A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting at my desk in a whirlwind of emotion and in need of letting some things go. I have been physically and emotionally drained for months now. I am partially convinced that this is a normal annual occurrence that normally takes its toll on my body the most intensely around this same time of year every year. By February and March I am usually a bit more irritable, bored out of my mind, and ready for the sun to come and refresh all of the life that just laid dormant for the winter.
Have you ever been sitting in a completely quiet and empty room and found yourself lost in wonder and contemplation? I mean, lost so deep that it feels like life is so raw and intense and full of ways to break your spirit? I probably sat there for a long while just letting my mind wander before I snapped back to reality. I was looking out the window – perhaps I was wallowing, or perhaps I was just relishing in sane human emotion after heartbreak – but I kept feeling this deep pit in my stomach telling me to just let it all out. I sit at my desk all day on the computer, so instead I pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, and I started writing to my mom in prison. The letter sat on my desk under a pile of other papers for a couple weeks before I finally decided to toss it in the trash.
When I write these letters, I never really feel like I am writing to my Mom. Our relationship is so estranged that the word ‘Mom’ feels like it has a different meaning. Like, I understand what the word means to other people, and I know that I am an absolutely wonderful mother to my own children, but as it relates to the woman that birthed me, I identify with it differently. Mom feels like a label. Like it’s her name.
What else am I supposed to call her?
But it doesn’t feel like a term of endearment, nor do I see her as the same kind of person as several of the amazing Moms that I have had the pleasure of looking up to throughout my short time on this planet. When I write these letters, it feels like I am writing a letter to the person that caused me pain and changed my life indefinitely, but not to a person that I know. I am going to be 27 years old this October. I was taken from my mother at the age of 7. Let’s put that into perspective. At this point in my life, nearly 75% of my life has been spent without my mother. When I say without, I mean no calls, no texts, no visits, nothing. Poof. Like she didn’t even exist, yet I knew of her absence and the pain it carried. And the one quarter of my life that I did spend with her, I was from the ages of 0-7… so you tell me, how much of that time frame in your life do you remember? Because I remember some good times, and some bad times… but mostly I remember the LACK of times we shared together. I remember all of the times she wasn’t there. My childhood is tainted by flashbacks of being so sick from missing her on holidays that I’d have to lay in bed most of the day. I remember scanning bleachers of basketball games looking for a face that never came. No documentation ever came forward with her making any effort to get me back or to even set up visitations.
Growing up, I felt like I was the only kid experiencing what it was like to have their mother in prison. And in my case – my mother was a single parent, so I had to be placed in a completely different home altogether. I didn’t know anybody like me. My best friend all throughout Junior High had happily married parents that went on ornate family vacations every summer, and my other girlfriend lived on a farm with happily married parents who owned horses and a brick fire oven on their back patio. They could offer their deepest regards to my pain and emotions as we matured, but ultimately, no one I knew had a home life that seemed anything other than perfect in my eyes. And no one was ever really able to offer me the deep understanding and empathy that I felt like I needed as a young girl making her way through life. Not that that burden was ever to be beared by my friends, but it just led me down a path of extreme loneliness and separation from my peers that I still struggle with today. I had to grow up a lot faster than anyone around me and I had to pave my own path to success and family that is often much more easily reached by someone with a supportive and loving home life. My aunt and uncle did what they could at the time to give us everything we needed, but there is never a replacement for a mother. It is just different when you have got that bird in your ear reminding you that you have been neglected and rejected by the one woman you want the most. Sometimes the pain is too much to bear, but I suppose it’s never really too much – because here I stand. Fighting my way to every inch I have ever gained.
I was doing some research on this to gain some background on how common it is for a child to have an incarcerated parent and just how it affects the child of the offender. I think one of the most surprising facts about this is that it’s reeeally not that uncommon at all.
Today in Illinois, nearly 200,000 children—or one in every 20—have had a parent in jail or prison.
