For a long time I have been tip-toeing around the subject of my actual relationship with my three older children, or lack thereof. For all intents and purposes, I am estranged from all three children. Yes, that even includes Meg - by her own choice. You won't be seeing any other posts about her pregnancy or the birth of her baby as she's asked me to never write about her again. This, in part, stems from some embarrassment over a passage about her father in this post. In fairness, all three of my older children are upset that I included one of the passages from my personal journal where I inferred to something that their father did. You don't have to read very far in to understand what I'm referring to.
Here's the thing, I'm not ever going to write about what happened and try to color it any differently than exactly what it was. I'm writing "Emotional Fat" because I need to do this for me in order to peel away all of the emotional layers that have created the nightmare of morbid obesity that I'm currently living in.
I have omitted or glossed over certain things out of deference to my older children, but I won't cover up everything because to do so would be dishonest to myself and to my story.
I haven't actually said those exact words, "estranged from my older children" because like many women who are mothers, we all want to believe in the fantasy that motherhood, even at the worst times, is still, rainbows, lollipops and glitter shooting from our backsides. No one ever talks about the guilt a lot of mothers carry because they aren't perfect or because their children didn't grow up to attend Yale and go on to perform great acts of humanitarian kindness or become icons of wealth and stability. We certainly don't want to open up the festering wounds that are created by the the guilt that eats away deep into our soul when our children grow up to become troubled young adults with a history of drug abuse and violence towards others, let alone admit that we are frightened of said child. No, let me amend that last statement. "Frightened" doesn't go far enough. Absolutely terrified to the center of each and every cell within my body. When your own child threatens your life, and this is after you've already seen that child harm a pet, and then beat his sibling to the point of needing medical attention, all of the happiness that is supposed to be there, is completely suffocated by the fear. It's made even worse by the fact that this is a mother-child relationship that has already been strained by the fact that you were not his main maternal influence from the time he was 2 1/2 until he was 12.
After talking to my sister for a long time tonight, then my mother for an even longer time, I've come to a place where I can no longer carry around the guilt of my past and my transgressions the way I have been for the last twenty years. If I continue to live like this, the toll will be too high for me to pay without it completely taking over my life and especially that of my youngest child, Gaby.
I have beat myself up and made myself sick , over my guilt, to the point of not wanting to get better. I've eaten myself into a place where, if I don't deal with this, I will die...and not eventually, but sooner rather than later. We're talking within the next 3-5 years.
Every single person who loses a child handles that death in a different and unique way. Some people are much better equipped to handle that loss with some semblance of grace and dignity, while some don't handle it at all; the pain is so deep and so excruciating that they take their own lives because there is no other way to escape the constant ache that is always there. I can say without a doubt that had I not completely shut off emotionally and handled Joshua's death in the only way I knew how, (which was to not deal with the grief, pain and anguish), I would have killed myself. I think one of the only things that stopped me was due to the fact that I didn't want my kids to find what remained of me.
I never talked to anyone professional in the space of time immediately following Joshua's death, or even in the 5 years after his death that I remained with his father. I just schlepped through life and continued to pile on the guilt. I let M and his family place the blame for Joshua's death on my shoulders. I even got to the point where, in a firestorm of hate and anger, M would look me in the eye and spit the words, "If it weren't for you, my son would still be alive!" at me, where I didn't flinch. I just boxed that hate and anger up and put it on my shoulders with my own guilt.
Years later when trying to reconnect with my children and dealing with the ups and down of that process, the legal struggles, the lies, and the anger, I heaped even more guilt on my shoulders, and with more guilt came more fat. With the revelation that one of my children was increasingly more and more deeply troubled than we thought, came more guilt and more food. Then when accusations from their paternal family were thrown in my face that I over-reacted by involving the police and letting them handle things and then when, after further evaluation it was determined that a special facility would be required to handle things - things I could not handle on my own, I piled on more guilt. I tried to explain that all decisions regarding his care were taken completely out of my hands and that those decisions were made for not only this child's protection but for the protection of others...namely the family he was living with; Gareth, Gaby, myself and another of my older children.
When arrangements were made with this child's paternal family back on the west coast with the psychiatric professionals treating him, assurances were given that he would receive prompt and continuing professional help. The only other alternative was to release him from the crisis facility he was in, and place him in a group home either in New Hampshire or Vermont, where there was a bed as there were no open beds in Maine. Unfortunately once he arrived back in Seattle, those assurances were not followed up with actions, leaving him to continue on the course he set in Maine.
There was no shortage of anger aimed in my direction for the way things turned out. Gareth and I did what we did on the advice from medical, psychological and criminal professionals. Yet at the end of the day, there has never once been a time when I've not felt that it all still boiled down to me. Recently this same child has said that his (alleged - and I use alleged because he's the one who admitted to me he had developed a serious substance abuse problem but I have no other proof of this) drug addiction and violent tendencies are all my fault, because I was never there.
