Today while watching an episode of ER, a sub-story triggered a long held memory. A sixe-year-old boy had just found out his mother was a paranoid schizophrenic, and although just a show, I felt his sadness to my core... because I too, have lived this life.
As a teenager, it is pretty difficult to find where to turn. I just started college, I'm finding new friends, and I finally feel a bit of freedom. With that, I also feel the weight of schoolwork, the difficulty of having a long distance relationship, and crippling anxiety in my everyday life. I have a therapist but she can't really know my whole life except for my diagnosis. I've always had difficulty talking to my parents, my mother especially. She always seemed to like my sister better while growing up an being a tom boy, I thought it was because I wasn't interested in what she seemed interested in and I wasn't skinny like her. Since getting to college, I've learned a few things about my parents. They're people just like everyone else, they aren't perfect, and they can't dictate my life like they did when I was a kid.
From a young age little girls are told that their dads are their first loves. It is a connection that we are told no one will be able to replicate. But what happens when that same man who we believe will love us forever breaks our heart before any other man has the chance to? I am one of those girls.
Ugh. I fell into the trap again tonight. I haven't done the mom worry since the last hospital visit Ian had to make. (That is one heck of a story I will tell sometime, but not today. P. S.: He is fine). Nope, this particular mom worry was over my daughter's little mouse. You see, Dorito—yes that's his name—has never been an active little fellow, but I love him all the same. He is a sweet boy with a good disposition. He spends most of his time sleeping, or hanging out on Emmy. But tonight when she got him out of the cage, she commented that his tiny ears were cold. Yup. Cold ears. folks, that was enough to pet him, worry, add more bedding, worry, check his food and water, worry. Google mouse colds! The mom worry went on for a solid twenty minutes.
They say there are two sides to every story but this is from a child’s view, a third side to this story. I have never grown up with any sort of male influence in my life. It’s always been me, my mom, and my little brother. I don’t know who my father is. I have nothing. Not for want of trying, but because no one is willing to listen to the cries of a broken heart. A void sits in my heart and has done for 27 years. I never really thought about having two parents when I was very small but then I listened to the other children in my classes and that’s when it hit me, I only have one parent. The other children would get excited to go on picnics or go to the beach with their mommies and daddies. I got excited if my mother would watch Saturday morning cartoons with my brother and I. I began to ask questions but my mother always shut me down, as a child I should be seen and not heard. When I was just 10 years old my mother admitted that my brother and I do not share a father, making us step brother/sister. Naturally I began telling people that we were not real siblings, to which I was repeatedly told off for. The world was already confusing me. The other children in my classes couldn’t understand why every Father’s Day I drew my mother a card. I didn’t want to be left out of all the fun, doing arts and crafts. As I progressed into high school my interest in my father dwindled as my studies and home life took up all of my time. I began asking questions again at the age of 14. This is when I was assigned a counsel lot in school and diagnosed with reactive depression and social anxiety. By 16 I was diagnosed with chronic depression and severe anxiety. My days were spent in darkness. I was bullied in school due to an undiagnosable skin condition I have on my face. Home life was no picnic either, the neighbors making comments about the amount of chores I was forced to do compared to my little brother. He is only two years younger than me but has always been the golden child, being a boy. Once I turned 16 I decided I wanted information about my father and I knew, by law, I am entitled to know at least his name. However, my mother thought differently and only told me he gave me up before I was born. The rest of my family think that my mom has no idea who my father is, there is also the illusion that my brother's father is also mine. My brother and I had a paternal DNA test done and proved we are not paternally related, only maternally. All I have ever asked is for his name since I was very small. Now, at the age of 27, it is no longer my priority to find him. If he knew how to find me and found me then I would give him that chance.
Yes, I am that kind of mom who gets excited about big milestones that make my child more independent. I jumped at the idea with both my children to feed table food once they were ready, and we were moving to sippy cups at 6 months. As soon as they could feed themselves, that’s what they did. My kids are still under the age of 3, but they are their own people. They aren’t socially awkward, they love other kids, no animal scares them, and they love doing things on their own! They participate in group activities, but given the choice, they’d rather have their own toys in their own rooms. I don’t think this makes me a bad parent.
Five months ago we added a new member to our family: my niece. This precious angel has brought joy to our family. But, like most new and exciting things, sometimes we "neglect" the other parties involved, which are the parents. With my sister's permission I've asked simple but in-depth questions on motherhood. Women in the 21st century have more responsibility then ever: having a career, being a loyal and supportive wife or spouse, and being a mother.
Hello, whoever is reading this. I'm Krystal. I'm 24 years old. I had an "older" mother growing up. Her name was Barbara. She birthed me when she was 43 years old. She always called me her "little miracle baby," because I was born perfectly healthy; she had two children prior to me (in her 30s) and they both were born premature. I have one sister that has Cystic Fibrosis, and my other sister was born with Down Syndrome, Cerebral Palsy; she was blind, completely wheelchair bound and had to be tube fed. With her being 43 and pregnant (in 1992), doctors recommended that she abort the pregnancy because I was bound to be born with Down Syndrome (or a worse genetic condition), but my mom didn't care and she even refused the genetic testing that could detect it before birth. My mother had trouble conceiving at first and thought that she might not ever be a mother with having had three miscarriages before one actually stuck.
There has been a lot of controversy surrounding women breastfeeding in public. There is always some kind of news story about it on social media. The comments often sicken, disgust, and confuse me. I don’t understand why this has become such a big deal.
The call came to me in December 2017 from a family friend. It was the day I realized how tenuous life truly is...
We’ve all heard the saying, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” But, what happens when someone is absent, but still physically there? Imagine this: there’s a girl about ten years old sitting on a row of bleachers. There’s a game of Little League baseball going on in the ball diamond in front of her. A lot of people are around her, playing and spectating, but she’s alone. She’s watching a little boy, around the same age as her, swing and miss the ball again.
The Anti-social woman was a young, smart, and beautiful woman who lived only until she was 42. Consumed by rage and jealousy, her demise was playing a game of poker with the devil himself. She was a middle child and the only girl. She was a straight-A student, top of her class with a bright future ahead of her. She studied to be a Psych-tech nurse just like her single mother.