Drowning in the Wake of Bad Decisions
The most powerful entity on Earth and perhaps the known universe is the mother. Before I begin, let me give a shout out to mothers of all the other forms of life on the planet be they mammalian, reptilian, fish, or lower primate because they too are the moving, and evolving genesis of their species. However, for the sake of time, I will focus on the most advanced, dynamic, intelligent, compassionate, loving. and dangerous (when their offspring is threatened) of mothers residing here on Earth, the human mother.
Like their fellow lifeforms, human mothers are the authors of humanity, selflessly allowing the parasites growing within them to take everything needed to grow and develop to maturity. All of this happens while nurturing a love and bond that is beyond the scope of words with and for the little life growing within them. This parasitic relationship continues beyond the womb as the infant human is totally reliant on its mother for survival. Now, let it be known that a woman's life giving power isn't without burden and the responsibility of bringing new humans into the world is best described by that great student of human nature, the inspiration for the invention of spandex costumes, and the creator of the Marvel Universe, Stan Lee, "With great power comes great responsibility." Most of the time, mothers bear this responsibility with a wisdom and strength that is notably absent in their phallically equiped counterparts. However, this isn't always the case. Not every woman who possesses the power to bring human life into the world should nor should every woman want to have children. While most women are biologically capable of bringing life into the world, not all are suited to supporting and nurturing that life once it is born. This is in no way a fault as human beings are infinitely complex, adaptable, and as a result. sometimes have different roles to play as part of humanity. Because of the adaptable nature of humanity some women choose a different path in the world, a path that is equally important to the continuance of the species. This doesn't mean that the woman who chooses to be childless or feels that they are incompatable with motherhood doesn't love children or would do them harm. It simply means that whatever role they may play in humanity makes child rearing difficult, or sometimes undesirable.
Sadly, patriachal society has made becoming a mother an essential part of completing the, "Being a Successful Woman Check List." This is cruel, discriminatory, and given the current population of the world, totally antiquated and redundant. What's worse, many women who're pressured into motherhood might lack the unique set of qualities that it takes to be a good mother. This doesn't mean that they don't love their childen. It means that they were better suited to being childless. My mother is just such a woman.
My mom began life beset by mental health issues. She was given to depression, anxiety, agorophobia and coupled with the trauma of losing her dad to suicide by the age of 4 and being sexually assaulted by a family member as a 10 year old girl, she struggled to care for herself. By the time she was in highschool she was self-medicating with, nicotine, marijuana, alcohol, and amphetamines. At that point, my mom was against ever becoming a mother, but her wounds would make this VERY wise choice difficult to stay committed to.
Sadly, my mom's total lack of self-worth and feelings of abandonment stemming from the trauma she experienced as a child made her turn to anyone for affection, and men were happy to oblige her for a price. My father was just such a man and within a couple months of knowing the fresh out of bootcamp sailor my mom was pregnant with me. My dad would've been happy to board the USS Enterprise (CVN 65) as it headed for Vietnam in the waning hours of the war, leaving a bastard behind, but due to an Irish Catholic push from my dad's grandmother, my parents were married by the time I was born.
Motherhood didn't due my mom any favors two years and one positive test for a STI later, she and my dad were divorced. If EVER there was a marriage due to fail it was my parent's extended for waaaaaay too long one night stand. Unfortunately, my dad (a major asshole then and now) would be the last guy she attached herself to who worked, didn't have a criminal record, or thought that beating women was an acceptable passtime for the next decade. So, I was now being raised by a mentally ill mother who was even more deflated after being cheated on by her first husband. As can be expected given my mom's horrible character judgement my seaborne deadbeat dad would (and I'm shocked to think to this day) be the best of her penile possessing prospects. This would lead to a string of abusive relationships and two more ill conceived children.
I was almost out of highschool when my mom FINALLY admitted that she should never have had children, hadn't wanted children, and had dreamed of being the favorite aunt to her nieces and nephews. Instead, she had dragged me and my siblings through a series of violent, unhealthy relationships inflicting trauma to us along the way. Oh, she loves us, of that I have no doubt, but she wasn't capable of caring for herself let alone three little humans. The extended consequences of her actions would be experienced by her three children more than her.
