What Shapes Us.

I'm a terrible mother. I'm a selfish mom.

I hate myself, for how I've treated my daughter, for my selfish moments, my lack of patience, when I yelled instead of comforted, when I said no, just because I could….

It’s Tuesday. I haven’t slept a full night in so long. My daughter lies hiccupping in bed, having cried herself to sleep. I look at her sweet face and love washes over me. I slide from the bed, to the small desk three feet away. My feet ghost across the thick carpet and I sit down on the cushioned chair. I open my laptop, careful to place the key protector on the keyboard, to muffle the sound my fingers will make. I open a blank document, then pause.

Where to start?

My eyes drift to the envelope on the desk beside my computer, the paper is worn with age and the grease of my fingers. The letter inside frayed with time and repeated use.

No, not there, start…somewhere else, in the past perhaps.

I look around the room for inspiration, my gaze snagging on a picture of a horse. I smile and turn to my computer screen.

Dear Mom…

Hmmm no, too formal.

Hi Mom,

I’m writing you this letter, or typing it would be more accurate, as I should have done so long ago, because seeing words on paper, or on a screen at least, is somehow more real than when they are simply said. I know, as I have read your letter so often and even though the same words have left your mouth in my presence, even though we have talked it all through, every time I pick up that letter, it hits me. I had no idea how you felt.

You weren’t going to start with the letter, remember?

I was just thinking about that day when you brought Matt and I to the stables. You know which day I’m referring to, it’s a memory we have shared so many times. We went to the stables, so you could exercise your horse, Beehar. Kizzie came with us, riding in the back of the pickup truck. When we arrived and you left, she followed on your heels. A black and tan giant, but so gentle despite her breed's reputation. While you crossed the wide parking lot to where your horse was stabled, Matt and I immediately noticed the huge piles of dirt that had never been there before. You walked around the mounds of dirt, while we ran straight to them.

Always so competitive, we each tried to beat the other there. We ran up the mounds of dirt and jumped from the top to the ground below. Funny how that was so much fun. Thinking about it now, it seems like something my sadistic high school gym teacher would have forced me to do.

I was “winning,” having beaten Matt to the top of the tallest pile of dirt but I was too scared of the height to jump off. I played it off in that way only a preteen can, as if I was suddenly too cool to jump and walked down. Matt, he couldn’t have cared less about being cool. He reached the top and jumped off with a triumphant yell. And sank into the ground up to his neck. That’s when I realized the ground, just inches from my feet, was not ground at all, but liquid with a coating of dirt that made it look solid. I called for you and you came running. Of course, then you ignored me when I said it was deep, chuckling at my warnings.

“I’ll be fine Cass,” you said, then you promptly sank up to your shoulders. Your calm, confident tone of voice was gone as you started yelling “Don’t move, it’s like quicksand!”

I grin at the memory.

Kismet heard Matt crying, she always loved him best. I remember her running for all she was worth towards us. I tried to stop her. But she was too fast. She sailed through the air towards Matt and vanished. Only her black nose was visible and then, I finally panicked. You and Matt were not going to drown, but Kizzie, I was scared for her. I remember calling for help as I grabbed the only stick around and tried to reach Matt with it. It was about 2 feet too short, but I tried. I kept yelling for help, while trying to get my arm to grow longer.

I remember looking around and seeing people just standing in the distance staring at me. I had just been about to scream at them when the owner walked out, took one look at us, and started running. He yelled that he was coming and a moment later, he had his tractor headed our way. He stopped it a good distance away and tossed you the rope that was long enough to reach Matt as well. He hauled you both out and then you went back for poor Kizzie. While the tractor pulled you out again, I heard people behind us talking. Those people who had just stared at me, had finally come to investigate. I was so angry at them, I demanded to know why they just stared at me.

“From where we were standing, the ground looked solid,” an older man had stammered. “It looked as if you were poking at heads on the ground with a stick.” Someone flat out said.

Before I could respond or laugh, because it really was funny. The owner told us that you had fallen into a pit of manure that had filled with rainwater. I looked at you and then Matt and all three of us just started laughing. I rode in the back of the pickup home, while you, Matt and Kizzie, rode in the cab and then all three of you went straight into the shower together to wash off. That was us, always landing in crap and somehow finding the humor in it all.

I seem to recall Easter had been close to that day. I loved holidays growing up. You always created so much magic. We would wake up and the competition was on immediately. First, finding our Easter basket, stuffed full of fun things and cleverly hidden somewhere in the house. Next it was easter egg hunting. Matt was always upset that I won every year. Well, except that one year when Kizzie ate all of the eggs in the backyard. She was so gassy afterwards, for days she would come into the house and let out a stink bomb, then look at us with her big brown eyes as we protested and ran away.

Kizzie, do you remember when we got her? I had picked out Dawn because of her brown eyebrows and we were so sad when she passed away that you decided to get us another Rottweiler puppy. You chose Kizzie because she had the same eyebrows. I can still picture her face, her big brown eyes. Pure muscle, wagging her butt, digging holes for her pretend puppies, so sweet and gentle...whimpering when Dad threw her down those stone steps because he wanted her to go outside and she didn't move fast enough….

