The Hero of my Story Has Always Been Mom

My mom has always been honest with me. She always tried to explain things directly, but in an age appropriate manner. I was aware of the stork story, but I knew it was just a story. I knew it a young age. My memory of it was that I actually understood it as well. That is one example of my mother’s honesty. It did not always produce positive results, however, at least not in the moment and sometimes later that honesty would cause me some emotional struggles. This isn’t to say she was or is at fault for any of my mental health concerns. I do not see it that way. It has more to do with how I allowed myself to think or feel about her words.

I do not recall at what age my mom first shared that she had not wanted to have a child. I was young, but not so young I didn’t understand what she meant was that I was unexpected and once she was aware I was coming, she was overjoyed. It took a little longer to understand it was deeper than that, but it did not change how she felt when discovering she was pregnant. She wanted nothing more than to have a healthy baby. She was excited and scared. She also tells me that she knew I would be a boy. There is no doubt in my mind today that I was wanted, am wanted. Depression, however, has a way to twist a memory. It has a way of focusing on the negative feelings a memory may awaken. In some ways, I see depression as an emotional cancer. It spreads into all your thoughts and feelings. It damages how you process things.

I appreciated the honesty from my mom. Despite my struggles with emotional health, her honesty did prepare me for the world. My brain didn’t process things as it should, so sometimes it was able to twist things to feed the disease that I think may have laid dormant for years. Of course, there are a lot of memories I can look back upon and see how those, too, affected my emotional health as an adult. I’m learning to rewire those thought processes. It will take time. As I do, I am able to again feel the gratitude and respect I had for my mom because she always spoke to me like a person. She has always done her best to be honest within my ability to understand. If she thought I wasn’t quite getting it, she would continue to explain in different ways until I did.

My mom struggled with depression, too. There was a time she was in the mental health ward and I was alone with my dad for a while. His disability did not make it an ideal situation, but I wasn’t in any danger. It was just more difficult for him and sometimes he would misunderstand, for example he once gave me an entire bottle of liquid antibiotics when mom, as she was leaving for work (I think), told him to make sure I took all my medicine. He thought she meant all, as in the whole bottle. She meant all as in both doses I was supposed to have. Apparently I had pink stuff coming from both ends. Nothing like that happened when mom was away, but I could feel something wasn’t right. I’m not sure what age I was at the time.

I was in my early teens when I realized why I had “two moms”. I never saw it that way, but kids would ask me about it. I always told them that Karen was just a roommate. It was around the time Karen left and I was getting to the age that I knew about homosexuality that it clicked. I figured it out. I got the courage to ask my mom about it. I can still feel the sadness seeing my mom cry that day. I can’t imagine what she may have felt, but I know that her fear was that I would hate her. She was worried I wouldn’t want to stay with her. I couldn’t see living with anyone else. My mom was and is the one constant in my life. She is my best friend. I shared everything with her at that time. We talked about anything.

This was also when it became clear why she had said she didn’t plan to have children. She was trying to be someone she wasn’t. She feared that having a child wouldn’t be right since she her love for my dad was about their friendship and not as a romantic partner. I know one of her fears was what would happen should she and dad split and they had a child to consider. What if it was discovered that she was gay? This was the 70s. That could have been used against her to take a child away. So she didn’t want to risk it. It had nothing to do with not wanting me. Once she discovered she was pregnant, she knew she loved me more than anything she would ever love. I understood this on some level at that age, but I put it in one of the cubbies of my mind to examine later. When depression struck me, it was one of those memories that was examined and over examined later. I have already told that story.

Growing up as part of gen x made it a bit easier for me. My friends accepted homosexuality. They also respected my mom because she spoke to them like people rather than kids. She avoided contradicting their parents, telling them that is something they should discuss with their parents. She was in no position to tell them what the could or could not do. They loved my mom. They still do. There were kids who had teased me about having “two moms” or ask me leading questions about my mom’s roommate. Some were more blunt about it and some went so far as to prank call the house and make nasty comments. I could be defensive about the subject, but I was often defensive about anything anyone said about my mom or my family. They could insult me, beat me, and make my outside time a general hell and I would tolerate it. Mention my mom or my family and my desire to avoid violence disappeared. They didn’t often go to that resort early on and by the time they did, I had already realized I had to fight back. I had friends to back me up by then as well. So it was rare it was face to face. It would make me angry. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed. I was angry because I knew they were ignorant and hateful. They were just cruel, mean people who I believed didn’t know what it was like to have parents who loved them. They didn’t know what love was.

