease. Like I knew in my heart she wasn’t coming back. The next morning I was the first one to wake up and the first thing I did was look out the window to see if the car was there. It wasn’t. At the time I didn’t think much of it; I supposed I hoped that maybe she just spent the night at a friend’s.

And then my dad walked out of his room and I knew. He sat us all down and told us that my mother had just called and that she wasn’t coming back. My world shattered and I had to fight to catch my breath.

The divorce wasn’t pleasant. My mother wanted to split us up. She wanted the oldest children, but my dad fought against it. He ended up winning the custody battle but he lost in the sense that he was forced to pay spousal support and that resulted in losing our house. We moved on base and the custody agreement was that my mother got us every other weekend. At the time she was my world, my idol and every weekend that rolled around when we were allowed to see her would elate me—but as with all things, that never lasted.

She would tell us that she was coming to get us and I would pack and sit on the couch, waiting. I would wait for hours on end, until I realized that she wasn’t coming, my heart broke every time. After a while a hardness set inside me and I stopped waiting. That hardness is still inside me today.

Today, my relationship with my dad is still not that great, but it’s not terrible. While it’s not strained as it once was– years ago, it’s also not something to celebrate over. A large part of that has to do with the fact that I’m honest and he doesn’t really like to hear what he needs to be told and so our conversations aren’t very in depth or really much of anything, if I’m honest.

I love my dad. I love him for the man he is and his strength in raising my sisters and me. He has his faults, but at the end of the day, he fought for us when he didn’t have to and I respect him for that. Most men would have walked away– my dad was not that man.

My mother is—well she’s my mother. I’m no longer angry for the things she did but I haven’t forgiven her entirely either. I have to come to accept who she is and as a result have resolved never to trust the words that come from her mouth, but I do still love her, even if that’s not something I’ll readily admit.

I believe my parents did the best they could do with us, given their circumstances. I know my dad tried his best. He tried to do right by us and I know he loves us very much, even if it’s only in the way he knows how.

That still doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t break each time I see a mother and her daughter laugh together or a father run to his daughter’s side when she is lost and doesn’t know what to do and help to guide her. That still doesn’t mean that I’m not envious of the relationships others have with their parents, but I guess we can’t have it all—but looking back on my past, I wonder if I ever really had anything.