I mentioned in a post two years ago that my maternal grandfather was conceived out of wedlock. His mother was between husbands, and his father got around. I also mentioned that a much younger half-sibling had contacted my grandfather in the late '90s, but I never learned her name. She lived far away, and my grandmother had said she would send her a copy of the only photo they had of my great-grandfather and the few she had of his other children, the legitimate offspring. My half-great-aunt didn't know her father because she had been conceived during an extramarital affair. Her mother and social father (stepfather doesn't seem accurate if they passed her off as his own) already had two other children. My half-great-aunt would be about 70 now, barely older than my mother. Well, I found her. Or, more accurately, DNA testing found us both.
My half-great-aunt popped up on AncestryDNA the other day with just three people on her family tree -- herself and her biological parents -- and I immediately knew who she was. Even without the family tree, the 450+ cM of shared DNA and the many DNA relatives in common made it clear that my great-grandfather was our closest common ancestor. I messaged her explaining how we're related (cushioned with "I think") and that my grandfather was one of the children born after their father's wife died. I was trying to put delicately that he was one of the outsiders like her, that almost everything I knew had come much later from my own research. I wanted her to feel comfortable talking to me. I wanted her to know I was an outsider too, albeit one with lots of collected data and photographs.
I asked if she'd been the half-sister whose named I'd never learned who had written to my grandfather in the '90s. She wrote back right away, and she was welcoming. She said she was probably the same sister. The few details my grandmother had mentioned, like birth year and state of residence, matched up, and she said she had tried to reach out to her "father's people" back then. She hadn't known her father, she said. She'd only seen him once when she was little, and her mother was still married to someone else, so she hadn't been allowed to talk about him at all. How strangely similar to being donor conceived.
Showing posts with label accident. Show all posts
Showing posts with label accident. Show all posts
Sunday, March 26, 2017
Friday, September 16, 2016
The Time I Realized I Lived in THAT House
I had clues growing up that our house wasn't an admirable one. I remember taking the bus home from elementary school and hearing a handful of children making fun of the house with the Christmas lights still up in spring. It was my house, and they knew it as soon as I ashamedly stood up to get off the bus. Dante had been allowed to climb onto the roof to trim the gutters with a strand of multicolored lights the previous fall, and neither he nor my mother had been keen for him to take them back down ("Why should we? He'll just have to put them back up again in a few months"). There weren't Santas or reindeer or anything like I've seen up year-round at some homes, but we were out of date, and it was obvious enough for the other kids to laugh at without my ever having to invite them inside.
Our yard was unkempt. A science teacher from the local middle school mowed our lawn in the summer months, once or twice a month. It was how he made money when school was out. At least once or twice that I heard of, the grass and weeds got so high that someone called the city to complain. We didn't garden. We didn't fertilize anything because, as my mother often said, "Why would I encourage the grass to grow?!" I loved weeding the rock beds as a child, but my mother wanted Dante to do it, and he wasn't interested. Sometimes I could convince her to give me $2 for my work since she'd planned to give Dante $20. She complained that I didn't always get the entirety of the root and the weeds would come back. "If you can't do something right, don't do it at all!" she'd say. I think that's why our house so rarely experienced weeding or cleaning in the first place. An all-or-nothing attitude toward cleaning and home maintenance is a great way to end up in a dilapidated building surrounded by garbage.
The time that really sticks out in my mind though was one of the times Dante totaled a car. It was the white Camaro. I didn't have a car yet, and Dante had already totaled at least one or two cars before the Camaro, so we were probably thirteen and twenty years old respectively, give or take. Our mother had always given him a pass when he wrecked a car ("It was raining! What was he supposed to do?") and the Camaro allegedly wasn't even his fault. According to Dante's retelling, a woman had crashed into him turning left while she had a red light. Other witnesses had said she had a green light and Dante was speeding, but as my mother said, "Dante still had the right of way!" Regardless, his car was totaled, and the other driver was uninsured, so his insurance was covering everything that was going to be covered. Dante also had to go to court.
Our mother was furious at both the other driver and the situation itself. She insisted Dante's crumpled white Camaro be parked at the top of our circular driveway. She took a large sheet of white poster board and wrote in Sharpie with her perfect penmanship, "This is the result of an uninsured driver." She taped her poster to the side of the car, facing outward so it was legible from the street. She seemed surprised and indignant when someone called the city to complain. The city told her she couldn't do that. It didn't matter if what she wrote was true. It didn't matter that she was angry. It didn't matter that it was "on her land;" it was a neighborhood eyesore. In case you're wondering, we didn't live in a particularly nice neighborhood. It was a middle class block of split-levels and ranches with two to three bedrooms each. There were no Homeowner's Associations back then. We had the largest, most expensive house on the block, as my parents liked to brag. It just also happened to be an eyesore.
Our yard was unkempt. A science teacher from the local middle school mowed our lawn in the summer months, once or twice a month. It was how he made money when school was out. At least once or twice that I heard of, the grass and weeds got so high that someone called the city to complain. We didn't garden. We didn't fertilize anything because, as my mother often said, "Why would I encourage the grass to grow?!" I loved weeding the rock beds as a child, but my mother wanted Dante to do it, and he wasn't interested. Sometimes I could convince her to give me $2 for my work since she'd planned to give Dante $20. She complained that I didn't always get the entirety of the root and the weeds would come back. "If you can't do something right, don't do it at all!" she'd say. I think that's why our house so rarely experienced weeding or cleaning in the first place. An all-or-nothing attitude toward cleaning and home maintenance is a great way to end up in a dilapidated building surrounded by garbage.
