When I was eighteen years old, I wrote a “Mother’s Day card” and send it to my biological mother. Like I said, I always knew about her, but I never remembered her. I was allowed access to my dad’s firesafe, and I found her then current address on the domestic relations paperwork. The letter was mean, nasty, and I was trying to tell my mom something that I didn’t realize yet. I wanted her to know the kind of person I was, “no thanks to her” and that I didn’t need her, that I was doing just fine. (I do feel bad about it now, I love my mom so very much!)
Truth is, I NEEDED her so badly, I just didn’t know it. It would still be a few more years before we finally reunited. I was told that when she received the letter my mom was confused, thought maybe it came from my older sister. It was addressed to my mother on both the return and sending lines. When she read it, she was so excited she started telling other household members. When they read it, however, they were angry. They wanted to tear the letter up, and they wanted to come down to where I lived and basically correct me for talking bad to their (our) momma!
I remember asking my dad if it was ok to write her a letter, and he would stand over my shoulder as I was writing it, I wanted to say so much more, and I secretly prayed she saw it for what it truly was. When my sister and I would reunite, and she showed me a letter she had written for me, in response to what I wrote our mom. My sister was so angry and hurt… she wanted to destroy the letter, but our mom said, “Don’t you dare!” The letter was a much-awaited answer to so many prayers. My mom read between the lines. She knew it wasn’t completely me writing it. It was things my dad had told me, and I grew up believing about her. My mom saw it as me finally reaching out. Finally making first contact.
God was in all of that because so much had to happen before I would reunite with my maternal family. I remember I would get Facebook messages from people I never knew. It would turn out to be an aunt, an uncle, and my maternal grandmother. I never told my dad these people messaged me, and I never deleted them either. I felt something from those messages, and I was curious. If I still have them, I’ll see if I can attach a copy.
When I was at the women’s shelter, and I had finished talking to family members I grew up with, I was left with lots of questions. I was so confused. I had lost so much, my family, my home, eventually ALL of my belongings, as well as relationships with family I thought I could trust. My entire life was completely turned upside down. Everything I thought I knew, everything I thought I believed turned out to be a lie. How was I supposed to cope and come to terms with this on my own? Who would answer my questions honestly, and not just turn me against my family? I was hurt, and angry, but I was still in a state of confusion. I still loved my dad, and those who disowned me… How could I continue knowing that I don’t know the full story?
I reached out to a family member on Facebook. I was using the computer at the woman’s shelter, and I was searching, I needed answers. I introduced myself, and asked the other person how we were related, and if he had time to talk. I had questions, and I had been going through something life changing. I anticipated the response.
It turned out to be my maternal Uncle. I chatted with him online for a little bit, and when the questions were getting more and more difficult, he suggested I ask my mom. She would know the answers better than anyone. I was hesitant, but I gave my uncle permission to give her my number. He called me and told me to stay calm… my mom had a lot of emotions surfacing and she would need a few minutes, but she would call me. He told me he loved me. That they had always loved me, they always prayed for us, and we were never forgotten. I said, “thank you”. I wasn’t sure how to feel about anyone on that side yet. I was going to be nice, and compassionate. I wanted their side; I wanted the Truth!!
Some time goes by, and I get a phone call. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway. I said “hello?” She said “I love you! I have always loved you!” I instantly broke down, I was trying so hard to hold back my own emotions and I said “Hi, Mom!” It felt right. I finally felt I was calling the right person “mom”. I didn’t feel weird saying it, I didn’t even think about saying it. It just flowed so perfectly in that moment.
My mom and I talk a little bit, about nothing at first. Then I told her, I need her to hear me out. I was afraid of being denied and disowned again. I was going through something so traumatic; I had to leave my dad’s house and stay at a woman’s shelter.
I told my mom what I said to others, I took a deep breath, and I said “for as long as I can remember, probably when I was around five or six years old, until recently, dad has been abusing me, mentally, emotionally, physically, and sexually. I was on the verge of suicide, and I needed out. I need answers. I have so many questions I have no idea where to start.