Somehow, I was the lucky one. I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy by the time I was three years old. I only heard the theory regarding the cause after I became an adult. The theory was that I stroked out in utero due to exposure to moderate amounts of amphetamines, alcohol, nicotine, and psychadelics before my mom would realize she was pregnant. As an adult, I would spend some time in a mental health facility for my own depression, anxiety, and domestic violence related PTSD. Eventually I would marry WAAAAAAAY out of my league and have kiddos of my own. So, being a dad, I went back to school and became a, "Normy Drug and Alcohol Counselor," meaning a substance abuse counselor who's never been an addict. I guess I realized after my failed attempts to help my family that I wanted to help someone. My education continued until I became the first person on the maternal side of my family to earn a college degree.
My sister would be sexually assaulted before she was 14 years old and was an addicted mother of three herself by the time she was twenty. Each child was born exposed to methamphetamine, her first was born very premature at one pound thirteen ounces. The other two struggled with learning difficulties and all three suffer from various forms of mental illness. The doctor delivering her last child, fearing that she would continue having drug exposed children actually obtained early approval from Medi-Cal to offer and perform a tubligation on my sister, something that wasn't usually approved by Medi-Cal until the mother was twenty-five years old.
My brother also became addicted to methamphetamine and became quite adept at stealing cars. He's been homeless off and on his whole adult life, struggling to hold down jobs while dealing with organic mental health issues and not so organic meth induced psychosis which I believe has become permanent.
So, mothers are the most powerful entities on the planet, always have been, always will be. However, all women are powerful and becoming a mother isn't a gauge of success as a human. Women are the pinacle of human evolution, motherhood is just one thing women excel at. If you're a lady who doesn't feel like you have the mommy gene, don't sweat it. I can honestly say that for me, my siblings, my nieces and nephew's and most of all, for mom's sake, I wish she'd been able to stick with her notion that she wasn't mommy material. Fuck, considering staying with my dad, a one night stand that went waay beyond what should've been a walk of shame the next day with no further contact, and putting me up for adoption or even having an abortion my mom could've prevented a long string of tragedies. I guess the wake that forms from bad decisions sometimes drown more that just the decision maker.
Seasons of Motherhood
I can't title this as a letter, as a "Dear ____", as a painful series of sentences designed to make me reflect and feel pain. My children are cells that have not yet divided into fetuses, into little versions of myself, into generational trauma and sticky fingers that reach for an absentee mother.
I suppose this not-letter has to be abstract, because that's what my children are to me, what my relationships with my mother is - a once and future cloud that erupts into thunder when I'm asked, "Do you want children?"
There is nothing quite like dreams to keep me going, nothing quite like hope to inspire a future with a son or daughter.
Life is hard. It's a series of rejections, sickness, and bills to pay. It is a series of rock-bottoms, or maybe that's just what I've experienced.
Can I let my failures as a human being already cloud my perception of motherhood? Will my children suffer for having me as a mother, for watching me reach for something other than their love when I'm down and out, aching for a substance to heal me when family is right in front of me?
I would want more for my children. I want them to be happy, to experience life to the fullest. To hit rock bottom, and instead of bottoming out, to see it like the seasons. A spring of blossoms, rain that creates new life but does not wash away our lessons learned. A summer that does not scorch old terrain and make us want to obliterate pain, but makes generational trauma come out behind shadows; the sepia light reflecting off only what is there to be physically seen, and not just psychically felt.
I want more. I know there is life beyond pain, and I would want that for anyone, whether or not they share my DNA.
I am going to end this not-letter by saying that I am in love with life, but not in the same way a mother loves her child - in a fragmented way, in an autumn of sorrow, in a winter that lightly coats everything in snow and melts away to uncover the peace I so desperately crave for myself.
...One More Dog
I'm thinking about having a dog.
I can think of lots of good reasons, worthy.
I'm thinking maybe a Whippet or a Frenchie, or a favorable mix, because that would match the family lifestyle. It would be good to care for a dog, young or old.
Having my eye on this, someday, I noticed a bulldog-pooch pic lockscreen on my co-workers phone the other day. I don't remember her name. We run into each other like once a year. It's a big company. I was displaced momentarily on call at one of our sprawling locations.