No one, unless you were living with us, will ever know the lengths we have gone to in an attempt to rebuild the bridges of trust and maternal relationships with all three of my children. This was even in the face of one sibling telling another - after he'd been sent to live with us in the summer of 2006, that he wasn't there to be our friend, or love all over his baby sister, he was there to take us for everything we had and get as much money from us as possible. I've seen that come out of this child's mouth on more than one occasion, and foolishly or not, it's remained in the back of my mind along with the thought that, "Well Audrey, you deserved it!" I tried to tell myself I didn't care if they were just using us for whatever they could get...they were kids and didn't know any better and I still got to bask in their presence and share their little sister with them, as well as our lives.
Yes, I will admit that due to my guilt, I probably spent too much money on my older children. However, each of them came to me with nothing. There was little more in their suitcases than threadbare clothing and little else. They also came to me with wounded souls and broken hearts after the failure of their father's second marriage, wondering if they could trust me. I tossed out the suggestion of family and individual counseling which was rebuffed every single time. I didn't want to push the issue because it seemed to make them angrier. To this day I wish I had pushed the issue - possibly even forced it, not only because of my estrangement from them but due to the fact that there were allegations of abuse from the step-parent. I saw the CPS file for myself and again, beat myself up over and over again because I wasn't there to stop this. I never knew a single thing about it while it was happening. No one called me. But then...no one else stepped in either, from their paternal family, and at the end of the day it was all pushed under the rug.
One of the constant painful volleys that is always lobbed in my direction by my older children is the standard refrain, "Where were you when this/that/other the other thing happened?" Obviously I wasn't there. The bigger issue is the fact that I was never informed if a child was sick and in the hospital, or had broken an arm, or had some other important issue come up. Never once did I ever hide where I was (M and I divorced in 1995 and I remained in Washington state until late 1998), or keep my phone number from M or anyone else. He always knew where I lived or worked. Hell, he could hear me on the air at any number of Seattle radio stations I worked at, so there was never a single excuse as to why no one let me know these things happened. Yet I still aceept full blame and all the guilt that goes with it, for not being there.
While the story doesn't end there (I will finish "Emotional Fat" this week) it's time that my guilt did. Especially the guilt that I carry for Joshua's death. Feeling responsible for his death all because I went back to a church that M and his family deeply disapproved of, will not bring him back. Blaming myself for his tragic death will not put my beautiful little boy back in my arms. At a time when I was more sure of my relationship with God, I asked him to absolve me of any responsibility that I might have had for Joshua's death. If God is really there, then I have to believe that he let his own son die on that horrible cross on that fateful day in order to absolve me of my sins. I hope you know that I never went back to the Mormon church for any reason other than to reach out to those I was comfortable and familiar with. I was longing for support and fellowship and knew I'd receive those things from the church of my youth. I don't know if God took Joshua away because I went back to that church, or because I'd had an abortion (if God really is there, I'm much more likely to think it's for that reason and that reason alone), however nothing will ever change the harsh reality that my child slumbers completely still and lifeless underneath the cold, hard, earth.
As of this moment I am taking a scalpel to that guilt and excising it from my psyche. I'm amputating the useless appendage it's become.
I know that much like the phantom pain a genuine amputee experiences, I will probably experience pangs of remorse over letting go of the guilt surrounding Joshua's death. I might even backslide from time to time and grasp at the amputated limb of guilt and try to hang onto it.
I'm going to grasp that scalpel and once again cut away the rotting appendage that's been hanging on for more than 24 years now after having an abortion. This is almost physically excruciating because society has called me a baby-killer to my face and gone to extreme lengths to describe the procedure I had done. I was awake when it happened. The sound of the machines, the suction, the blood...none of those things will ever completely leave me, much the same way the sight of my lifeless two year old son, lying lifeless in his tiny, satin and silk lined casket, will never leave me. I will amputate the long necrotic tissue of this limb and be done with it once and for all!
Once I've stopped the emotional hemorrhaging, I will steady myself for the further ugly task of cutting off the unsightly appendage filled with guilt over not only being an absentee mother, but for not being a perfect mother.
I've tried to explain to my older children what happened, but over time have realized that they might not ever understand that I was broken by their older brother's death...so horribly broken and disfigured that I did what I did to try and save myself so that I could eventually be a mother to them again. I was so far past the point of reason by the time I left to stay with Mitch that I wouldn't listen to anyone. I had no other family or resources to fall back on. I did what I did to save the tiny slivers of what was left of myself.
I have asked for my older children's forgiveness and they gave it, but maybe they weren't genuinely at a place yet where they could give it. Maybe they never will. I need to be OK with that, if that's in fact the way things are going to be. However, while many people would probably say that a good parent would forever try to push their way into a relationship with their adult children, I think we've already established that I haven't always been a good mother. If my older children want absolutely nothing to do with me, I'm not going to force the issue. Believe me, this kills me for more than the absence of their presence in my life...there's something I have told very few people...I have another grandchild.