My mom ever so gently told me “It was happening way before then, but I prayed he wouldn’t do that to his own daughters”. I was relieved, and shocked, and hurt, and angry all over again. I cried so hard I wanted to scream. Yet another family member who knew my dad abusing me was a “possibility”, but they couldn’t do anything about it at the time. Circumstances didn’t allow for it. My mom may be able to piece together more on her end one day. I never once blamed my mom for what I went through. It wasn’t her fault. What can you do when you repeatedly try to tell someone something bad is happening, but you are already seen as a troublemaker, or insane. There’s so many times you can reach out before you feel like no one will listen no matter what you say.
The beautiful thing is, when she was telling me her story, I felt like this was the missing link. This is what I’ve been missing my entire life. We were NEVER abandoned, we were stolen. We were taken from my mother, mostly out of spite. He tricked her into signing away custody, her attorney never wanted to help her. My dad was such a handsome, charming man, that he would make anyone believe he was the victim, when he was, in fact the aggressor. He made people, mostly women, look like they were crazy. That they needed mental help… He would eventually make one feel so crazy, that their pain and suffering was their own fault. If only I had obeyed and pleased him. If only I had gone back to “talk about things”.
This contact was so refreshing for me. I was finally reaching out. I wanted the truth. When I heard my mom’s story, I knew it was the truth. She knew the type of person my dad was to a “T”. The one thing I commend her for is not trying to turn me against my dad. She didn’t speak hate, or anger. She spoke lovingly, kindly with compassion for me and my circumstances. She allowed me to see her side and feel the love she had for me all this time. I missed out on a childhood with my mom and older siblings.
During this time, a state trooper would come and interview me, based on the accusations in the restraining order. I then met her at the state barracks near me, and another trooper was there. I told them everything, answered all of their questions truthfully, and I was still afraid to get my dad in trouble. The thing that I think, made me “crack” so to speak, was the uncertainty of whether or not he would turn on my little sister, my younger brother also lived with us at the time, but he was an older teen by then. If the “possibility” was there for my other sister and myself, why wouldn’t there be a “possibility” for him to go after my kid sister? I couldn’t answer that question honestly to myself. I had to protect her; I couldn’t risk her even almost getting hurt like that by our dad. She was only six… around the same age I believed it started with me.
They asked if I was ready to go through this, to press charges, to start an investigation. I said “yes”. The cycle had to stop. It needed to end, I needed to start living, not just surviving. I was terrified to begin this process, but the investigation would soon start… I had to prepare myself mentally, and spiritually, I had to be ready for threats, and family hating me, I knew the truth. They knew the truth, but were, and still are in denial. Why did I have to say anything? Why did I have to tear the family apart?…
The restraining order would be granted. I would be allowed to go back to my dad’s house to get my belongings. The condition being that I had to return the car I was driving, as it was in my dad’s name. I was angry, but I wasn’t backing down. I was able to lease another car at the time. The other one was towed back to my dad’s, after I left it somewhere away from the woman’s shelter. I had no contact with him at all.
When I went back to collect my things, I saw my comforter, my college blanket, some clothes, and my pillow on the front lawn. Everything else was destroyed. All my journals. All of my College essays, notes, and books I kept. Everything, my book collections, my bible, anything that could be thrown away, already was trashed within the first week of me leaving. (This was about two or three weeks later from when I left my dad’s house). My bedroom was already turned into my kid sister’s bedroom. They had already painted it and set it up as a nursery for my yet to be born baby sister. They had already discarded me. My dad had already thrown me away as soon as he realized I wasn’t coming back. If I did come back, everything would still be gone.
I was devastated, years of my life, my things, that were important to me, that were sentimental, were just gone. I had so much taken from me. I have no pictures of my childhood. I have none of my poems, or journals or short stories… nothing, except my comforter, blanket and a porcelain doll my paternal grandmother gave me when I was about six years old… I didn’t exist to them anymore.
I still have a hard time letting go of things, or making sure my children have things to keep and remember for when they get older. I still feel like people are always trying to take something from me. Trying to take what’s rightfully mine… I’m not speaking in a materialistic way… I’m very slowly learning its ok to let go when the time is right.