A Pyrrhic Victory and Pickle Soup

***UPDATED AT BOTTOM OF POST***

The danger of blogging anonymously is that one day it will not be so anonymous. That day has arrived for me. I've been outed officially. My mother knows about my blog. So, fool that I am, with a in-or-a-penny-in-for-a-pound attitude, I told my mother-in-law too. Aren't I brave? To be fair, the MIL took it with good humor. She was more concerned that the world knows her son as Boo and that I frequently refer to his special man sausage as Mr. Pickle. That definitely fell under the whole too much information category.

My parents however, do not think I'm charming. Or funny. Or accurate. In fact, my father threatened to call the police and press charges for the post I wrote about my mother. I told him I would dial the number for him.

I've been dooced. I was in fact, fired from my family. Told that if I didn't issue a retraction for bad mouthing my mother all over the internet, I was no longer welcome in their home, no longer considered a member of their family.

After an argument, I held firm and refuse to apologize for this post. I stand by every word I wrote.

Don't get me wrong, I feel bad that my mother's feelings are hurt. That was never my intention or I would have used her name and forwarded a copy to her, her co-workers, her friends and every damn relative we have. But the point of that entry was for me to find peace and hope within my own past with my mother and strive for a better relationship with my daughter.

I will not apologize for that.

Nor will I pretend that our relationship has been easy. Just as I won't pretend that when I refused to apologize and tongue-in-cheek offered to call the police on their behalf, that I wasn't beat up. It is not okay to hit another person. Especially when that person is your daughter.

Publishing this will surely mean more drama, more hurt feelings, more anguish for my parents.

But then I'm the one nursing a sore jaw from being punched in the face and a bruised windpipe from having it crushed in an effort to silence my glib responses. Not to mention the lovely, very chic bruises of blue and purple I'm sporting on my arm from being manhandled.

Good times, dear internet. Good times.

After fleeing from my parents home, I cried. I rushed to the computer to delete every post in which I mentioned my parents. But as I sat looking at my redheaded alter-ego, I just couldn't do it. I won't pretend that my past wasn't filled with emotional abuse and sometimes, like yesterday, physical abuse. I won't edit my life to make my parents comfortable.

I write here, because laughter really is the best medicine. And I never want to forget that. Life is good. Even with that hairy little angel clinging to my back, plucking my heartstrings when ever he feels his mommy isn't paying enough attention to his memory.

My life is what it is. I have never got along with my mom. I will never stop trying to get a long with my mom. Even if she chooses not to speak to me. Nor will I ever forget the times I went to school with black eyes and had to pretend they were from my brother. They weren't. (Although he informed me that he did often clock me in the face, I am just to addled to remember.)

I grew up in a home with both physical and emotional abuse. I can't change that, but I can speak out against it, in an effort to help end that cycle, break that invisible chain. Am I willing to sacrifice my relationship with my parents to continue blogging? No.

Am I willing to sacrifice my relationship with my parents to ensure my relationship with my children follows a different path? Abso-fucking-lutely. And I feel no remorse or guilt for it.

The purpose of this post is not to shame my parents; I love them very much. I know that they did the best they could for me within the parameters of their situation and upbringing. They loved us and sacrificed for us. And I thank them for that. But they also made tremendous mistakes, ones I find myself desperately trying to avoid.

Ultimately, my priorities, are and always will be, my children. I am who I am because of the path I walked, the choices I made, the experiences I have. The good, the bad and even the ugly. I accept my choices and I can live with myself when I press publish today.

I can even handle the ass-whooping that was dished out. Because I know it will never happen to my children. Not on my watch. Never. I'll take a thousand angry blows to the jaw to protect them and their right to know their past, their history. My parents made me into the person I am today. They might not approve or even like me right now, but I'm fine with that. Because I like myself.

And I like blogging about what makes me the person I am. I want my children to read these posts one day and marvel at their mother's stupidity with hair removing wax, her affinity for duct tape, and her general humanity. I want them to know that I miss their brother so damn much that the pain freezes in my chest with every breath I inhale, but by kissing their small, snotty nosed faces, that pain eases just a bit.