I look at the envelope as my smile fades.

I remember that morning when we were running late for school. I’d left my shoes in the car for some reason and went out to get them. I had my backpack on and went out to the driveway. When I shut the car door, shoes in hand, I heard my name yelled and looked up. Dad was a little way down the driveway. He looked angry and was running towards me. I panicked. I just ran as fast as I could. Inside the house, up the stairs, into the master bedroom and then the bathroom. The only door in the whole house with a lock on the inside.

It was only once I was safely inside that locked bathroom that I realized I had run right past you in the living room and you had asked me what was wrong. No one had followed me, there was no pounding on the bathroom door and then, then I was scared for a different reason. I left the bathroom and found you at the top of the stairs. You were yelling at Dad, who was on the steps. I started yelling as well, telling him he had scared me. It’s so clear, this image in my memory. I was what, 9? 10? He looked from you to me and back again. As if deciding. Then he chose and backhanded you so hard you flew off your feet and hit the door jam to Matt’s bedroom several feet away.

You lay there stunned as I screamed and threw my backpack at Dad. I hit him with my fists and yelled “Don’t you hit my Mother,” as he grabbed my hands.

He said, “I know Cass” and moved me aside.

I watched him help you up. He was gentle and I thought, maybe he was sorry he did it. I didn’t know that families were not supposed to be like ours was. I didn’t understand how complicated people are. That people can be good and bad, at the same time. I just watched as he helped you stand and led you downstairs. Matt was hiding in his room, I know because I checked to make sure he was safe. Then I snuck downstairs. I had to follow, I had to know what happened next.

I was able to peek around the kitchen counter and I saw him guide you to sit down at the kitchen table. I listened through the open entryway, afraid to keep peeking around the counter in case someone saw me. He sat down and in a gentle voice, explained how everything was your fault. You cried and apologized, as he used his words to turn you inside out, to make you feel dumb. And I hated him more than I have ever hated anything in my life. I crept upstairs and I vowed that I would stop him next time, that I would protect my family.

Years later, when he pushed you up against a wall by your throat, as Matt, dressed in his little league uniform hid in his room with Max, who was still just a baby, I knew it was time. I was bigger then, 12 or 13. I was able to force his hands off of you. He chased you downstairs, grabbing you again and again and each time, I interfered. I told him what he was doing was wrong. I looked him in the eye and he faltered. Then you spoke to him, your voice raspy but strong. You told him we were leaving and if he was still here when we got back, you were calling the cops.

I was so proud of you. I never told you that, but I was. You weren’t scared. Even when I had been grabbing his hands, you had been kicking him and every time he had let you go, you got him away from me, which is why he had continued to chase you. When you spoke to him, when you said you would call the cops, it finally hit him. Reality.

Dad sat on the couch, head in his hands as we left. When we returned there were notes for all of us. Apologizing, saying he loved us. Your separation was final. He never set foot in that house ever again. You made mistakes over the years, as your divorce proceeded. It took time to shake his influence and I know you have hated yourself for this time. For not breaking away completely. For not divorcing him fast enough to prevent our financial ruin. He spent all of that money in such a short time and stuck you with the taxes because your divorce was not finalized. We lost our childhood home and me, I lost the animals I had raised from birth and loved more than almost anything. You have hated yourself for that. Yet, I know what drove your guilt the most, as it was in that letter you wrote me. It was that last time he hit me.

I was 16 and we were still visiting Dad every other weekend. I only went for Matt and Max, to keep them safe. I can’t recall what the conversation was about, but I was in the backseat and he was driving. Max was next to me and Matt in the passenger seat. Dad was being condescending and ranting at me and I finally said, “oh will you just shut up.” Not loud, almost under my breath. He turned in his seat and hit me as hard as he could on my leg once and then tried to hit me again. I grabbed his hand and smacked it and yelled that he wasn’t allowed to hit me. He pulled into a grocery store parking lot and got out of the car. I locked the door, and he used his key fob to unlock it again.

He opened the door and hit me in the face, twice. I didn’t really feel it, adrenaline is a funny thing, everything slows down and even though your reflexes are fast, some senses are dulled. I still know he didn’t hit me as hard as he could have. Not even hard enough to really bruise as Dad always held himself back when it came to hitting me. He never had that problem with you or Matt. He said something about respect and I unbuckled my seatbelt, left the car and said goodbye. I walked into the store and called you and you came to get me. Now here is the part that eats you up. We went back to Dad’s house and you listened to what happened and not only did I have to apologize (he did as well, although I apologized twice, for hitting him and my disrespect) but then, you left me, as it was still his weekend.

I know you cried when you left. I know you wish you had done things differently. You believe you failed me then and maybe you did, but you were recovering from years of mental and physical abuse.

At the time, honestly, I felt betrayed and alone.

But time gives you perspective. When you started dating, Dad tried to use me to find out what you were doing. That’s when, for the first time, I was exposed to Dad’s manipulation. He only used words but he was so very good at using words. An hour of his interrogation and I would be shaking so hard I could not stand. I would be confused and everything I thought I knew felt wrong. He would send me back to you a ticking bomb ready to explode and lash out at you. He armed me with poisonous information and I would hurt you simply by repeating what he had told me.

