An Orphans letter

I sit here pondering what I should enter. So many things rush through my mind. My heart quickens with anticipation of letting go of some pent up emotions. Though the fear & shame rips through my heart. So many other feelings enter my heart, threatening to cinch it up tighter than a rope. Though a melancholy smile crosses my lips as I think of those things that I have loved dearly & are no more.

It used to be so easy, not feeling the highs & lows of all that we call emotion. Once upon a time I became to good, almost a master, at building walls, burying my emotions so deep that there was nothing left to do except smile that fake smile, swallow hard and say to those who bother to honestly ask, I am fine. Everything is great. All the while I scream so loud inside that I fear something will find it's way out. It never does.

Once upon a time I became so good at denial that even when I had a mild nervous breakdown, I picked myself up, dusted those pesky emotions to another corner & smiled.

Once upon a time, any hurt that came my way was either blown completely out of proportion or buried so deep that I wondered if it would hurt when I finally gave in to those tears that seem to be always just beneath the surface.

Time goes by as it always does. I see how others live their lives, sometimes with a deep sadness, sometimes with joy. The bruises on my soul seem to recognize another's sorrow, pain.

I often have wondered what life would have turned out like had I had parents that were there to comfort me, kiss my bruises. Parents that always looked at me with that unconditional love. How difficult it is sometimes to look into a mirror. I see my mother in some of my features. I see my mothers brown eyes, my mothers hair etc.

Instead I had an absent father who was a chronic alcoholic & had some deep scars of his own, both from his life and from fear of retribution from a woman whom never really loved him.

I had a mother who never believed in hugs & kisses. Her three children were raised in fear. The mother whom never had a good life, though once there was a chance to find happiness in her childhood, yet, she turned her back to it & all the hope that emanated from it. My mother was a very angry woman. My mother showed her love through the many bruises & scars that she inflicted. She had different ways of raising her three children, mainly to instill distrust among the three sibilings. She once claimed to me that she had to do those things so that we wouldn't 'gang' up on her. We were not taught respect, rather to fear adults. We were taught to never tell the truth about our lives, and were taught to tell her what she needed & wanted to hear. In our lives we had to constantly lie to our mother & we were so miserable that we found ways to insert truths to other adults about how our lives were.

Our little lives were so complicated that I am most certain that most adults today could never have the inner strength to deal with it & carry a smile on their faces. I am not saying that we are any stronger than others, just that we were 'conditioned' over time to accept this as our normal lives.

As a boy I was taught to be tough, never cry, never show emotion, always fear the next fist that could come flying from out of now where to make me see stars. If I cried or showed emotion I was hit several more times. I became so good that when I was hit by a car I couldn't cry. My only thought was not the concussion or massive cuts but was making my mother angry. My mother showed pride to whomever offered help. Unless she really wanted help than it was different. One of the things I remember that fateful day was telling people that drove me home not too tell my mother what happened.

So many lost opportunities as a child. I never had parents to teach me how to tie a tie, ride a bike, swim or even help me prepare for prom. So many missed opportunities for my parents. They have missed how my life has turned out despite their absence. Missed the six grandchildren that will never get to know them. Missed the college graduations, first cars, I could continue, but why? What in the hell would be gained from that? NOTHING.

My father has long since died, my mother is presumed dead. I have not seen my mother in almost fourteen years. I think I have a closer relationship to my father now that he is dead & his remains are in my cabinet.

Sure, we had grandparents to help fill some of those voids. Though that also turned very ugly. Abuse never has a lighter side. Abuse tends to destroy the innocence, open our eyes to very ugly, dark truths. Make us cynical, never positive.