The time that really sticks out in my mind though was one of the times Dante totaled a car. It was the white Camaro. I didn't have a car yet, and Dante had already totaled at least one or two cars before the Camaro, so we were probably thirteen and twenty years old respectively, give or take. Our mother had always given him a pass when he wrecked a car ("It was raining! What was he supposed to do?") and the Camaro allegedly wasn't even his fault. According to Dante's retelling, a woman had crashed into him turning left while she had a red light. Other witnesses had said she had a green light and Dante was speeding, but as my mother said, "Dante still had the right of way!" Regardless, his car was totaled, and the other driver was uninsured, so his insurance was covering everything that was going to be covered. Dante also had to go to court.
Our mother was furious at both the other driver and the situation itself. She insisted Dante's crumpled white Camaro be parked at the top of our circular driveway. She took a large sheet of white poster board and wrote in Sharpie with her perfect penmanship, "This is the result of an uninsured driver." She taped her poster to the side of the car, facing outward so it was legible from the street. She seemed surprised and indignant when someone called the city to complain. The city told her she couldn't do that. It didn't matter if what she wrote was true. It didn't matter that she was angry. It didn't matter that it was "on her land;" it was a neighborhood eyesore. In case you're wondering, we didn't live in a particularly nice neighborhood. It was a middle class block of split-levels and ranches with two to three bedrooms each. There were no Homeowner's Associations back then. We had the largest, most expensive house on the block, as my parents liked to brag. It just also happened to be an eyesore.
Friday, April 8, 2016
The First Time I Remember Being Blamed for Getting Hurt
When I was four years old, my best friend was named Kimmy. Our older brothers were the same age and were friends too, which was how Kimmy and I had playdates -- I was deposited at Kimmy's house most of the times Dante was. I remember Kimmy calling me outside to see something her brother and some other boys seven years older than us were doing.
When I got outside I saw a thick, knotted rope hanging, probably from a tree though I don't remember for certain. One of the boys pushed or dropped the end of the rope and it swung toward me, the hard knot landing hard on my nose. Suddenly blood was gushing down my face. (I still don't know what they had been doing with that rope. I had only been outside for a few seconds.)
Kimmy pulled me inside to her mother. Kimmy's mother called my mother to come pick me up and tended to me until the bleeding stopped. It was my first of many nose bleeds, but my nose wasn't broken and there was no permanent damage. When my mother arrived, she was mad at me for injuring myself playing. Confused at being in trouble for something that I didn't even do, I explained that I had only been standing there when the rope the boys were playing with hit me. I hadn't even touched it. "Obviously you were somewhere you shouldn't have been or you wouldn't have gotten hurt," my mother snapped. I cannot remember a time I got hurt that she didn't operate under this logic.
I was thirty years old and pregnant with a child of my own when I saw a school-aged child running across cobblestones at a local festival. She fell and burst into tears, and her mother comforted her and told her she would be okay. I had been reading books on parenting for the last year or two and expressed surprise to my husband that her mother had comforted her instead of scolding her for having been running in the first place. How is she supposed to learn if they comfort her instead of correcting her behavior? I wondered. Comfort is something children want. It's certainly something I wanted. Comforting a child when she cries just trains her to cry more, doesn't it? I'd assumed my parents reprimanded me instead because they wanted to decentivize me from ever doing anything dangerous. It was either that or they were angry and emotionally stunted to the point of being illogical, and I used to assume my parents had reasons for everything they did. I knew by age thirty that they had been emotionally neglectful and not always made the best choices, but the scolding after injuries was something I simply hadn't thought about in years. What else hadn't I thought about in years?
My husband looked at me like there was something wrong with me. He explained that it's normal to comfort a child until she stops crying before correcting her behavior as necessary, if she had been misbehaving at all. I also learned that not every parent thinks running is always bad behavior like mine did. I also learned that not everyone blames their children to their face every time something bad happens to them. That was when I realized I was way out of my depth when it came to parenting, I was already pregnant because I had thought I was fine, and most books on raising children didn't even address the "scratch" from which I needed to start.
When I got outside I saw a thick, knotted rope hanging, probably from a tree though I don't remember for certain. One of the boys pushed or dropped the end of the rope and it swung toward me, the hard knot landing hard on my nose. Suddenly blood was gushing down my face. (I still don't know what they had been doing with that rope. I had only been outside for a few seconds.)
Kimmy pulled me inside to her mother. Kimmy's mother called my mother to come pick me up and tended to me until the bleeding stopped. It was my first of many nose bleeds, but my nose wasn't broken and there was no permanent damage. When my mother arrived, she was mad at me for injuring myself playing. Confused at being in trouble for something that I didn't even do, I explained that I had only been standing there when the rope the boys were playing with hit me. I hadn't even touched it. "Obviously you were somewhere you shouldn't have been or you wouldn't have gotten hurt," my mother snapped. I cannot remember a time I got hurt that she didn't operate under this logic.
I was thirty years old and pregnant with a child of my own when I saw a school-aged child running across cobblestones at a local festival. She fell and burst into tears, and her mother comforted her and told her she would be okay. I had been reading books on parenting for the last year or two and expressed surprise to my husband that her mother had comforted her instead of scolding her for having been running in the first place. How is she supposed to learn if they comfort her instead of correcting her behavior? I wondered. Comfort is something children want. It's certainly something I wanted. Comforting a child when she cries just trains her to cry more, doesn't it? I'd assumed my parents reprimanded me instead because they wanted to decentivize me from ever doing anything dangerous. It was either that or they were angry and emotionally stunted to the point of being illogical, and I used to assume my parents had reasons for everything they did. I knew by age thirty that they had been emotionally neglectful and not always made the best choices, but the scolding after injuries was something I simply hadn't thought about in years. What else hadn't I thought about in years?
