This blog is about something real. Something so difficult the only way I am ever going to understand it is to write it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it real. This blog is not going to be easy to read. Even for me. In fact, stop reading it right now and forget you ever saw it.
I wont apologize to you for publishing it. Because every part of me sings with the need to shout from rooftops that I am here and cant do this alone.
I am the mother of a survivor. I am the mother of a Viking goddess. A warrior. A girl with cancer. A girl with secrets.
My baby girl. My sweet and only daughter. She is sweet, too. Not like some kids. She’s wise. You talk to her and forget she’s so young. She’s so poised, so smart. Such a beautiful poet. So good natured.
She has been hospitalized for suicidality, self harm and PTSD 6 times in three years. When it began, like everyone else, I thought it was me. My fault. I broke this precious thing I committed to God himself I would treasure. Protect. This wasn’t the 1st time I thought I was wrong for her, unworthy. Too crazy to be her mom. I tore my soul apart to undo what I had done. I lashed out. I kicked, I screamed, I still shout.
It didn’t help.
I committed to her recovery from poor parenting, hippie like parenting. I stopped listening to the wind for her. I tried to deny my own impulses… even if I was the only person aware I was denying them.
And it didn’t work.
I dont see someone anymore who doesnt 1st ask me, “How is Abby doing?” because however she’s doing is also seemingly how Im doing. Sounds so sad for her when I say that out loud, poor kid doesnt have enough to deal with but she’s got this fucking shitty narcissistic mom to live with, too.
I hate myself for this. I swear to God I have the worst Goddamn instincts. I really do. I hope you’ll agree with me, and hate me too.
And it’s still my fault.
She’s still so fucking brave. So able to understand things, so bright, So innocent. So sarcastic now, that’s new. She wasn’t sarcastic before.
And then, back in December last year we were there in the ER after yet another blindsided suicide attempt… she told us. (there’s a lot more to what led to her telling us, and believe it is so relevant but in the interest of not overwhelming myself and in staying on topic—- we’ll go back to that another time.)
She told us about Sean. And his 6 years older self coercing his way into her pysche, her self, her body. The systematic abuse she’d succumbed to at his hand for 5 years. Sean my cousins son. He’s 20 years old now. Sean who now lives in Alabama
( yes, he really does live there and if you do privately message me so I can help you in a way I couldn’t help my Abby –)
Anybody besides me think it must have something to do with being of “southern blood” ?
Normally I wouldn’t allow or tolerate in another such ignorance of any single identifying trait in another race, creed, color, or background. I’m not normal anymore. I’m angry. At myself for not seeing it sooner, for not stopping it from happening altogether.
It’s my fault.
I’m her mother and I failed her. In 1000’s of ways any mommy does when she’s a stupid Hippie moron. Hippie and moron are not synonymous with one another they just coincidentally are two of my more dominant traits.
I was a sorta kinda sometimes not so bad writer once, not anymore. I would apologize to you, but this bad writing here isn’t for you.
My Abber-bo-babber, my Bug… she was placed in residential treatment 30 odd days ago now. And I miss her. I miss her dirty socks in the mix, I miss her silly dances, I miss her laugh.
I see her once a week- usually on Saturdays. And in between visits she is without a mother. A hippie moron momma shouldn’t be too concerned to let her seedlings grow wild and free wherever they go. But I’m a recovering idiot. (or trying to be) And I feel this displacement. I hate not knowing if she’s slept well, what if she needs me and I am not there? What if she can’t sleep, who will lay beside her in the dark and hold her hands and sing? Who will tell her everyday what a beautiful gift she is?
She is not okay. She is lonely. She gets scared. She’s still so little, she still needs hugged and kissed. She still needs me. She’s so fragile, so broken… to see something so beautiful so broken it does something so dark to you.
I would give anything to put her back together, to recover for her. To be the perfect consultant parent, the confidante she comes to, to be steady and even. But, I am not that. I try to imitate that. I’m so scared I’m not doing it right. How do I know if she needs more from me, or less?
A lot of people who know me, don’t like me. It makes sense to me. I don’t really like me, either. So it makes it hard when you’re searching to grow to know what instincts are good, and which ones aren’t.
I don’t trust anyone.
These thoughts are either totally helpful because they shine a light on the thing I am missing and keep cautious, aware. Seeing her true needs and the path to meet them. Or, they’re simply a shame cycle I don’t know how to break.
I think if you’re me, feeling ashamed means you’re not a monster. That’s right. It means I do feel bad for the many many mistakes I have made. I feel them more than you can know.
I don’t deserve her.
I never did.
But I love her. I wont give up trying to be what she needs. Even when its hard. Even when I cant see my way out of my own fucked up shit. I won’t ever let my ego or my pride stop me from doing my literal and actual very best for her. (my best wont get most of you very far)
I will admit it has however made me useless to pretty much everyone else. I wish I could say Im sorry for that. I love you, I was lucky to love you and be loved by you in return. I hope you know I still do.
imperfectionperfectionist 