Task Force on Children of Incarcerated Parents, December 2020
It is estimated that 5 million U.S. children have experienced the incarceration of a parent – with the average age of 8 years old. Children of incarcerated parents are more likely to experience poor health and unmet health care needs, greater exposure to mental health symptomatology such as anxiety, PTSD, and depression. They are more susceptible to lower educational attainment, higher rates of aggression, substance abuse, justice system involvement, and more likely to disenfranchise from civic and political participation (Task Force on Children of Incarcerated Parents: Final Report and Recommendations).
The affects that the incarceration of a parent can have on a child is insurmountable. I have experienced hurdles in all of the aforementioned categories and was never offered mental or emotional rehabilitation or counseling to help me cope. If we want to change the direction of society and fill it with children that grow up to be dependable, happy, healthy, and innocuous adults, we must do something about the care that we offer to the families affected by the judicial system. There is responsibility to be placed on offenders, but we cannot forget about the people that their decisions directly impact. I was a child, lost and lonely. I overcame the statistics that are made out of people from families like mine.
I guess my main point is this: If you are struggling with an addiction or a decision that keeps you from offering the love to the children you created, just stop. There is no excuse you could offer that will console or mend whatever destruction your situation is causing. I still feel an immense sense of disassociation with reality and division between myself and those that have never felt rejection, abandonment, and loneliness to this level. I aim for a world where no child ever has to wonder if their mother cares about them, for it is a lonely and desolate journey forward.
How true. Many of these are buried deep inside of me. Many things I grieve for in this life. I think our world should be reminded of this message, as our entire world is so far from how it used to be. It’s okay to feel uneasy in your core. And it’s okay to name that feel as grief, it describes so much more than the loss of someone. Own your feelings and work through them at your own pace.
It’s currently 11:29pm and I’m sitting here enjoying the last few minutes of December 18th.
Because it’s FINALLY the weekend – Something I’ve deserved since MONDAY, amiright?
I actually am only up right now because I fell asleep with Della on the couch. I didn’t wanna fight bedtime tonight, so I laid with her until we both fell asleep watching cartoons. I woke up, moved her to her bed, and am now relaxin. Dylan is in the garage working on his truck. His drivers side door won’t open and the truck won’t start without a jump, so add that to the list of BS that has smacked down on us in the last WEEK.
I’ve been overwhelmed with work this week and have just felt a bad vibe all week long. I’m hoping the stars realign next week so I can get my spirits back up.
No real big plans for the weekend. We were supposed to have family Christmas tomorrow night, but COVID ruined that too. I’ve remained fairly optimistic and have tried to see the positive of this pandemic since the first lockdowns started, but here lately I’ve just been feeling that optimism get cut thinner and thinner.
I’m ready to do what I want when I want. But I’m afraid I feel we have months to go still, even with a new vaccine. It’s been nine months, but it’s still a new normal. No comfortability in sight.
I’m going to challenge myself to list three good things about this week:
1. My sister has her room downstairs all settled, and it makes me feel good that I’m able to take her in when she needs someone. She seems happier.
2. My daughter never ceases to make me laugh when I need it the most. We had fun this week playing with some new Christmas presents she got. She served me “breakfast” on her new plates this morning.
3. This week was payday. On top of that, our company earned a small bonus for our fourth quarter efforts. Only $100 after taxes, but I’m not complaining! I could fill my car three times with that!
It’s good to challenge yourself to see the good when everything feels so drag. What are some good things that happened to you this week? I need to hear some love from y’all 💓
Tonight I want to get vulnerable with myself. I want to examine reality and determine what parts of it aren’t real.
And since it’s part of my story, I think it’s important to share it all with you. I consider myself a writer. It’s something that I feel proud of myself as. But I’m not just a writer. I am a sharer. I am a personal, stretch-the-limits kind of writer. I share the deepest, scariest, and most exposing feelings of my life and I think it’s why I always receive messages from people saying that my story helped them, or inspired them, or intrigued them.