As a matter of fact, the only immediate living family has very little to do with my life. Sure, I know how to contact them, though they have lives of their own & not too mention the fact that when I see or talk to them I am reminded of a life that seems so long ago. A life where I had to work as a child so mother could keep partying, to work to help supplement the welfare checks.
A life so long ago that it seems as if it were a very bad nightmare that has once started to fade until something happens that threatens to suck me right back into the darkness where the light seems so far away that I fear that I will never be able to touch it once more. A life so long ago that it is hard to believe that as a child of six, then turning seven and all the way to age of fifteen where a very common prayer was to die, for God to take me away from the mess that seemed to be my life. So common was the prayer that it became a mantra, something to chant over & over. Something to close my eyes & pray that God would take me away or at least help shield me from the landing blows that became so much of daily life that to distinguish between the dirt, bruises & real color of my skin were almost impossible.

It really doesn't take much for me to remember things that have long since been buried within the deepest recesses of my soul. Sometimes it is a smell, sometimes it is a song. Or sometimes it is something so innocent like being called for dinner. As a child when our mother cooked (a rarity at best) we had a ritual that our mother started; she would call us for dinner, our plates were lined on the table. Before we could take our plates we had to thank her for the food, our lives etc... sometimes when I least expect it I find that fear coiling in the pit of my stomach. The stale sweat that seems to pop out on my face & chest.

I look at my life now & think that it took a lot of hard work to get to where I am at. It would have been very easy to end up in a life of self loathing, self pity. Just do nothing with my life. So easy to just disappear from society. Instead I fight to make something of myself. To turn myself into someone who is worthy. Though the worst enemy is myself. Those old mantras of our mother keep echoing in my brain; "I am no good, I will never amount to anything." Not too mention those others that are really to painful to speak of... I find myself struggling to over come & then self sabotage...

A letter to my parents, a long time ago, a therapist suggested that I sit down & write a letter to my parents. This turned out to be easier said than done. When I was (I think) all of fourteen or so, I tried to do just that. The amount of anger that was inside surprised me. Threatend to overwhelm me. I had no clue that I had so much anger. As a child of twelve or so, my parents were stripped of their rights to me. I hoped, prayed that they would come to the courthouse & fight the system to get me back, that things would change. Instead, nothing did. No parents showed, no hope, not even a seed. I find it ironic that I remember the one court appointment that my mother actually showed up for. I heard her before I saw her. Fear I felt that day was so strong that I thought I would actually be sick. Shame that I knew somehow she blamed me for my situation. Shame for making her come to the courthouse. I knew on several levels inside that if she & I were alone she most likely would take it out on me. That's why I have never let her be alone with me. I think that when I actually allowed myself to be alone with her for the first time was when I was sixteen & felt so much shame & anger that I did not allow myself again until I was in my mid twenties. To this day, I still feel that fear of her. Though, that fear has now been tempered with pity and anguish. I have come to pity her, the choices that she has made, the pain that is all her own. The anguish that I feel is for the mother that I wanted, for the mother that she never was, never will be. One of the last times I saw her, I was shocked that I was now the adult & she seemed to have become the child (in a matter of speaking). I was shocked that at her age she tried to be friends with me, though I still do not think that she even understands what that entails.

So as my teenage years were spent in one foster home after another, with one therapist after another, one school after another, I never knew how a real family should act, how to participate in the daily lives of another family. In the end after yet another argument with yet another foster family I left on my own. At the time I felt that I could do better with my life. I did. Though to this day I still struggle with what should be simple things. I struggle to keep emotions in check, struggle to learn how to be a member of my household. Struggle to let others in, to let others help me when I need it or ask for it. Struggle to keep compulsions buried. I know that I have lived longer than I had anticipated. I always thought that if I lived to adulthood that it would be a huge miracle. When someone asked me as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up verbally I made up something on the spot that I thought they wanted to hear, once, just once, I answered that question that I wanted to live to eighteen. When my mother found out, my life almost ended right then.

Now as I aim towards another decade, I must struggle to form some sort of plan for this next decade. I must form a plan for the next year, month, week, day etc. I must allow someone in side my heart, allow others to see potential in me. I must struggle not too over compensate, not too bend over backwards to make friends, struggle to accept the fact that not every one will like me. Struggle to keep the tears, fears in check.

I will get by with my faith as strong as a boulder, my faith will be my armor, my sanctuary, my hope.

Through faith I will have hope, through hope I will have a healthy love.