My husband looked at me like there was something wrong with me. He explained that it's normal to comfort a child until she stops crying before correcting her behavior as necessary, if she had been misbehaving at all. I also learned that not every parent thinks running is always bad behavior like mine did. I also learned that not everyone blames their children to their face every time something bad happens to them. That was when I realized I was way out of my depth when it came to parenting, I was already pregnant because I had thought I was fine, and most books on raising children didn't even address the "scratch" from which I needed to start.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Unexpected Relatives
I found another second cousin today. On Facebook. On accident. He had replied to a school friend's post, and his surname was familiar, so I asked where he was from and suggested we might be cousins. Turns out our grandparents were siblings.
One of the best things about second cousins is that they are distant enough relations that I can say who my paternal grandparents were and we can establish how we're related without raising any eyebrows. I don't have to tell them my father's name or that he was an anonymous sperm donor. People don't usually expect to know their second cousins, so we say "small world!" and laugh and move on. I've done it before.
And as soon as I wrote that sentence, he messaged me, "Who is your dad? My dad wants to know."
I didn't know what to say. If I told him my father's name, it might get back to my uncle who still lives in the same town, and even though he knows who I am, I don't know how he feels about my existence or my advertising it. If I said, "He was an anonymous sperm donor, but he doesn't like people to know, so keep it quiet," that would raise eyebrows and probably more interest. It would also make me an interloper who doesn't belong in their family, at least in some people's eyes. This is why I don't reach out to my first cousins or my uncles, even though they are the ones with the old photos and the family stories I want. It would be awkward. I would feel like a tattletale or even a liar, claiming the family of a father who won't claim me. I didn't realize how much of a secret I was still keeping with his identity. I have never kept his name secret from friends or advertised it publicly, but today was the first day someone who wasn't a friend asked for it. Even on my Ancestry tree his name is private, and no one has ever asked for it. Today was the first time I had to draw a line.
I didn't respond to my second cousin. Ignoring his question seems rude and I don't like doing it, but I don't know how to respond, so Jerry suggested I just never respond because it will do the least damage. I'm on here posting everything I remember about my mother, but I'm still keeping my father's secret. I feel nauseous.
One of the best things about second cousins is that they are distant enough relations that I can say who my paternal grandparents were and we can establish how we're related without raising any eyebrows. I don't have to tell them my father's name or that he was an anonymous sperm donor. People don't usually expect to know their second cousins, so we say "small world!" and laugh and move on. I've done it before.
And as soon as I wrote that sentence, he messaged me, "Who is your dad? My dad wants to know."
I didn't know what to say. If I told him my father's name, it might get back to my uncle who still lives in the same town, and even though he knows who I am, I don't know how he feels about my existence or my advertising it. If I said, "He was an anonymous sperm donor, but he doesn't like people to know, so keep it quiet," that would raise eyebrows and probably more interest. It would also make me an interloper who doesn't belong in their family, at least in some people's eyes. This is why I don't reach out to my first cousins or my uncles, even though they are the ones with the old photos and the family stories I want. It would be awkward. I would feel like a tattletale or even a liar, claiming the family of a father who won't claim me. I didn't realize how much of a secret I was still keeping with his identity. I have never kept his name secret from friends or advertised it publicly, but today was the first day someone who wasn't a friend asked for it. Even on my Ancestry tree his name is private, and no one has ever asked for it. Today was the first time I had to draw a line.
I didn't respond to my second cousin. Ignoring his question seems rude and I don't like doing it, but I don't know how to respond, so Jerry suggested I just never respond because it will do the least damage. I'm on here posting everything I remember about my mother, but I'm still keeping my father's secret. I feel nauseous.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Why Doesn't Juliana Look Like Her Parents?
One of my fears leading up to my daughter's birth was that she would accidentally be switched in the hospital and I would only realize it after months or years, when I'd have to decide whether to continue raising the baby I knew or to trade her for my biological baby who grew in my womb. That sounds like a terrifying sort of Sophie's Choice to me, and people like to make TV shows and movies about it, so I worried about it. As far as I can tell, newborn babies look more like each other than they resemble their parents, so I spent the first few weeks of Eliza's life staring into her tiny alien face, looking for someone familiar. Thankfully, after a few weeks, she started to resemble both my husband and myself, and my worries abated. Sometimes people say, "She looks exactly like Michael," but people most often say, "She looks like a perfect blend of her mom and dad!"
No one says that about Juliana.
Juliana was born the same year as Eliza. She is the daughter of my college friends Julio and Isabella. Julio and Isabella look a lot alike, with the same medium pink complexion and dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, so it came as a surprise to their Facebook friends (and probably their families, but I only see their exchanges on Facebook) when they started posting photos of the startlingly pale Juliana. "She's beautiful, Julio! Whose eyes are those?" people asked, referring to the bright blue color that never faded to brown. "Love those golden curls! Where did she get that hair?" they continue to post. Julio doesn't acknowledge the questions except to occasionally post links to articles explaining how two brown-eyed people can have a blue-eyed child.
He is right, of course. Genetics is far more complex than our seventh grade science classes led us to believe. It is entirely possible for two brown-eyed people to have a blue-eyed child. Still, if there is one thing I've learned from being donor conceived, it's that children inherit features from their parents. When they look nothing like one or both parents, there tends to be a reason. And Juliana looks nothing like her parents.
Here are all the possibilities that went through my head:
1) Maybe they used a sperm donor. After all, Isabella has curly hair too, and Juliana smiles sort of like her. They don't look particularly related, but that doesn't mean they aren't.
2) An affair? I don't believe this though. I include it in the list because it's possible in the most literal sense of the word, but I give it a 0.5% likelihood tops.
