beyond the wall

As a young child it is hard to understand why people would commit to the big decision of being with one another forever if they didn’t mean it. ‘Why isn’t love enough?’ I thought to myself at an age where I should’ve been thinking about which American Girl Doll I wanted for Christmas that year. That’s because my parents made the wrong decision one day; a day on which I ceased to exist, the day they said “I do.” Any person who knows my parents, knows that day–that celebration, those vows-were a mistake, a lie, if you will. But as a child it starts off as confusion. Confusion as to why mommy and daddy don’t seem to care about one another, about why they don’t sleep in the same bed, or kiss each other goodbye in the mornings. But as you grow, so does the confusion. It grows right into guilt. Guilt that you could be the reason that they don’t love each other, because if they got married, they had to love one another at some point. Right? 

My father was never good. At least not while mom knew him. By the time she met him my dad was already truly fucked up. Of course he dragged her down. My father is the most self serving, manipulative and egotistical jackass I have ever met in my entire life, and I’ve met my fair share of jackasses. Trust me. It was always his way or no way. Of course as a child that is hard to comprehend. And I didn’t - not for a long time. 

When I was growing up, the thought that my mere presence was a reason that my parents, the people who created me, weren't happy, festered in my young brain. Did I do something wrong? Do they hate me for it? Is this all my fault? I began to feel unwanted for the first of many times. Eventually, they got a divorce. Maybe they thought my siblings and I wouldn’t remember any of the things that happened, or they simply just didn’t care. But it has affected me my entire life. 

I never blamed mom, and I don’t think I ever will. While, yes, I believe she made the wrong decision marrying the unfortunate man that happens to be my father that day, her decisions after that shaped the entirety of our relationship. I learned when I was very young, five or so, that I was not meant to be born. My cousin told me what she thought was a joke but when I brought it to my mothers attention it turned out to be true. Little me wandered over to her drunken haze and asked “Mom, did you not want me?” She asked where I had gotten that idea and I stood there and asked again, but in other words. “Was I an accident?” She told me to sit down and tried to convince me that I was a “surprise”-but a happy one of course. I wasn’t convinced. The feeling of being unwanted continued to suppurate in my little head and my mothers words that day, along with her actions throughout the course of my life did not persuade me at all that this surprise wasn’t an unpleasant one. 

As an adult I know my parents' failed marriage was not in any way my fault. Normally, divorce is thought of as a travesty. The ending of a beautiful bond or the downfall of something once great. But looking back, in hindsight, it was the best decision they made as a unified pair, maybe ever. I don’t say this because things got easier for us, or them. I say this because ultimately I grew up in a better environment. Though switching houses every weekend to spend time with dad was never ideal, it was better than spending all my time with him. 

On what I thought was the bright side–I had two bicycles. Of course when you grow up in a world where your life is determined by a judge in a courtroom, you tend to have two of a lot of things. My dad got me a license plate for my bike. It read, “Daddy’s girl.” Looking back now I still carry immense guilt on my shoulders. Why did I get excited to see him on weekends? Why would I jump into his arms, why did I keep that tiny little license plate on my pink bike for so long. At times, I feel like I was betraying the people who truly cared about me, but the truth is I was oblivious to it all. Oblivious to the fact that daddy would argue with grandmom so much, oblivious to the fact that my oldest brother would take every single punch for me, and completely oblivious to the general fact that I was manipulated by him all those years. It’s a tough pill to swallow–it’s still stuck in my throat that as the youngest child you are always first to be protected in a dangerous situation, and the last to know the truth. 

I am thankful that I didn’t see the worst of him. But the guilt always seems to outweigh the gratitude in situations like these, at least for me. And in a way, I wasn’t always protected. Not by the lack of punches taken by my brother, or the fault of anyone else other than my father. But by mere circumstance and timing, I was not always shielded.

The first time he hit me I was confused. The same confusion crept back in as when I wondered about my parents' marriage, along with their divorce. The same questions that were at this point repressed to the back of my head, came back around full circle: Did I do something wrong? Does he hate me for something? Is this all my fault? While the confusion was an old friend, something new crept into my mind. The reason he got so mad that day and grabbed me by my throat to lock me in my room all weekend was because he caught me on the phone with my brother. Even though there was already a physical separation between life with my father, and my other life, my better life, this was the first time I felt dad trying to create an emotional separation. Little did he know it was not in his favor. 

When you grow up missing a lot of school days to go to court or because child protective services needs to pay a visit you learn a thing or two. I learned that when I was thirteen I would be able to choose whether or not I wanted to see my father anymore. But I never got to make that decision for myself. Dad left when I was nine. He not only stripped my siblings and I of having a father who cares growing up, but he stripped me of my choice to walk away from him first. 

More guilt polluted my innocent mind when I began to hear stories about what an extraordinary young woman my mother was before she met my dad. They say she was a lot like me in that way. Looking at myself, the first thing I see definitely isn’t extraordinary by any means, but at least I’m there for those who need me, right? But apparently so was she once, so I can’t help but blame myself at least a little for the deterioration of my mother. I long to know the person she once was but fear I’ll never forgive or forget the person she has portrayed herself to be my entire life. 

I don’t like to admit it but she abused us too. Not always physically, but emotional damage comes from her that is so great I’m not sure we will ever recover or fill the void that she created in our younger selves. I may not have kids, but I know that a mother has a responsibility to her children. She not only did not fill the shoes she signed up to fill when having us, but she made the void worse by filling it with liquor, anger, and belittlement. 

My mother and I never had the mother-daughter bond every girl supposedly dreams of having. Describing that bond feels impossible, similar to summarizing a novel I’ve never read. There has always been a distance between us—that distance being an unnecessary trip to the liquor store and a bottle of Jack Daniels. I can’t remember a time when it was genuine and sober love with mom. Yet, whenever I get the chance to really talk to her, I momentarily forget the heartache she caused me, and I see pieces of myself in her. It’s both terrifying and comforting—terrifying because I’ve made it my goal to be nothing like her as a mother, yet comforting because, in those fleeting moments, I feel like she wants to be my mom. I know she wants to be better, and I wish nothing but that for her. There is no hatred in my heart toward her; while I once thought there was, but even in isolation, I realize there’s only disappointment and a longing for something more—a connection that, by now, I’m certain we’ll never achieve.

And after all that longing, I found a wall. A wall that covered all of the things that were right in front of me this whole time. My mother’s love tainted by liquor, my father’s cruelty shielded by lies. My mind bruised from their actions and my trust broken by those meant to protect me. While it hurt for a while, I was finally tall enough to see over it. I demolished this wall, never to be repaired.