"Is that your dog?" I ventured, stricken. It could after all have only been some cute wallpaper stock.
"Yeaah, that's our Lavendar," she beamed behind tinted glasses, and touched me. On the arm, like we were friends. A sort of pet.
I'm not against touch. There's just something about some people's touch that takes something from you. That's what I felt. I hoped it didn't show on my face.
"Is it a bulldog, Frenchie; or a Boxer... or a mix...?" I said displacing my disturbance with sincere interest, small talk. I had only seen the picture for a couple seconds.
"Both! how did you know?! but she's on the small side. Takes after the French Bulldog more, right?"
"Oh, I love Frenchies," I added remembering a delightful monograph I'd read in which the writer/enthusiast said Frenchies are like potato chips... you can't have just one... and that is saying a lot...
She interrupted my thinking: "But I told my family No More. No more babies, no more puppies. No more rescues. No more. And I can't deal with either end," she said sweeping the bangs off her brow, and holding her temple like staving off a migraine.
My visuals all over the place, but I tried to keep pace: "Uh, huh."
She touched me again.
"I just can't deal with the potty training, or the incontinence. I can't. I'm DONE."
I nodded, sympathizing, for her as much as for her charges.
She looked about 65, though, it's not age that matters. She faded good humoredly.
"You're right," I thought to myself: "Best save your strength-- for when you need it."
My Mother
You know when you're growing up and you think your parents are superheroes because they can literally do anything. You look up to them and want to be just like them when you grow up. That's how I saw my mother, she was amazing. She took care of seven kids (along with my dad), she cooked and cleaned and worked and even volunteered. She made everything look effortless. It wasn't till I got older that I realized that she had her own struggles and secrets. She had not technically lied to us but she wasnt really honest either. I guess that's what a parents job is, to keep the bad away from their children, to never let them know pain. It didn't work, if you were curious. I wondered how she kept silent all those years, maybe the turmoil of hiding the truth is what drove her mad. She gradually fell into a state of depression, losing the light that was inside of her. How could I fix someone who didn't want to be fixed? Someone who ignored that her castle walls were crumbling down around her. Just like my mother, I ignored what was happening to her, not because I didn't care. I was young and didn't know how the world worked. Maybe I was stupid and just didn't want to face the truth that I was slowly losing her to her sickness. She did things I didn't understand, hurt herself over and over. I always wondered if she was escaping her demons or her family. Maybe both? As the years went on things got worse. My siblings and I would joke that she would go on her yearly vacations, her ’ME TIME ". In actuality she was in behavioral health facilities undergoing treatments. Again, if you're curious they never worked, not for long anyways. At the time I really didn't have faith in God, I suppose I was upset with him for everything that had happened to my family, as if he was in control of our actions. I wanted someone to blame, to hate because I couldn't do that to my mother, I still looked up to her or the her that I remembered. I didn't notice the drug use at first, unlike my siblings I was oblivious to these things. I used to say I was sheltered from the world but that's not true. My brothers and sisters knew the world so why didn't I? The truth, I was scared to live so finding out even more secrets about my mother had messed with me. I pretended that everything was okay, that we were a happy family. I imagined it, I must have because the memories I had didn't fit the memories of my siblings. My mother would have angry outbursts, wailing like a banshee. Perhaps predicting her own death or the many attempted ones. Time had passed yet again and she had gotten to the point that she needed shock therapy, she lost some of herself during that time, forgetting bits and pieces of the past and present. And again more time had passed and so had one of my brothers, her baby. She wasn't the same, masking pain with silence. After he was gone, I thought we had become close, we talked and laughed, we did things that normal mothers and daughters did but was it real? I don't remember telling my mother that I loved her, even as a child, so I started. Shy and timid, afraid that she wouldn't say it back and she didn't but that was okay because that's how our family was. We didn't say I love you or even hug, at least I think we didn't, my memories blurred. Towards the end when she got sick I begged God to save her. “Just this once please, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll do better,” I pleaded to him but nothing. She was moved to hospice, apparently she had developed a flesh eating bacteria that would affect her face. The doctor's plan was to cut half of it off, her last words to me were to not let them take her face. I cried and cried and cried, I had never been without my mother. I had become codependent on her presence alone. My father had put me in charge of her medical decisions since she had become unresponsive. I was young and naive, how was I supposed to decide my mothers fate? I sat with her, talked with her. I knew she wasn't coming back but I wasn't ready to be alone even if I still had my father and siblings. They had significant others and children, lives of their own and I somehow remained the same, stuck at home afraid of the world. I didn't want her stuck here like me so I let her go, telling her we’d be fine and I thought we would be but we weren't. We were broken and lost. I foolishly thought my family was safe and perfect but I was wrong. Even now after all these years, after the passing of my mother and father I'm still stuck and alone, afraid of the world but I still believe in her. For putting up with the pain for so many years. For surviving every attempt. For not letting the drugs be her downfall and overcoming them. For taking care of us even after her will was dwindling.