3) Maybe Julio and Isabella used IVF and used gamete donors or "embryo adoption," or one of their gametes or the entire embryo got switched with someone else's. I would put more weight behind this possibility if it had taken longer after their wedding for them to get pregnant. I currently have no reason to believe they used IVF at all.
4) Maybe Juliana was switched with another baby at the hospital. ::shudder::
5) Maybe a variety of mutations and long dormant traits have caused Juliana to look different from her parents, despite being their biological daughter. She doesn't appear to have any sort of albinism, but something like that might at least explain the difference in coloring, though not the difference in her other features.
About a year and a half ago, Julio and Isabella announced that they were expecting their second child. I waited anxiously to see what she would look like in a way I wouldn't admit to people I know in real life. I wonder if anyone else was doing the same. If she resembled Juliana, I felt I could rule out the "switched at birth" scenario, which I personally think is the most scary and upsetting. If she looked like Juliana, either they were using a donor who was passing on a lot of physical characteristics, or they were somehow passing their long dormant traits along themselves. Though I admit "long dormant traits" are something I stopped believing in when I found photos of my biological father.
Emilia was born a few months ago. She is beautiful. She has both her parents' dark brown hair and eyes. Her face looks so much like a tiny, fat version of Julio's that it makes me laugh. There is no question of who her parents are or where she inherited her features. Juliana stands out more than ever now.
As much as I wonder what the truth is behind how Juliana came to be Juliana, I hope she doesn't take a DNA test before she is eighteen because I feel 86% certain Julio and Isabella are not her biological parents, and I feel 75% sure they believe they are, in spite of any nagging thoughts that might linger at the backs of their minds, and nagging questions from oblivious and sometimes tactless friends on Facebook. I am afraid there is another little girl who was born on or around the same day at that same hospital in Queens, who has beautiful dark brown eyes and hair and doesn't blend in with any of the strawberry blond, Irish-looking people in her family. And I hope none of those parents have to come to terms with the realization that their biological daughter -- the one who inherited their looks and some of their personality and some of their mannerisms and intelligence -- is living in someone else's home and calling someone else "Mommy." If there were such another little girl and they found out she existed, then all the parents involved would have to figure out what to do about that. At eighteen, I feel like the girls will be grown and probably in college and able to associate with whomever they choose -- ideally all four of their parents. It wouldn't make coming to terms with the truth any easier for them -- harder probably, based on every person I know who has found out hidden truths about their parentage -- but at least it would be more an existential problem than a logistical one at that point.
Of course, if she is DC and they are simply hiding it from everyone, I hope she finds out sooner rather than later. Because if there isn't another little girl in another house, there won't be the question of where Juliana will live or who her "real" parents are, even if Julio and Isabella aren't biologically related to her. If she is donor conceived, Juliana will have to deal with the brunt of that reality alone because she is the only one who will have lost family in that equation.
Unless of course the IVF accidental embryo switch scenario is the one that happened, in which case Julio and Isabella's biological child might exist somewhere else, born sometime else to someone else, and they will never find her or even know if she exists unless she takes a mass market DNA test. Now I can't decide which scenario sounds worse.
No one says that about Juliana.
Juliana was born the same year as Eliza. She is the daughter of my college friends Julio and Isabella. Julio and Isabella look a lot alike, with the same medium pink complexion and dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, so it came as a surprise to their Facebook friends (and probably their families, but I only see their exchanges on Facebook) when they started posting photos of the startlingly pale Juliana. "She's beautiful, Julio! Whose eyes are those?" people asked, referring to the bright blue color that never faded to brown. "Love those golden curls! Where did she get that hair?" they continue to post. Julio doesn't acknowledge the questions except to occasionally post links to articles explaining how two brown-eyed people can have a blue-eyed child.
He is right, of course. Genetics is far more complex than our seventh grade science classes led us to believe. It is entirely possible for two brown-eyed people to have a blue-eyed child. Still, if there is one thing I've learned from being donor conceived, it's that children inherit features from their parents. When they look nothing like one or both parents, there tends to be a reason. And Juliana looks nothing like her parents.
Here are all the possibilities that went through my head:
1) Maybe they used a sperm donor. After all, Isabella has curly hair too, and Juliana smiles sort of like her. They don't look particularly related, but that doesn't mean they aren't.
2) An affair? I don't believe this though. I include it in the list because it's possible in the most literal sense of the word, but I give it a 0.5% likelihood tops.
3) Maybe Julio and Isabella used IVF and used gamete donors or "embryo adoption," or one of their gametes or the entire embryo got switched with someone else's. I would put more weight behind this possibility if it had taken longer after their wedding for them to get pregnant. I currently have no reason to believe they used IVF at all.
4) Maybe Juliana was switched with another baby at the hospital. ::shudder::
5) Maybe a variety of mutations and long dormant traits have caused Juliana to look different from her parents, despite being their biological daughter. She doesn't appear to have any sort of albinism, but something like that might at least explain the difference in coloring, though not the difference in her other features.
About a year and a half ago, Julio and Isabella announced that they were expecting their second child. I waited anxiously to see what she would look like in a way I wouldn't admit to people I know in real life. I wonder if anyone else was doing the same. If she resembled Juliana, I felt I could rule out the "switched at birth" scenario, which I personally think is the most scary and upsetting. If she looked like Juliana, either they were using a donor who was passing on a lot of physical characteristics, or they were somehow passing their long dormant traits along themselves. Though I admit "long dormant traits" are something I stopped believing in when I found photos of my biological father.
Emilia was born a few months ago. She is beautiful. She has both her parents' dark brown hair and eyes. Her face looks so much like a tiny, fat version of Julio's that it makes me laugh. There is no question of who her parents are or where she inherited her features. Juliana stands out more than ever now.
