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Memory #1

June 2, 2012

I might be cleaning the bathroom. I might be making the bed. I might be driving the car. At some point, at least once a day, I will be doing something when a memory of something my Mother said or did to me will pass through my mind. I suppose most people have memories that surface as they go about their day. Parents are such critical people in our lives so it is only natural that we would think of our parents. With my Dad, who is deceased, I have fond, happy, funny memories that surface. With my Mother, I am yet to experience a happy memory. I honestly am not able to consciously recall a single happy memory I have of my Mother. I have plenty of neutral memories. She wasn’t awful every moment of every day. She did sleep. A lot of memories, when I think about it, were neutral. She did watch television, go out and about and just do nothing. When she was focused on something besides me, she was okay. Beyond neutral memories though, I only have negative memories.

I have had people in my life that I did not like. I have had arguments and disagreements with people. I have strongly disliked some people. I can’t really say that I have only negative memories of anyone but my Mother. Even with ex-boyfriends, I can remember happy times and pleasant experiences. I just am amazed that I can’t think of a single happy experience with  my Mother.

In my blog, I plan on writing out the bad memory of the day that knocks me flat. I find that coping with the memories that surface about my Mother is an ongoing, miserable process. It is sort of like dealing with oozing wounds. The wounds have to be cleaned and bandaged daily. It is exhausting. Unfortunately, the wounds my Mother left on my soul never seem to completely heal.  I am a well-educated, fairly intelligent woman but I really do not know how to stop the bad memories from popping up and hurting me.  I am wide open to guidance and suggestions. This little blog is not just for me to rant about my mean Mama. I am hoping other daughters will share their experiences and perhaps together we can figure out how to take the power over our bad memories and hopefully lead happier lives.

The memory of today is of the day my brother shot me with a bb gun. I was perhaps 5 years old and he was around 12 years old. My brother used to tease me all the time, among other thBlood splatterings. I have always had an independent streak and even at 5 years old, I figured I could and should tease him back. Big mistake. I was teasing him about his underwear. I, of course, had the job of collecting dirty laundry to be washed. Teasing him about his underwear was not nice. I know that. I was not, however, expecting him to pull out his bb gun, aim it at me and actually shoot me in the face, just missing my eye. It  happened really quickly. Being a wound on the face, the blood gushed. There was blood running down my face and there was soon a pool of blood on the floor. I was standing in the doorway to his room. My Mother came running when she heard the commotion. She saw me and ran past me to reach my brother. She went to make sure he was okay. I was standing there bleeding but she was concerned about him. She needed to comfort him. He shot me and I was bleeding but he was the one she was worried about. I got to mop up the blood and clean up myself.

The bb was lodged deep in my skin above my eye. For several days my Dad tried to dig it out with a tweezers. He was not able to get it. Infection was setting in so my Mother decided I should finally go to the doctor. I was given instructions of course. I was not to tell the doctor that my brother had shot me. It was an accident. He picked up the gun, aimed at me and shot me but I was supposed to say it was an accident. Fortunately, the doctor never asked me anything. At least I don’t remember ever having to explain anything to him.

I healed up and all was fine. I do not blame my brother. It gets a bit complex but my brother was innocent. He had been trained to hate me. It was what was expected of him. His was not a kind or a good brother to me when we were children. He liked to destroy my things and to torment me. He loved to scare me. He could not have gotten away with this if he had not been given the message that somehow it was okay to do these things. I blame my Mother. She taught him to be abusive and to treat me like I had no value. I have no anger toward my brother. He has become a better brother as an adult. We are not particularly close but we don’t hate each other. When he grew up and had children, I think he realized and understood that something was off in how he had treated me as a kid. We have never talked about it. We don’t talk about such things in my family.

The memory that bothers me the most is my Mother. What kind of Mother walks past a child who has been shot and who is covered in blood to comfort the shooter? What kind of Mother would ask a child to lie to protect the person who shot the child? Why was there no consequence or talk about how shooting me was not okay?

I think this memory represents the point in my life where I realized something was not right in the relationship with my Mother. This memory pops up from time to time. I think I have made progress because I no longer think I deserved to be shot for teasing my brother. For years and years I believed I deserved to be shot and that it was reasonable for my Mother to comfort my brother. I thought I was bad because I had teased my brother. Now, I think my brother was lucky that he did not turn out to be a psychopath. I think my Mother was awful for how she handled this situation. I think she was rotten in fact. As for my Dad, it is a mystery. I never told him what happened and I did not hear what my Mother told him. I suspect she lied to him because he would have been angry at my brother. She probably told him it had been an accident. Dad, though I loved him, was ignorant to the abuse going on against me in our house. I think he had some responsibility for being oblivious. On the other hand, Dad was abused by my Mother as well and he lived in his own little world half of the time. He was a WW II Vet and I think he had post traumatic stress syndrome. His childhood had been awful and so with all of his own internal wounds, I don’t think he was capable of really dealing with my reality. He married the devil and he was in his own hell.

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5 Comments
  1. No young girl should ever have to endure this type of abuse, nor these memories that haunt on through adulthood. My heart breaks for you.

    I do know of another blogger who is a wonderful woman. I think you might like her blog… her name is Judy (http://theprojectbyjudy.wordpress.com/). Her journey is choosing to live, inspite of abuse of a Narcissistic mother. She has been a blessing to me, that’s for sure.

    Nice to meet you.

    • Thank you for your kind note. I will check out her blog. Peace and joy to you. I need a pen name! Hmmm…think I will call myself Lilly, daughter of a strange mother.

      • :D…Lilly is a beautiful name. Very peaceful, and sheltering to lake-bound critters.

  2. It really helps to know there are people who have been treated the same way by their mothers. Your brother IS lucky he didn’t turn into a psychopath, your mom sure did everything she could to teach him how to be one!

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