So I won’t stop.
I can’t stop.
I have a story to tell and it’s important for me to share so that people like me know they aren’t alone.
Growing up, I lived about 30 miles from my mom. Just a short 25 minute cruise away. It wasn’t necessarily hard for me to search for her if I wanted to, and I think that made our separation feel deceiving. We weren’t really that far away from one another, yet we were living in completely different worlds.
In high school and even a short time in college, success was hard for me to feel appreciation for. I’d hit one milestone, feel the warmth of victory, but then put my nose right back down and focus on what was coming next. What was the next life trophy I can knock off the list?
The thing that made success the hardest for me was that every time I hit a moment of pride, I knew my name would be in the paper, or on the news, or on the radio.
And my mom was only 30 miles away.
Surely, she saw what I did?
Surely, she is proud of me?
With these wonderings, I quietly held onto the hope that only being 30 miles away gives you…
She probably knows where I’m playing basketball this week because she watched the news last night.
She might be at the next game.
Maybe.
OR
She probably read my name in the newspaper for my good grades last week.
I bet she was proud when she saw my name.
30 miles. I mean, how is that all that separates my mom and me?
30 measly miles?
It was enraging and sanity-deteriorating because I drove myself crazy looking for her every time I left my house. I’d walk into Wal-Mart and stare at the backs of any blonde-haired woman, daring it to be her when she turned around. I’d run across the river for gas and look at every pump.
I scanned the bleachers of every game of every sport I ever played.
Because she was only 30 miles away.
It was damaging in so many ways because I didn’t know how to release the pressure that built up in me and I didn’t know how to live a life where I felt like I always had to search for her. But then I got old enough to roam the world when and how I wanted to, and suddenly the clouds parted, and I was no longer searching.
I was suddenly only 30 miles awayif I wanted to be.
And that had nothing to do with where I lived.
I accepted what was and quit being infatuated with any short, blonde woman that had her back to me. I knew that if I ever did find myself in a room with her, I was finally in a place to remain in control of my emotions. And that was something I never felt throughout all my high school years.
30 miles apart and I had no idea if she was following my growth or completely oblivious to the person I had become. Earlier, I stated that success was hard to appreciate, but it was still something that I was dedicated to and worked very hard at.
I wanted her to feel bad about missing out on supporting me while I followed my dreams.
I didn’t want to give her the easy way back in because I was doing just fine without her.
I became educated.
I got stronger.
I chose to serve my country.
I grew independent and caring and gentle.
I rose above every situation that was designed to set me back.
It’s been a busy week already. It’s only Tuesday and I’m already looking forward to Friday.
Sunday night Della painted her pumpkin. I really can’t believe how well she did considering she isn’t even two, but painting a pumpkin at her age is way easier than carving one. Dylan and I brought our pumpkins inside but we didn’t get the chance to carve them yet. What have you all carved into yours? I haven’t decided on what I want to do and I need some inspiration.
Della’s painted pumpkin
Fast forward to last night.
Dylan continued with his new shift at work this week, so I was at home last night with Della. This girl gives me a run for my money sometimes because let me tell ya… This girl can WHINE. That’s pretty much all she did from 5 o’clock until 7 when she begged me to put her to bed. I put her to bed and she still continued to scream. Let’s just say I ended the night with a bottle of wine sitting on the couch binging Grey’s Anatomy.
By 11 o’clock she was up crying again. We put her in our bed and tried to get her back down with no luck. But 2 o’clock this morning we were still pleading with her to go to sleep. I moved to the couch at about 4am so I could at least get some rest before I had to get up for work. When my alarm went off at 6:30, Dylan and her were both asleep and she was lookin reaaaal comfy laying in my spot on the bed (Go figure).
Tonight has been better. We didn’t put away the paint from painting her pumpkin so she begged to paint some more. I figured it would be easier cleaning the paint off of her than it would be to deal with a screaming child all night for the second night in a row. So I went to our basement, grabbed some bottles, and let her paint on them. I used to paint bottles and decorate them for homemade gifts, so I figured letting her paint some would be a cute gift we can give family. I always appreciate homemade gifts made by kids!