As much as I wonder what the truth is behind how Juliana came to be Juliana, I hope she doesn't take a DNA test before she is eighteen because I feel 86% certain Julio and Isabella are not her biological parents, and I feel 75% sure they believe they are, in spite of any nagging thoughts that might linger at the backs of their minds, and nagging questions from oblivious and sometimes tactless friends on Facebook. I am afraid there is another little girl who was born on or around the same day at that same hospital in Queens, who has beautiful dark brown eyes and hair and doesn't blend in with any of the strawberry blond, Irish-looking people in her family. And I hope none of those parents have to come to terms with the realization that their biological daughter -- the one who inherited their looks and some of their personality and some of their mannerisms and intelligence -- is living in someone else's home and calling someone else "Mommy." If there were such another little girl and they found out she existed, then all the parents involved would have to figure out what to do about that. At eighteen, I feel like the girls will be grown and probably in college and able to associate with whomever they choose -- ideally all four of their parents. It wouldn't make coming to terms with the truth any easier for them -- harder probably, based on every person I know who has found out hidden truths about their parentage -- but at least it would be more an existential problem than a logistical one at that point.
Of course, if she is DC and they are simply hiding it from everyone, I hope she finds out sooner rather than later. Because if there isn't another little girl in another house, there won't be the question of where Juliana will live or who her "real" parents are, even if Julio and Isabella aren't biologically related to her. If she is donor conceived, Juliana will have to deal with the brunt of that reality alone because she is the only one who will have lost family in that equation.
Unless of course the IVF accidental embryo switch scenario is the one that happened, in which case Julio and Isabella's biological child might exist somewhere else, born sometime else to someone else, and they will never find her or even know if she exists unless she takes a mass market DNA test. Now I can't decide which scenario sounds worse.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
The Time I Told My Mother the Truth About Everything
This is an excerpt from an email I sent my best friend on the day I told my mother "The Truth As I See It." It happened a couple years before my wedding, on the day my mother received divorce papers from my dad. I count that phone call as one of the most important conversations of my life and one of the few times I was honest with my mother about her behavior and refused to back down when challenged. I believe this conversation was at least part of the reason my mother has reached out to me to reconnect but has never once asked me why I stopped talking to her. I said what she needed to know (if she heard it).
I mention unofficially diagnosing my mother as bipolar in this email, which in hindsight I kind of wish I hadn't done, though I thoroughly believed it to be true and that proper treatment -- especially a prescription mood stabilizer, which was one of the few things she didn't already seem to be taking -- could make her better. She did receive a formal diagnosis of bipolar disorder a couple years after this phone call took place, but I no longer believe it to be accurate. More on all that another time.
Dear Jerry,
My mom was served the divorce papers today. She called me sobbing and, when I answered, said, "I just called to say I love you." I acted sympathetic and didn't say much until she started in on my dad, at which point the invisible string that my voice had been hung up on just broke and I announced loudly, "You sold ALL OF HIS STUFF," and basically told her the truth on just about everything. I didn't yell, but when saying things I'd wanted to tell her for a long time, I announced them loudly like an orator. I was still gentle through a lot of it though, particularly when talking about mental illness, and she was the only one who cried. I told her she is bi-polar. I told her she should be on meds for it and not on meds for EVERYTHING else. I told her she appears to have Munchausen's syndrome and her car wrecks seem to be on purpose ("You think I rolled the car ON PURPOSE?!" "Yes."). I told her maxing out someone else's credit card is NOT OKAY, regardless of her defense that it was "only $500." When she complained that no one speaks to her, I told her it's because she acts crazy now. When she asked why I didn't call her at Christmas, I told her I didn't want to get yelled at. When she acted shocked and asked, "What?" I repeated myself, only more loudly and enunciating better. I did this every time she acted shocked at something I said. I asked her if she didn't remember yelling at me and leaving voice mails in which she called me a selfish little bitch, or if she really believed it didn't hurt me. She said she only remembered calling me that when I didn't send cards to my grandmothers. I don't really remember how she said it, but it came out that she thinks I am bad for that, and I can't really remember that part through the haze of anger...
When she said my father took the money away from her and that she would have to live without lights and heat, I explained that, if the bank account is empty, it's because she empties it every month. Several thousand dollars every month. I explained that I am handling their money now. I explained that it comes to me so that I can pay the house payments that she would not. I explained I had been instructed to put the rest back into their joint account each month, leaving my dad with nothing, so that the automatic withdrawal bills could be paid and she could blow through the rest the way she always does ("Blow through?" "Yes." "You think I BLOW THROUGH money?!" "Yes."). She said she spends money but (or because? I can't remember) she has no other vices. She said she doesn't own furs or diamonds; she pays bills and sometimes buys things for other people. She said that nothing will make people happy. We weren't happy when she was spending no money, lying on the couch all day refusing to move, eat, or bathe, and that we aren't happy now that she is out spending money. What do we want from her? I said, "We want you to act like a normal human being."
She cried a lot. She said we used to be best friends. I told her she used to be the center of my world. I told her she used to be my entire support system and that she dropped me in college, or in high school really, and I was forced to get over it. She claimed it was the menopause. I told her she should have admitted to it then rather than just yelling at me and accusing me of changing. I told her she is bi-polar. Again. She said she might as well take all of the pills she has and end it all. I confessed that I had thought about suicide in the last few months too, and then she cut me off to tell me about her problems some more. Honestly, it's what I expected to happen. It was more of a test than a confession. But a normal person would have at least acknowledged the fact that the other person had spoken. I realize it's hypocritical, but I hated her for not caring even a little bit. I told her that, kill her or not, most pills don't just put you to sleep, they make you sick and kill you painfully (it's true -- I've read it in books). I told her to think that over before making any rash decisions.