To Whom I May Concern
I am not a mother yet, not by a long shot. I shall be an amazing aunt long before I have my own children, however in the interim as I am, I would like to dedicate this to my child.
I am your mother. I am not good, no, but you are the best parts of me- within the cracks in my foundation you have seeked to nurture. Those cracks have long been filled by the brilliance I know you shall bring this world, my son or daughter. And I thought I was above crying- I do not cry for anyone but those who eat alone and animals and even then it is jaunty.
I will make a million mistakes before you become of age, and further several million when you're able to detest me for them. But I will make this world good for you- our world. I cannot ensure the planet, nor the many people good and bad that inhabit it, but inside you will have me, and your other parent, and your loving uncles and cousins and grandma and great aunt and... god, the list is endless, isn't it? You will be born into the world with the endless amounts of support I feel myself welling in thought at.
I will anger you, hurt you, and you will likely hate me and wish you had any other mother at that time. And I understand. We come from strife, don't we darling? But I'll be around for you, when there's a nick on your finger or you simply long to come home.
I am your mother, your confidante, yours solely. You are half my heart and all of my soul.
Golden
I got a golden retriever puppy about four months ago, or at least I thought I did. I know, I know, "adopt don't shop," and everything. But have you seen golden retriever puppies?
After having her for this long, I'm not entirely sure I got a dog. Maybe they gave me something like a shark or a dinosaur. My arms are covered in scratches, my furniture is covered in bite marks, and my floors are covered in fur.
But her face. Her little face. With her long tongue and her oversized ears (which are the softest things I've ever felt). She has these big eyes that can make you melt.
So I forgive the wounds and the destroyed house. Scratches can heal, furniture can be fixed, floors can be vacuumed.
I will say, though, golden retrievers are very well named. They do, in fact, retrieve. They retrieve sticks from the yard, leaves from the bushes, even dirt from the flower pots! They will retrieve all of these things and give them to you as a present! How sweet!
Kara
He was cradled in my husband's arms when I came home from work that day.
"Oooh [cooing sounds]! How cute! Whose puppy?"
My husband looked at me through long lashes with a tentative smile and said, "Ours."
Which led to our last screaming argument, his leaving the house to cool off and a few weeks of simmering. I have severe allergies and would become the de facto caretaker even if my husband claimed he would take care of him, so, I was not thrilled.
The puppy stayed. We named him Kara, which means black in Turkish. My husband had found him in a auto mechanic shop being abused by the pitbull daddy - apparently because he looked more like his Rottweiler mum. He was covered in oil and being pushed away from his mother's milk repeatedly. So, my husband felt compelled to save him. He wrapped him in a towel and brought him home.
He threw up oil all over the backseat during the drive. My husband bathed him until the water ran clear and Kara was the beautiful black and brown puppy I found in my husband's arms.
How could I banish him after hearing his story?
My only condition was that he had to be a sweet dog. All the stories of violent Pitbulls had me very concerned since our son was five at the time. (And overjoyed to have a puppy as you can imagine.)
I needn't have worried. Kara was the sweetest dog you've ever met. He almost never barked so if he did, you knew something was wrong. He loved people and only ever barked at two: and they deserved it. One was the contractor who took our money and ran.
Kara was so smart. Regardless of which bus my husband took home from work, he could feel him coming and would go wait in the corner of the garden a few minutes before the bus came. Then he would run the whole length of the garden as my husband walked up the street. He would wait on the front lawn, sitting yet tail wagging, with barely contained excitement.