Until the moment I asked mom about her orientation, I think she might have believed she hid it well enough. Maybe not, but I do think she believed if she was open about it then it would change how people treated her. She had to know the signs were all there. Some of them, of course, were stereotypical because mom preferred work that was traditionally thought to be done by men. She liked to wear her hair short. The sort of things that men of the time assumed meant a woman was a lesbian. Regardless, she had to prove herself when it came to the jobs. She didn’t take shit from people. She did her job as well or better than the men around her. I remember watching how the men who worked around and with changed how they spoke to her. Their behavior changed. It wasn’t all of them, but most of them. They grew to respect her. She was one of them, not some woman hired because management was concerned with hiring women for the sake of it. She was able to do the job and she was able to do it well. She didn’t back down when she knew she was right and she was always willing to learn. She didn’t complain, but she spoke her mind. I have fond memories of several of the men she worked with and who became her friends. Still, her orientation was never mentioned openly, but I could see it was something on their minds. I was sure they spoke of it when she wasn’t around. I also am sure those conversations were curious ones, not hateful ones. They admired her strength and she was their friend.

I believe my strength comes from my mom. My convictions, my morals, and my sense of duty. I can be lazy about things and I procrastinate plenty, but I have a sense of right and wrong that often puts me in a role as defender. I won’t claim I’m very good at it, but it is how I view myself in those moments. Most of the time I get it right. Other times, I butt in when I shouldn’t. I think most who feel it is their responsibility to protect those who need it make those mistakes. Mom was always that person who stood up for whomever she thought couldn’t stand for themselves. She also never wanted to hurt anyone. She still doesn’t want to hurt anyone (except those who hurt others). Like her, I can get too defensive.

I mentioned in a previous story about knowing my father that I got my sarcasm from him. It blends well with the sense of humor I get from my mom. It’s weird, often inappropriate, and sometimes only we find it funny. Nothing brings us more joy than making “blue” comments to get a reaction out of others. We’re both usually on point when it comes to this and people are more likely to laugh rather than feel insulted. Albeit, they often feel uncomfortable, but they’ll still crack a smile or a laugh because they know it is our way of saying… “we like you, you’re all right”. I always tell people if I am messing with you, then you know I like you. I don’t speak to people I don’t like. Neither does my mom, other than to be polite. We aren’t good at hiding we don’t like a person. It doesn’t mean we don’t feel love for them as a human being, but we don’t like how they behave. What I mean is, we would never refuse to help someone in dire need. There are exceptions of course. Child molesters, rapists, murderers… they are not going to find us reaching out a helping hand.

Mom doesn’t like to admit it, but she has a talent for writing as well. Her talent is poetry. I’m terrible at poetry. Mom has a way of painting a picture with prose. She hasn’t written any in a long time. I wish she would give it a go again. The tiniest sliver of this talent I have read from her is what sparks my visual imagination. It is what drives the type of stories I want to tell; the stories that I see in my mind. I have dad’s way of putting them in written form. So the pictures in my mind come from having mom’s imagination and the articulation, the style that I use when writing, comes from dad. He, too, liked to ramble, for example. His thoughts and words tended to be more introspective from an analytical point of view. My mom, however, is introspective at an emotional and visual level. This over simplifies them both, of course. Dad spoke more of his thoughts, but he shared his feeling as well. Mom spoke of her feelings, but she shared her thoughts as well.

I am proud of my mom. She raised me on her own more or less. She did her best to protect me from the world. She tried to hide who she was to avoid her lifestyle from having a negative impact on my life. It was what felt right to her at the time. She cared for me, made sure I was healthy, educated, and kind. Am I flawed? Of course. Did that come from upbringing, I’m sure some of it did. I still know that mom did a great job raising me. Even at my worst, I wasn’t a terrible person. I may have told myself that, but depression is a hell of an illness.

When I think of who inspires me, I think of my mom. Her strength, her convictions, and her compassion inspire me. Her sense of family inspires me. I truly believe all my best parts are from my parents. The rest is from the shit I did to myself. Sure, I was an only child so I did come out of my childhood on the selfish side. I know mistakes were made when it came to parenting me, but I’ve yet to meet the perfect parents. However, I wouldn’t be this man, I wouldn’t feel this passionate about becoming a better man, if it weren’t for the constant guidance from my mom. Without her example, I would be worse than I used to think I was. My mom gave me all her love. She set aside her life for me. She is my hero.