Now she is playing contently and I’m sitting in my nook writing away. I don’t have a lot to say besides that being a mom is overwhelming sometimes. I know I will one day miss these days, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes sulk when parenting gets hard. I just try to remind myself that tomorrow will be a new day. And really, that’s all we can do. Life is pretty crazy right now all around. I have so much anxiety about the upcoming election, the coronavirus pandemic, work, holidays, and Della. I’m wondering if there will ever be an end to all of the madness. I guess I should try to accept that life is going to be a bit different for awhile.
Hang in there, folks. Use this site as a platform to get your emotions out. We may not have the close contact relationships with friends like we used to, but we do have an amazing outlet for stress through writing. We will get through this stronger.
I don’t know how to love my mom. Or if I’m ever even going to be able to.
Some people can easily let the words “I love you” spew from their mouth, but I have never been that kind of person. Of course I have no issue pulling my daughter or fiancee in for a hug and telling them that I love them, but the words to people outside of that circle do not come as easily.
This makes me think back to growing up. My sister Victoria and I were five months different in age and we did nearly everything together. Strangers would even ask us if we were twins. Anyway, we both went through our own different stories of trauma in our childhood, which was probably part of the reason we grew to be so incredibly close. We both had sassy, smart mouths and often got in trouble together for running them when we shouldn’t have. We were close – and she is still one of my absolute favorite people on this planet – but we did not put that love on display. We even mocked displaying love to others. We rarely hugged, because we both never felt totally comfortable with it. When we said “I love you” to one another, we would say it and then immediately *gag*. We did this even into our twenties and now that we live in different states and both have a kid, we’ve kind of outgrown it.
My mom came to my house last week to visit. She has been clean for almost a year and I am super happy about that, but we still don’t talk all that much and being around her is just super uncomfortable for me. I can say, though, that having her around last week was actually very enjoyable. My daughter even let her hold her and they played on the floor together.
My insides were smiling, but then I noticed the gaping hole in my heart, realizing what could have been if drugs hadn’t taken her from us for so long.
She stayed and visited for a few hours and when she got up to leave I stayed sitting down. My younger sister got up saying, “Wait! I want to give you a hug!” When she said that I immediately got nervous because I knew that my mom would in turn expect the same thing from me. So I got up and gave her the hug, but when she said she loved me I fell silent.
I don’t know how to love her. I don’t feel comfortable just sitting across from her on the couch. There is so much water under the bridge, and I don’t know how to let go of what was and accept what is.
I’m not actively angry (I’ve said this before). I’m just simply unsure of how to heal from the past. I don’t know how to let her in.
I’m happy for her progress and I’m happy that she gets to see her grandbaby, but I don’t feel like that means that I owe her anything. I just don’t know how to love her.
I start therapy on Friday. I’m very excited, actually. I feel like the stigma against mental health is kind of diminishing and more and more people are trying their hand at therapy. In all reality, everyone just wants to feelbetter.I’ve always wanted to talk to someone about all of the feelings I have, but I’ve never been so lost that I felt that there was no other option.
That is how I feel now.
I am on an unexpected, anxiety-ridden rollercoaster of emotions right now. I have hit rock bottom and I scheduled the appointment without even hesitating. I need this.
Yes, I am a daughter and a friend and a mother and a partner…but who am I when it’s not based upon a relationship with someone else?
Who am I?
I want to strip down and view myself in a completely vulnerable and open way. I want to look at why I do the things that I do. I want to find the meaning of all the pent-up emotions that never address. Why haven’t I addressed them? Am I a complete narcissist and have no clue? What can I do to make sure that I am focusing some of my energy on ME? What in my life has happened that has changed the way I form relationships with others? What can I do to improve the way I carry myself around those that love me?
Between the Lens 