She told me what a good mother she was, and how she made me independent. I'm VERY independent, I told her. Still, I confessed things I maybe shouldn't have told her, like how much it matters to me what she says to me and the fact that she doesn't seem to care about me. I told her how fucked up it makes me when she calls and yells at me. I told her that being told I'm a bad person doesn't make me a better one. And I announced over her complaints, perhaps a little callously, that I know that's all I'm good for -- being her punching bag and something to bitch at -- to which she replied "no" and then returned to bemoaning her own sufferings, interspersed with bitching about how I don't send people greeting cards.
I guess that's why it doesn't matter how much I told her. She doesn't care enough to hear it. Ever. I know it was a bad day. I know it only makes sense that she would be upset about being sued for divorce and be focused on her own pain. I know today might not have been the best day, after years of mostly silence, to announce The Truth As I See It. And when she wasn't criticizing me or saying horrible things about my dad, and I had a chance to relate to her, I felt bad for her. But she couldn't leave it alone for long, and I couldn't feel bad WITH her, because it wasn't just today. It's her. This will sound ridiculous, but I can't think of a better way to say it: there is a quote that Christmas isn't a day but a state of mind. So is the worst day of your life. And she keeps that day alive in her heart all year round, and it makes sense to be focused on your own misfortunes on the worst day of your life, so maybe it makes sense to her to act this way. Or maybe I'm trying to make it make sense to me and I'm giving her too much credit. It's been a long time since she showed an interest in another human being, so it's hard to tell.
I don't envy her situation, but I don't pity her either. She makes her own choices. Her life hasn't been happy, but it has been in her control. If you are unhappy, you have to decide whether or not to do something about it. Doing nothing is still your choice. It's just a stupid one. I asked her to do something about it. I asked her to see a different psychiatrist and be evaluated for bi-polar disorder so that she can get better. She asked why she should bother. I told her, because it isn't all about her, and if she cares about her mother as much as she claims to, she will do it to make her happy. We'll see.
I mention unofficially diagnosing my mother as bipolar in this email, which in hindsight I kind of wish I hadn't done, though I thoroughly believed it to be true and that proper treatment -- especially a prescription mood stabilizer, which was one of the few things she didn't already seem to be taking -- could make her better. She did receive a formal diagnosis of bipolar disorder a couple years after this phone call took place, but I no longer believe it to be accurate. More on all that another time.
Dear Jerry,
My mom was served the divorce papers today. She called me sobbing and, when I answered, said, "I just called to say I love you." I acted sympathetic and didn't say much until she started in on my dad, at which point the invisible string that my voice had been hung up on just broke and I announced loudly, "You sold ALL OF HIS STUFF," and basically told her the truth on just about everything. I didn't yell, but when saying things I'd wanted to tell her for a long time, I announced them loudly like an orator. I was still gentle through a lot of it though, particularly when talking about mental illness, and she was the only one who cried. I told her she is bi-polar. I told her she should be on meds for it and not on meds for EVERYTHING else. I told her she appears to have Munchausen's syndrome and her car wrecks seem to be on purpose ("You think I rolled the car ON PURPOSE?!" "Yes."). I told her maxing out someone else's credit card is NOT OKAY, regardless of her defense that it was "only $500." When she complained that no one speaks to her, I told her it's because she acts crazy now. When she asked why I didn't call her at Christmas, I told her I didn't want to get yelled at. When she acted shocked and asked, "What?" I repeated myself, only more loudly and enunciating better. I did this every time she acted shocked at something I said. I asked her if she didn't remember yelling at me and leaving voice mails in which she called me a selfish little bitch, or if she really believed it didn't hurt me. She said she only remembered calling me that when I didn't send cards to my grandmothers. I don't really remember how she said it, but it came out that she thinks I am bad for that, and I can't really remember that part through the haze of anger...
When she said my father took the money away from her and that she would have to live without lights and heat, I explained that, if the bank account is empty, it's because she empties it every month. Several thousand dollars every month. I explained that I am handling their money now. I explained that it comes to me so that I can pay the house payments that she would not. I explained I had been instructed to put the rest back into their joint account each month, leaving my dad with nothing, so that the automatic withdrawal bills could be paid and she could blow through the rest the way she always does ("Blow through?" "Yes." "You think I BLOW THROUGH money?!" "Yes."). She said she spends money but (or because? I can't remember) she has no other vices. She said she doesn't own furs or diamonds; she pays bills and sometimes buys things for other people. She said that nothing will make people happy. We weren't happy when she was spending no money, lying on the couch all day refusing to move, eat, or bathe, and that we aren't happy now that she is out spending money. What do we want from her? I said, "We want you to act like a normal human being."
She cried a lot. She said we used to be best friends. I told her she used to be the center of my world. I told her she used to be my entire support system and that she dropped me in college, or in high school really, and I was forced to get over it. She claimed it was the menopause. I told her she should have admitted to it then rather than just yelling at me and accusing me of changing. I told her she is bi-polar. Again. She said she might as well take all of the pills she has and end it all. I confessed that I had thought about suicide in the last few months too, and then she cut me off to tell me about her problems some more. Honestly, it's what I expected to happen. It was more of a test than a confession. But a normal person would have at least acknowledged the fact that the other person had spoken. I realize it's hypocritical, but I hated her for not caring even a little bit. I told her that, kill her or not, most pills don't just put you to sleep, they make you sick and kill you painfully (it's true -- I've read it in books). I told her to think that over before making any rash decisions.