He wasn't allowed on the furniture, but often, towards the end of his life, I would come home and find him curled on the couch or the recliner. He'd look up so happy to see me, then remember, uh oh, I'm not supposed to be here. Slowly, he would get down, tail between his legs and go to one of his doggie beds as I tried to keep a straight face.
He brightened our lives for ten years.
To Be Had
I've never had a dog. Before you call bullshit, give me a minute to light the story.
Marcus had a dog. This was well back before we were tight. A Boxer, he named Jock. He liked the way it sounded, kinda exotic, kind of sexy, in an unobligating, irreverent way. He was in his late teens and maybe it wouldn't fly now, but at the time, it made sense, alright? Alright.
No leash. Stay at the heel, go everywhere bud. That was Jock. He had just one flaw. One fatal flaw. Cats. He couldn't stand the pretentious oversized rodents and blew a mental fuse whenever he saw one. God meant for cats to be chased. And that was how Jock met his end. It was his blind conviction. He ran a cat into traffic. The rat escaped between the tires, and Jock didn't.
No amount of calling from Marcus could bring Jock to his senses.
Nevertheless, a good dog. No dumb mutt. Loyal and driven.
His Uncle Tonio had a Doberman. I'm no snob for purebreds, but I note it makes an invaluable difference, in character. He died nameless; an important, yet insignificant part of the whole. It remains for me a summary of the selflessness of Dog. Of understanding. Pack and hierarchy.
The tale goes that ol' Tonio was a nice guy overall, but a braggard, and an alcoholic. An unfortunate combo. One night the two of them, the man and the dog, climbed the eight flights to Marcus's flat. There were a few fellas over, drinking and smoking, and they got to talking about bitches and mutts, and what makes a good dog Great.
Uncle Tonio knocked his shot back and rattled the glass on the table, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand, lifting his cap back a bit for emphasis-- letting off some heat.
"I'll tell yah what makes or breaks a Dog. If I whistle 'whewt' here!..."
...and he pointed at his dog with full command, full attention,
"and say '_____ JUMP!' he.... "
He had him. And yeah, the Doberman jumped.
Out the open window, eight stories down.
You might say, that's stupid. But I say, that is Dog. And that is Man.
And I've never been had.
**This is a True Story**
Houston
I swore after losing my two German Shepherds, Sam and Brandy within eleven months of each other, that I could never ever go through that deep pain again. They had long blessed lives where they loved large and knew that they were loved. One day it just hit me, why would you not want the blessing of a dog in your life? Life is short and filled with so many trials...We hear constant chants of "live your best life." How could I possibly do that without the joy of a dog?
I met my girl, Houston, when she was four weeks old and picked her up at 8 weeks. She is beautiful, bright and simply a joy. She is well behaved, and yes, she would protect me with all her might. She has blessed me in so many ways that I just can't begin to tell you. I truly don't know what I would do without this precious being.
A dog is simply one amazing heart who loves you unconditionally during your good days and bad days. No matter what kind of day you had - they make it better. These darlins' are always happy to see you, and they celebrate you every time they look at you. Talk about your ride or die true blue companion - it just doesn't get any better. She goes to doggie daycare.... and yep, I didn't see that one coming, but while I am at school she can run and play with her buds. We are living our best lives...
Today, my girl Houston is celebrating her second birthday! I give thanks daily to share this life with her. Hug a dog - it is good for your soul. Say a prayer for those dogs, cats, and all animals waiting for their forever family.
Sluggo
My dog is an asshole.
Sluggo is hopelessly stupid. He is a yipping pee-bag who throws up when he gets excited. No sofa can resist him, no stuffing can survive. He is bad.
His tartar stinks. His shit stinks. His attitude stinks. He won't eat the flies. He won't heel. He won't do anything. When he wags his tail, he wafts malodorous bouquets circumferentially in cluster bombs. One time he crapped in my earphones--you can only imagine my surprise. He leaves a trail of urine so that he can find his way back. From the kitchen.
He just cannot learn. He's hopeless.
But I love him all the same. One day he'll push it too far and I'll have to beat him. But I say that every day. Not today.