Mommies Don't Leave;
I sat hugging myself tightly on the balcony of the Golden Sands Hotel. My body shivered violently, attributed in part to the 45-degree Carolina Beach air, but mostly to crippling indecision. I stared blankly into the icy blackness of the sea, sending bold gusts of wind to dry my tears as quickly as they fell. As I studied the blue ripples of the pool five stories below, I contemplated climbing onto the rail. I would spread my arms like the hawk preparing for flight and soar to my demise.
I felt my body tense at the reality of the sharp stinging pain when my skin smacked the frigid water. I saw the blood flow from my skull with the crack against the concrete casing. I felt the life inside of me gasping for air as my lungs filled with water, the life I created with an otherwise attached man. The lights surrounding my blue death trap flickered out along with my thoughts of ending our lives.
What a strange sound "our lives" made as it escaped my lips. The reality that I was unquestionably not ready for a responsibility of such magnitude was of no consequence now. My face was raw, red, and threatening windburn. I stepped into the warmth of my room. As I slid the door shut, I banished the chill in the air as well as the chill in my soul as I dialed the number to connect me home.
Alongside the tiny mortal resting inside my womb, I felt hope rise. With the words of a brilliant man, the ache subsided. My dark-haired savior could have recited Shakespeare or sung "Old McDonald Had a Farm". His voice alone gave me much needed strength. As our conversation ended, I dozed off into a tranquil sleep. I felt safe, a feeling more genuine than any feeling I had ever known. Three months later, we were married. At some point after that fateful night, I lost sight of truth, as though a piece of me flew from that balcony to wonder the sea.
February 17, 2000 should have been a glorious day. I was to marry that brilliant man at 6:00 p.m. Far from the giddy bride to be, I was crazy with doubt, fear, and a myriad of other exquisitely negative emotions. To exclude excitement entirely would not be fair, however overshadowed it may have been. I credited a sizeable amount of my apprehension to my ambiguity concerning the condition and manner of our union.
Marriage had never been of great consequence in my vision, although had it been, it indeed would have been in less haste and involved a great deal more preparation. A mere nine days since proposed to and there I was in my Father's house preparing to walk down the aisle that was the hallway from my bedroom to the living room. I was oblivious to the meaning of the word love. I had never declared otherwise, yet I stood ready to pledge my undying devotion in front of God and a room full of family and friends.
I faced the mirror, pulling my mass of curls into perfect place in the midst of my mother fussing over my shawl, my Grandmother relieved that the fine specimen of a man would have me considering my current condition, and my aunt smirking, proud that she had a hand in taming the shrew. All of them had been accomplices in my exploitation, unmindful of my inability to establish any semblance of an honest connection with anyone. I slipped my slightly swollen feet into 3-inch heels, snatched my bouquet, took my Father's arm and set out down the hall on queue.
I glared at my Father whose glee I was certain came from his influence as well. All of a sudden, I was center stage, plopped in the hot seat. My Father was the host, with his speckled gray ponytail. The groom's mother was the round raven-haired "Vanna White". They stood smugly on either side of three doors, holding garage door remotes. "If you marry soon, you get what's behind door number one." My Father's voice echoed through the microphone.
Mother of the groom spread her arms diagonally and spouted, "A House". The first door lifted, rendering the gray-sided house with the red shutters where we would make our home. "And, that's not all!" my father spoke again. "You can also choose from this honeymoon, Isuzu Trooper and the payoff on this loan." The second door flung open showing me my debt, a trip anywhere but here, and the black boxy SUV I treasured. "And last but not least, you win the approval and acceptance of the people who love you most". The last door rose to reveal the remainder of my family, smiling, laughing, and running out impatiently onto the stage to greet me.
I never wished for children or marriage. I harbored no illusion of a white knight and happily ever after. Then I discovered I was pregnant at the ripe old age of not sixteen or even eighteen, but twenty-four. I considered terminating the pregnancy. My family encouraged this alternative with one exception. My aunt confided in me that she had an abortion at the urging of her mother sixteen years earlier.