She told me what a good mother she was, and how she made me independent. I'm VERY independent, I told her. Still, I confessed things I maybe shouldn't have told her, like how much it matters to me what she says to me and the fact that she doesn't seem to care about me. I told her how fucked up it makes me when she calls and yells at me. I told her that being told I'm a bad person doesn't make me a better one. And I announced over her complaints, perhaps a little callously, that I know that's all I'm good for -- being her punching bag and something to bitch at -- to which she replied "no" and then returned to bemoaning her own sufferings, interspersed with bitching about how I don't send people greeting cards.
I guess that's why it doesn't matter how much I told her. She doesn't care enough to hear it. Ever. I know it was a bad day. I know it only makes sense that she would be upset about being sued for divorce and be focused on her own pain. I know today might not have been the best day, after years of mostly silence, to announce The Truth As I See It. And when she wasn't criticizing me or saying horrible things about my dad, and I had a chance to relate to her, I felt bad for her. But she couldn't leave it alone for long, and I couldn't feel bad WITH her, because it wasn't just today. It's her. This will sound ridiculous, but I can't think of a better way to say it: there is a quote that Christmas isn't a day but a state of mind. So is the worst day of your life. And she keeps that day alive in her heart all year round, and it makes sense to be focused on your own misfortunes on the worst day of your life, so maybe it makes sense to her to act this way. Or maybe I'm trying to make it make sense to me and I'm giving her too much credit. It's been a long time since she showed an interest in another human being, so it's hard to tell.
I don't envy her situation, but I don't pity her either. She makes her own choices. Her life hasn't been happy, but it has been in her control. If you are unhappy, you have to decide whether or not to do something about it. Doing nothing is still your choice. It's just a stupid one. I asked her to do something about it. I asked her to see a different psychiatrist and be evaluated for bi-polar disorder so that she can get better. She asked why she should bother. I told her, because it isn't all about her, and if she cares about her mother as much as she claims to, she will do it to make her happy. We'll see.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Mother Goes Off the Deep End
When I was 21, my uncle died in a car accident. He was one of my mother's younger brothers, and she told me later that he was an alcoholic. In hindsight, I don't know if this was actually true or just something she told me. He might have become an alcoholic later in life, or it's also possible she was referring to the fact that he wasn't a teetotaler. If he was an alcoholic before I left for college, he hid it well.
He'd been out for drinks with his son and drove home drunk. My cousin was driving behind him to make sure he got home safe, so he was there when my uncle crashed his car and died. My mother was understandably distraught. She immediately got herself a prescription for antidepressants.
I tried to tell her that I didn't think the antidepressants were a good idea in this instance. She was grieving, not depressed, and I was afraid they would make her anxiety attacks skyrocket to new heights. She'd already dropped out of college due to her anxiety at this point, and she reported that she woke up in a heart-thumping panic most nights for no apparent reason. My mother took the antidepressants anyway. I don't know what else she was taking at the time.
If I were to make a timeline of my life, there would be a mark at age 21 that says "Mother Goes Off the Deep End." She'd exhibited mood swings and money problems and spending sprees and binges and reckless driving for as long as I'd known her, but they were normal day-to-day occurrences for her, intermingled with quiet time. Now they lasted for weeks without a break. She seemed to function in fast-forward. She seemed high to the point of being almost psychotic. She didn't hear me when I talked, and it seemed like she was intent upon hurting everyone she knew. This was around the time I started feeling upset and afraid every time I heard from her.
Occasionally she seemed deeply depressed for the first time since I'd known her. Her voice was much deeper and quieter on the phone. She didn't cry or scream. It was like she had no emotions at all. She still didn't seem to hear me when I spoke, but she didn't threaten me either, so that was good. Most of the time, I could guess she was depressed by the fact that she wasn't calling me at odd hours or leaving me shrieking voice mails demanding money and calling me a bitch. We could go months without talking when she was depressed. No warning calls from my dad to say that she was gunning for me, or for him either. Depression was good. Depression was safe. I felt bad she had to endure it, but if it had to be one or the other, depression was better for the rest of us. There was no "normal" anymore.
He'd been out for drinks with his son and drove home drunk. My cousin was driving behind him to make sure he got home safe, so he was there when my uncle crashed his car and died. My mother was understandably distraught. She immediately got herself a prescription for antidepressants.
I tried to tell her that I didn't think the antidepressants were a good idea in this instance. She was grieving, not depressed, and I was afraid they would make her anxiety attacks skyrocket to new heights. She'd already dropped out of college due to her anxiety at this point, and she reported that she woke up in a heart-thumping panic most nights for no apparent reason. My mother took the antidepressants anyway. I don't know what else she was taking at the time.
If I were to make a timeline of my life, there would be a mark at age 21 that says "Mother Goes Off the Deep End." She'd exhibited mood swings and money problems and spending sprees and binges and reckless driving for as long as I'd known her, but they were normal day-to-day occurrences for her, intermingled with quiet time. Now they lasted for weeks without a break. She seemed to function in fast-forward. She seemed high to the point of being almost psychotic. She didn't hear me when I talked, and it seemed like she was intent upon hurting everyone she knew. This was around the time I started feeling upset and afraid every time I heard from her.
Occasionally she seemed deeply depressed for the first time since I'd known her. Her voice was much deeper and quieter on the phone. She didn't cry or scream. It was like she had no emotions at all. She still didn't seem to hear me when I spoke, but she didn't threaten me either, so that was good. Most of the time, I could guess she was depressed by the fact that she wasn't calling me at odd hours or leaving me shrieking voice mails demanding money and calling me a bitch. We could go months without talking when she was depressed. No warning calls from my dad to say that she was gunning for me, or for him either. Depression was good. Depression was safe. I felt bad she had to endure it, but if it had to be one or the other, depression was better for the rest of us. There was no "normal" anymore.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Meet the Parents
My parents have hated each other since before I was born. I saw them kiss once, a quick goodbye peck on the lips when my dad dropped us off at the airport for a trip to Walt Disney World while he stayed at home with the dog. I got the impression my parents didn't confide much in each other, but they told me lots of things. Here is how they ended up together, based on the stories they each told me.
