time of birth ....... time of death

Today is my son's birthday and I can't remember what time he was born. I just realized that I don't know what time he died...........








He would have been 40 years old this morning. My first born........... I named him after my dad. He was the light of my mother's eye. He could do no wrong as far as she was concerned and that is when the battle began. Throughout his childhood we struggled for control. She was his favorite, of course, because with her he could have anything his heart desired. No matter if it was good for him or not. I resented it, of course and took it out on him more often than not. I know now that her manipulations were born of a desire to replace the son she was never allowed to have. Part of the resentment I felt was his father's fault. Although not a presence in his life, the abuse I suffered at his hands festered in my subconscious like a wound that would not heal and would erupt from time to time. My son was the obvious target and I confess that I was equal to the monster that fathered him. I would "spank" him too hard and for inappropriate reasons.











Being married to his step-dad softened me and made me a better mother. The fact that my mother absolutely hated my husband was a bonus for him, since it made me love him all the more. My son was still caught up in the battle for control and my husband fought my battles for me. I tried to be the best mother that I knew how to be. But, I wasn't a good mother to him. I failed him in so many ways.








He started running away from home at the age of 14, trying to find the elusive "real" father, I suppose. My mother played a role in encouraging him to leave our home and he ended up at my sister's house for a school term. He took his sister along with him. She was his partner in crime so to speak. Neither shared the same father and were both adopted by my husband. With the three children we added, the seven of us formed a family. Or so we thought..........




I let the man who fathered my son have him when he was 17. He was a big kid, already 6' tall and I mistakenly assumed he could take care of himself. I was wrong. I was at wits end with the child and this seemed like a solution. He took control of his life and molded him into what he ultimately became. That, in no way absolves me of my part in his life, but the man I married when I was only 15 was a monster. He learned his behaviour from his father and opted to control me with an open handed slap to my head. When that failed he used his fists, and he used them often. I became his punching bag when his world was not what he wanted it to be. I escaped and thought I had also saved my child, but repercussions of that abuse will follow, no matter how hard you try to avoid it.



Not long after he graduated high school in California, living with his "real" dad, he showed up on the doorstep of my parents. He now possessed a heightened sense of entitlement along with an arrogance that resembled that of my ex-husband. He emulated my abuser in speech and mannerism, making it difficult to be around him. My mother and I were not on good terms and she was once again playing her old game of pitting child against parents. She re-enforced the fact that my husband was not the man who fathered my two older children at every opportunity throughout their childhood. This undermined the authority of us both and split our little family.



He came back home for a very brief time. When I found out he was using drugs I kicked him out and he lived in his car for a time............ much to the embarrassment of the three children still at home. I was making a point, though, and refused to let him come home. Tough love? I suppose you could call it that. I also refused shelter to my oldest daughter, she holding the record for the number of times she could run away and come back home. I had three younger children to think about and protect.



Protect, well, I failed at that. When not running away, during those times of relative peace, they were tormenting their younger siblings. Half-siblings, excuse me. Not whole, just half. Guess that made it alright to abuse them. Less of a crime, I suppose to rape your half-sister. And I didn't know. How could I not know? Did I miss signs? Was I so busy with every day life that I failed to listen closely? I don't know the answer and I have no excuse. They were clever, those two halves connected only by me, the mother. They looked out for each other, providing excuses and protection for each other. They shared a loyalty that did not include their three younger "halves". Those three were targets to torment and I was unaware of the extent of the torment. What does that say about me?



I didn't know until my babies became adults. How do you wrap your mind around something like this? How can you hate your own child? How do you forgive that child? How do you process the fact that you birthed a monster? Just mentally put it aside and go on. Take it out in the wee hours of the night when it awakens you rudely. Examine it, then, in the dark. Still unable to really find any peace with it. Is this how the mother of a serial killer feels? You want to distance yourself and feel guilty that you don't love your child enough. Then one the other hand, feel guilty that you love him at all............



In a fit of rage one day, I threw his baby book in the dumpster. As if that act would erase what he had done and absolve me of guilt? A show of loyalty to my children who were injured by his hand? I don't know. I gave all his photos to his sister along with her childhood mementos. I still have those things of the three younger children. I won't let them go until I am gone and they will pick them up then when they pick threw the remains of what my life was. I didn't even bring his ashes into my home although I keep the ashes of my dead dogs ............... wonder what that says about me?



Today was his birthday and I can't remember the time of his birth and I don't know the time of his death........................