I hated hurting you, hated that he had such an effect on me. I worked hard to tune him out, to fight his control and when I finally thought I had done it and he could no longer affect me, he told me something about your childhood so disturbing and shocking, it took over my thoughts. He brought me home right afterwards and I took one look at you and just started sobbing. You asked me what was wrong and I repeated his words. You staggered. It was as if I had hit you myself. You just kept saying he had no right to tell me. I endured less than you did, in a shorter length of time and it screwed me up for years. Because of that experience, I can appreciate the strength it took to constantly stand up to him when you were married and why you left me that day.

I forgive you Mom. I wish you could have forgiven yourself.

Time can be our enemy, and I ran out of time to tell you that when I think about my childhood, the bad parts, they don’t hurt. They are there, but they are like shadows, in a picture full of color. The dark lines bring out the beauty of the rest. I remember the magic. Magic you created. I remember putting out my shoes on our doorstep for Saint Nick and waking up the next morning to the most amazing little gifts. I don’t even know when you found the time to buy such things, working full-time and spending almost every free moment with us. You took me to riding lessons, Matt and then Max to their little league games. You made every Christmas, every Halloween amazing and even made me my own unicorn costume with a golden horn and tail. You took us to movies and played games with us. You had us convinced there was a giant noisy snake that lived behind the washer and dryer in our laundry room. You helped us with our homework and helped me learn how to read. You encouraged us at every moment to go after our dreams. You slept on the floor of Max’s bedroom every night for years, because he had asthma and comforted us after every bad dream when we were kids.

You made mistakes and my life was not easy as a child. It took years to work through the trauma but you helped me and never asked for any help from us, from me, as you dealt with your own trauma. You wrote me that letter before I had Sammy, before I knew what being a mother was like and at the time, I could not fully understand what you were saying. I struggled with competing feelings. I loved you, understood some small part of your suffering and wanted your happiness even more than my own. Yet, I also felt abandoned and misunderstood. I knew I was just a child when you were married, almost powerless and yet felt as if I failed to save you, failed to protect you.

Eventually I forgave myself for these things I truly had no control over. It was after I had Sammy. I was unprepared for a child with her needs. I made mistakes, failed. I sat one night, feeling such agony over my mistakes and in my moment of despair, I found your letter. Inside was me. Not the details, no, my husband did not beat me, never struck our child, but the thoughts and feelings, they were mine as well. In that moment, I forgave you completely and forgave myself as well.

I look at her, my little girl, in the bed beside me and wonder at the moments that led to her creation. This sweet child who mourns your loss. If I could go back and remove some pain, some trauma, would I? Knowing she may never be born? No. I would not change a second of my life, if it risked her being in it. Yesterday as I tried on black dresses, I found myself wondering how we become who we are. What moments make us, change us and what parts of us were always there from the moment of our creation? Your father was kind and gentle and yet, you let yourself be abused. You were innocent and unprepared for a man like my father. You regret giving us such a Dad, I know. Yet, we are so alike, would I have had your fate if you had chosen a kinder man?

When Sammy lashes out in her pain, when she destroys things to calm her emotions, and when I feel anger rise up inside me, when the thought that I should spank her is an unwelcome invader of my mind, Dad’s face appears. My revulsion at being anything like him, is a quick death to that invader. I will never strike my child.

When she’s playing and I see an opportunity to jump in, to create a little magic, I remember that snake behind the washer and dryer and a child-like feeling washes over me. I jump right in and play. These are parts of me, parts of my past. The good and the bad. And I realize both can make us who we are, both can make us better. I like who I am, Mom. I don’t think I would if not for you. You gave me a life of purest love and one that also held strife. I was tossed about for a while by memories and traumatic feelings. And a life like that, well it makes a person. It can make them frail or strong, depending on the balance I think of good and bad. You balanced out the bad, not equally, no, because one bad moment can ruin hundreds of good moments. You turned the bad experiences into one's we could heal from.

I have friends who are still trying to find themselves, even now. I knew myself before I was old enough to drink. At my core, I am strong and kind and I have weathered so much that I know that will never change. Not everyone needs to pass through a fire to be better. Some, like your sweet granddaughter, need gentle guidance, endless patience and to know every step of their journey to adulthood that they are loved and understood.

Tomorrow I say goodbye to you. I hope to see you again someday. I thank you for my past, even the ugly parts. It’s made me who I am. I love you. Sammy loves you. Forgive yourself, if you have not already done so. You were a light in her life, just as you were in mine.

I lean back from the laptop. Feeling a calm wash over me. Reaching for the envelope, I open it almost without thinking. My eyes scan the first page, the apology, the sorrow.

She thought she was so selfish, so imperfect, so flawed.

“Mom,” I whisper. “Your imperfections are perfect. Your love for us, for Sammy, was brilliant. No matter the struggle, no matter the cost, you always fought for us. You always believed in me. And that is what shapes us. That is what shaped me.”