My parents met in high school when they worked together at a local fried chicken joint. They weren't friends, and they attended different schools on opposite sides of town. My dad graduated and enlisted in the air force to avoid being drafted to the front lines of the Vietnam War. My mother graduated a year later.
My dad worked on airplanes as a mechanic during the war. When he wasn't in Vietnam, he lived in a house near the base in Reno. He loved the dry heat of the desert and still talks about it in a wistful sort of way. He got into a motorcycle accident while he was home on leave at the age of 21. He said he was riding his motorcycle when a cop hit him while making an illegal left turn. The handlebars of my dad's motorcycle had pushed around through his back, severing his spinal column. He spent the next two weeks in a coma, and when he woke up, he said he received notice that the police had benevolently decided not to ticket him for the accident and also that he was never going to walk again.
My dad had been seriously dating a beautiful red-haired girl at the time of his accident. He'd been planning to propose to her. She was the love of his life, he told me. When he woke from the coma, he drove her away. She had still wanted to be with him, but she deserved a fully functioning man, he didn't care what she wanted, and it goes on. I don't think he really expected her to leave, but she finally did, and he was alone. The scenario seems predictable if you've met him.
He was still recovering from the accident when he received a letter from my mother. She was still living with her parents in the town where they'd both grown up, taking a course to become a licensed practical nurse. She'd read about his accident in the local newspaper and wanted to reconnect. I presume this was about the time that my dad realized the beautiful red-haired girl wasn't coming back and that my mother might be his last option.
My mother said she had liked him when they worked together at the fried chicken joint in high school but that he'd been a jerk then. Now he was paralyzed from the chest down, wheelchair-bound, and largely dependent on someone to take care of him. Why should that change how I felt about him? she wondered. "Everyone has a right to a little bit of happiness," she told me. Besides, the doctors had only anticipated he'd live five years beyond the accident. With her help, he could have a wife and a house and a child in that amount of time. "I always thought of your dad as my first husband," she explained. And she started writing him letters.
My parents wrote back and forth, and when my dad moved back into his parents' house in their hometown, my mother started coming over, courting him. She was only twenty but had already been engaged twice. My dad was sorry to leave Reno. He'd liked the desert. He'd liked riding his motorcycle. He'd liked the red-haired girl. My parents' dates largely consisted of hanging out at my dad's parents' house, snacking and watching television. A man my mother used to date came back to town for a visit and asked if he could take her out. My mother asked my dad what she should say. He said he didn't care, they weren't exclusive, and she could do what she wanted, so she made plans. When their date finally rolled around, my dad asked her, "Are we getting married, or what?" She canceled the date with the other man, and my parents were engaged.
My parents met in high school when they worked together at a local fried chicken joint. They weren't friends, and they attended different schools on opposite sides of town. My dad graduated and enlisted in the air force to avoid being drafted to the front lines of the Vietnam War. My mother graduated a year later.
My dad worked on airplanes as a mechanic during the war. When he wasn't in Vietnam, he lived in a house near the base in Reno. He loved the dry heat of the desert and still talks about it in a wistful sort of way. He got into a motorcycle accident while he was home on leave at the age of 21. He said he was riding his motorcycle when a cop hit him while making an illegal left turn. The handlebars of my dad's motorcycle had pushed around through his back, severing his spinal column. He spent the next two weeks in a coma, and when he woke up, he said he received notice that the police had benevolently decided not to ticket him for the accident and also that he was never going to walk again.
My dad had been seriously dating a beautiful red-haired girl at the time of his accident. He'd been planning to propose to her. She was the love of his life, he told me. When he woke from the coma, he drove her away. She had still wanted to be with him, but she deserved a fully functioning man, he didn't care what she wanted, and it goes on. I don't think he really expected her to leave, but she finally did, and he was alone. The scenario seems predictable if you've met him.
He was still recovering from the accident when he received a letter from my mother. She was still living with her parents in the town where they'd both grown up, taking a course to become a licensed practical nurse. She'd read about his accident in the local newspaper and wanted to reconnect. I presume this was about the time that my dad realized the beautiful red-haired girl wasn't coming back and that my mother might be his last option.
My mother said she had liked him when they worked together at the fried chicken joint in high school but that he'd been a jerk then. Now he was paralyzed from the chest down, wheelchair-bound, and largely dependent on someone to take care of him. Why should that change how I felt about him? she wondered. "Everyone has a right to a little bit of happiness," she told me. Besides, the doctors had only anticipated he'd live five years beyond the accident. With her help, he could have a wife and a house and a child in that amount of time. "I always thought of your dad as my first husband," she explained. And she started writing him letters.
My parents wrote back and forth, and when my dad moved back into his parents' house in their hometown, my mother started coming over, courting him. She was only twenty but had already been engaged twice. My dad was sorry to leave Reno. He'd liked the desert. He'd liked riding his motorcycle. He'd liked the red-haired girl. My parents' dates largely consisted of hanging out at my dad's parents' house, snacking and watching television. A man my mother used to date came back to town for a visit and asked if he could take her out. My mother asked my dad what she should say. He said he didn't care, they weren't exclusive, and she could do what she wanted, so she made plans. When their date finally rolled around, my dad asked her, "Are we getting married, or what?" She canceled the date with the other man, and my parents were engaged.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)