Meg's child is not going to be my first grandchild. There is a beautiful baby boy that was born in December to two teenagers, one of them mine. I have yet to meet this child and the way things stand, probably will not meet him anytime in the near or distant future. This is due in part to financial constraints and due to the fact that despite longing to be a grandparent to this child, we have concerns for my safety. That might not be enough to keep you from seeing your first born grandchild, but it's going to have to be enough of an explanation when it comes to why I am not in Seattle, loving and doting on this baby. I wish I could make the money appear out of nowhere and hop on plane and assure my son that I love his child. However, I also wish I could wash away the fear I have of my own son. It's just not that simple. He is aware of this. He knows that Gareth does not want me flying out there alone, or taking Gaby with me. Writing about this is nothing new to him. I desperately want my child to get the help he needs in order to deal with his anger and hatred towards me. I want him to be the kind of parent to this baby boy, that I never was to him. I want him to understand that it wasn't his fault, that I wasn't there, and that deep down inside I love him more than anything, as much as I did when his father and I divorced. But I also want him to know how miserably broken I was and for that reason, I wasn't able to be the kind of parent he needed. Maybe he won't ever understand that because he's never had the sword of guilt cut him in two and bleed him dry from the inside out and I hope and pray that he never ever knows that pain.
I want, more than anything, happiness for all of my children. I love each and every one of my children in a unique way that, despite our problems, that love will never fade or diminish over time. Never doubt this love for them.
I want my older children to know that not a day goes by that I am not sorry for not being there. Up until now, not a day has gone by that I haven't eaten myself silly in order to deal with the guilt of not being there, or punished myself in some other way because of the things that happened when I wasn't there. The thing is? This guilt doesn't serve any useful purpose and if you're looking for me to finally succumb to the weight of the guilt because that might be the only thing that makes you feel better? Well, I'm not going to do it.
I don't know what I can do to make things better between the four of us, or at this point, if there is anything I can do. I think I need to give my older children the space to deal with their anger and hatred towards me. Again, I'm not going to give in to the guilt I've carried for so long. Gaby deserves better from me; not because I favor her, but because I am her mother and I am here and present, now. Punishing her won't change the past. I can't change what happened in 1990 or in 1995. Carrying around the guilt isn't doing me any good. In all honesty, it's killing me, so I'm letting it go.
I am not a perfect mother. I sin, I have faults, I have a million little failures every single day. I'm trying to learn from my past mistakes, so that I don't let Gaby down.
Lastly, I am cutting off the motherfucking appendage of guilt that keeps me from celebrating my role as a woman, a wife, a mother and taking any little bit of happiness from it that I can get. I am so tired of feeling like I don't deserve to be happy, healthy, and in love with my life and the people around me because of all of my fuck-ups in the past! I'm tired of looking at Gaby and the things we can do for her and then flagellating myself over and over again because I didn't do the same for my older children. I'm tired of binge-ing on food in order to bury the guilt and then sticking my goddamned fingers down my throat in order to purge that food because I deserve the pain that comes with it.
I don't deserve the pain from carrying around 400lbs+ of weight - fat that I've put there in order to hide from all of the pain - the pain of things I can not change. I sick of being sick and tired. I loathe looking in the mirror hating the fat, ugly face I see staring back at me and then telling myself that I deserve little more because of all my mistakes.
I will no longer let that hand of guilt reach around and steal from me the hard-earned happiness that rightfully belongs in my life.
Motherhood is not always a nirvana of June Cleaver, Betty Crocker and Disneyland bliss and butterflies. Along with the all-niters, the worry, the fear, the germs, and the immediate aging that takes place when you get a phone call in the middle of the night letting you know that your child has been pulled over for speeding, there is a seedier, darker side that we never talk about lest it destroy the image that we are all paragons of love and adoration. Sometimes it becomes an even murkier place to be when we see our adult children grow up and make decisions that will have life-long consequences that are not always favorable. When you're a mother, disappointment happens, but we're immediately chastised for expressing that disappointment in our adult offspring.
You don't stop being a parent the moment your child turns 18. It becomes a precarious balancing-act of not controlling their every action and releasing them from the chains of monitoring their every movement to one of distancing yourself but not so far that they can't reach you when they really need you. For those of us who have handicapped ourselves when it comes to our relationships with our adult children, this balancing act is sometimes nearly impossible. I've come to the place though where I need to let go of the guilt that's made something that is nearly impossible into something unheard of.
I'm not sure how successfully all of these amputations will go, because I've lived with all of this guilt for so long. One thing I do know though is that I can not live with them hanging off of me and dragging me down for a moment longer.
