Finally done, here is the memoir.
There is a song that is inside my soul - there is one I have tried to write over and over again.
So I try with you now - to talk about it - out aloud, so to speak. Why is it so hard? Are you my only friend?
I am only a child, six years of age , to be precise. I guess a little new inside myself. My father has remarried to The Stepmother who had a son, The Stepbrother. Both Stepmother and Stepbrother were very wary of letting me inside their lives - even though they had my Dad. They had him and I didn't know where I was going to fit. I got tired of trying to make them see me. I found my place in the background and there I remain.
"Make room for me please !" Is anyone listening ?
"I'm down here !"
But I did not feel any warmth from the strangers. I was a hassle. An inconvience. A by-product of an unsavoury union. That's my parents you are speaking about.
I wish they would get back together , but that doesn't happen. Ever.
So, I didn't kiss my parents on the lips anymore. My toys lost their shine. The backyard swing, just didn't swing as high anymore. Daddy stopped putting me on his shoulders, I was too big I know, but it was all I had.
Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling...
The Stepmother made me felt like a charity case, like an anamoly in her dreams of how things should be in her new marriage. I went from being an the apple of my father's eye to on the edge of his peripheral. I felt like a thorn between my Father and his new wife. I guess nothing has really changed. I tried to fit in. Honest.
Why won't you believe me daddy? Do you ever think of her as well ? Do you think of how she hurt you too and now she has hurt me? Do you feel sad when you see me , and you see her at the same time?
Before I moved in permanently with the new family, I was shuttled between my birth parents. I remember my mother always keeping my garbage bags packed to "go back to your Father's". I had a couple bags crammed with imperfect toys and a few photo's but that was it. I had to leave my bikes and my bedroom behind. I am afraid. I want my mummy. But I did not know if she wanted me. I just had to believe it. I had believe in somebody. I was, just a child, after all.
Sometimes , my birth mother would forget that I had to go to school. We would be sitting at the breakfast table and I would watch her fall asleep into her breakfast cereal stoned, her cigarette smoldering into the cornflake sodden floor. I would start to cry because I knew this meant she would have to give me back soon. Then we would both cry. I was responsibility. I was too much to remember. My mother is gorgeous and when she smiled - she could take your breath clean away. I will never forget how she looked, how she smelt - how she was.
Sometimes, she even forgot about me all together. With my little hands I would clean up the mess, that was my mother , tuck her back into bed. Shower her little kisses. Then I would go and watch cartoons, very quietly. On the days that she did remember that I had school - I would be waiting outside school at hometime long after all the children had been collected - it seemed like I was waiting and waiting for her all of my life , but she just wouldn't come , or couldn't come so the principal would drive me home and I would feel ok again. He was a friendly man and he seemed to understand that I was a good little girl. I didn't care if my Mummy looked "bad" - I knew she was a good mummy. But no one else ever believed me. When he dropped me home , I made myself dinner and put myself to bed. I was a big girl. I even made Mummy dinner - but she would be too sick to eat and would throw the plate at the wall. But it is ok. Maybe later, mummy.
Other times, much sweeter times when she got clean for a little bit, she was the only person who could ever make me feel like I was the centre of the universe. She wasn't perfect, but hey she was my Mum. So I forgave her. Constantly. I am that kind of girl. That hasn't changed.
But she always got sick again. So she lost custody of me. It changed my life. And no-one ever asked me how I felt about it. And now, well - I can barely speak about it.
My mother was in the throes of heroin addiction herself, and I guess I was just in the way a lot of the time, for a lot of people. But I managed to keep my chirpy disposition in light of the constant hurt and rejection I was feeling. I still don't know if I bottled it up - I get angry that no-one went out of their way to really think about how a small child would be feeling. Did they stop for a minute , for me, whether I had anything to do with how the grown-ups decided to live their lives ? Will anyone tell me why it is so hard to think of the children?
Sometimes I want to find her. I want to find my mother. It has been seventeen very long years - I think about her often , I look in the mirror and I am her. I remind my Father of her and I know that we are very similar - we are family. I want to tell her about the abuse, the sex work and about the drugs. I want her to care - I want her to sympathize. I want her to feel bad.
Yet, I can wish all I want ( and believe me I do ) The Stepmother has told me, so many times I have lost count, that she doesn't want to find me and if she wanted to - she would. So I remain a prisoner of my own anxiety.
Mother, I wish I could have the courage to find you. I wish I could undo all the bad words spoken about you, in my mind by others, unravel the lies and perhaps attempt to find the truth.
It is what we deserve. Can I let you destroy me with your final rejection? Do you know that I put needles in me as well - to try and understand that final day you drove off into the horizon.
I wanted to emulate you and feel that I could understand how a mother could leave her child - forever. How could you be so cruel? How could I be a part of you, I am nothing like you.
I am full of love and loyalty - do I even want to know you ? What kind of person are you to do that ? And never look back...
Should I do what you taught me to do?
Could I possibly learn to forget you
As much as I hate to love you , I love you more than ever.
All the flowers that you planted, mama
In the back yard
All died when you went away
I know that living with you baby was sometimes hard
But I'm willing to give it another try
cause nothing compares ...
Nothing compares to you