Now, a mother of two, she wondered what that child would have been like had she made a different choice. She has to live with that everyday that she breathes. Then again, when you bring a child into the world, you live with that everyday you breathe. It is now your job to keep the small ones breathing everyday as well. I chose life. On Mother's Day a healthy 8 lb. 14 oz baby boy was born. I did not experience the bond other mothers rave about.
All of the motions were there absent any actual emotion. All I felt was good old-fashioned obligation, and I detested it. With common sense as my guide, I took care of my child. I was never overly protective nor was I negligent in any way. I would see cute clothes and want them for my baby, much like the way I admire a pretty couch cover and envision the addition to my living room. What I failed to realize until much later was that I was spiritually vacant and emotionally bankrupt. I did not have anything to give.
The void expanded along with my belly one year later. I brought a second baby boy into the world on Valentine's Day. Have you ever had a puppy? How many of you have had several puppies? One ran off, one got ran over, one tore up too much crap. Did you ever really grow attached to the puppies? You liked the idea of a puppy. That is who I was. I ran on empty ideas of children as if they were miniature adults, entertaining when they were cute, but dismissed when I no longer wanted to deal with them.
A rude awakening would have been appropriate. Nevertheless, there was no awakening for me, only a burden, a chore, a royal pain in the butt. I could not accept it. I was miserable. I was supposed to be doing something more extravagant with my life. I was not supposed to be walking around covered in spit up and cheerios, cleaning soiled diapers. What seemed to mildly irritate and amuse most infuriated me. I began having frequent rages, some of them documented. "This clutter everywhere, makes me want to scratch my eyeballs out and I have no time to mess with it because I have two children who won't leave me alone!"
I was a ticking time bomb, swearing and throwing things from boiled eggs to baby gates.
I began struggling to escape when my eldest son was 9-months old. I continued this quarterly profession of misery for the next couple of years, only remotely satisfied while pregnant with my second child. I convinced nearly everyone including my husband that this mediocrity of a middle class existence was making me unhappy. I persuaded myself. I was intolerable with a convincing argument. Nothing was ever good enough. Instead of embracing my gift, I betrayed it.
I walked out on my family one Saturday in late March. My delusion that I could pick up my pre-married life where I left off consumed me. I denied my guilt by judging that they would be better off without me. This snowball of lies rolled down hill for one month before plummeting into an inferno. The icy wall I encompassed myself in melted. I stood bare in front of the mirror staring into my own hollow eyes. The truth of what I did hit me and brought me to my knees.
I knelt in the face of the devastation I caused. I spent some time beating myself up. I wept. I prayed. Out of the rubble, hope arose and I was able to stand. I allowed a tiny beam of light in. I decided to fight. With the same fervor I fought to destroy my life, I would fight to salvage it.
My journey began with a search into the ugliness inhabiting my core. Inch by inch I chiseled, finding pieces of me along the way. God was my advocate, and in prayer I found strength. I apologized to my husband and children I left shattered on the floor. Sorry is meaningless without action. Words of atonement fell on deaf ears. My babies' eyes were void of trust. I taught them that and I hated myself for it.
When reparation seemed futile, a force reminded me that my mission was to restore the hearts of those I betrayed. Whether they forgave me and allowed me back into their lives was in the hands of someone else. You cannot send a note to make amends for bulldozing a building. You have to roll your sleeves up and rebuild it brick by brick. I did.
For the first time since I was fifteen years old, I fought for something selfless. I fought to find decency in myself and to pass it on to my loved ones. I fought not for my life back but for a new life, as the person I continue growing to be. I walked in the same door I walked out in early September.
I was 29-years-old when I was granted a reprieve. I never stop laying those bricks. I hold tight to my husband. We share an inexplicable love, a love that I found when the ugliness died in the light of exposure. As it turns out, I was human. In the place I hid love I found my missing bond. My boys embrace me today as their mother not because they have to but because they want to. I look into their eyes and I see trust. I am a wife. I am a mother.
This remains by far the most difficult job, not because I am miserable doing it, but when you do the right things for the right reasons, you radiate energy. Some days there is very little left for you alone. The breaker still kicks when you run the microwave and vacuum at the same time. The children still fight. My husband still procrastinates. I sit in grateful repose. I chose life.