I want them to know they mean everything to me, the way their brother did and always will. Even when they drive me batshit crazy. I want Fric and Frac and our future child to know who I am. And how I became the person I am. Life is not all sunshine and roses.

This week had a very dark day. I don't know what the future holds, how my parents will react to today's post, if they are even going to read it. If you're reading this Mom and Dad, hey! I love you, no matter what happened or will happened. Thanks for being my folks. Raising the likes of me couldn't have been a bucket of love all the time.

But I'm not going to pretend our past isn't what it was. Because then I would be pretending I'm someone I'm not. Which would defeat the healing aspect of this blog, and prevent my kids from knowing the human being trapped inside the body they call Mom. (Generally said as they roll their eyes heaven wards. Cheeky buggers.)

This is why I haven't blogged much this week. This is the dirty, embarrassing secret of my past. A past I embrace in order to change the future. A past most wouldn't find all that inspiring.

But I do. Because it made me the person I am today, and brought me to my husband, my children and dill pickle soup. Life is good. And that, my dear internet friends, is what I find inspiring.


***UPDATE: For those of you who have inquired, sympathized and offered well wishes, thank you. I am fine. Nothing a good steak (on the face) and a big glass of mommy juice can't fix. I am surrounded by support, both of the e-love variety, and the war cries of those in my flesh and blood life. Darling Boo offered to come home and rip someone from limb to limb, but I fended him off. No sense adding fuel to the fire. His righteous indignation is more than enough. He can kiss my booboos better when he gets home. My big ass brother, Stretch, has held my hand and propped me up. (Well, more like put me in a head lock and made me smell his smelly pits, but still, I could feel the love.) As of tomorrow, I will be back, stinking up the blogosphere with my prediction for cheese.***

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Now, go here and vote for me. Find me inspiring. I know my husband does! And thank you to all you lovely people who voted for me in the first place. Not that I have a chance at winning at the competition...have you seen those blogs? They're good. And there is no talk of family violence, young kids dying or potty language amongst them. But hey, if that floats your boat, click me. I'm a shameless whore and don't mind begging.

No, that doesn't apply to you, Boo.

A Daughter's Insight

Late last night, while I was enjoying my cup of tea, waiting for my cold medication to kick in and deliver me some sweet relief from my aching bones, feverish mind and phlegmy cough, the phone rang. I croaked hello into it, hoping to instill great amounts of pity in whomever was calling me at so late an hour. (Oh, that poor sick woman, I had better be extra nice to her, as she is all alone and sick and taking care of three children, one of whom isn't even hers, and that woman really deserves a medal...I admit it, I worked my croak to instill sympathy and I'm not ashamed of it.)

My croaking efforts were wasted as it was my big brother Stretch. The only time he has ever had pity on me was when he saw me at my son's viewing. Any other time is fair game for good natured teasing. Walking like a duck because I was hugely pregnant and suffering with pelvic bones that liked to separate; well it was my own damn fault. Should have kept my knees together in the first place. Having a horseshoe imprinted on my 11 year old face and my nose swell up to the size of a hot air balloon, well duh! Who the heck told you to walk behind a horse? Silly girl. Have a straw painfully stuck into the roof of her mouth because said big brother gently tapped the bottom of her milkshake cup? Should have been quicker and moved that cup.

The joys of having an older brother. After he ribbed me mercilessly about my germy house and told me about the joys of handwashing and antibacterial soap, he offered me this pearl of wisdom: Get rid of your kids. They carry disease like little rats. Thanks, Stretch. I would never have thought of that pearl all by myself.

After his dutiful lecture about sanitation and the joys of a kid-free life, he developed the brass nuts to ask me a favour. A favour that would require me talking to my mother. Wow, insensitivity and guilt all in one phone call. How did I get so lucky?

I don't often blog about my mother. Quite frankly, the subject is too painful and I prefer not to dwell on the embarrassing fact that my mother hates me. After all, most families have drama. What makes mine any different? Some how, it seems like my biggest failure; a daughter who wasn't loveable enough to win over her own mother.

Of course, years of therapy, time and some distance has taught me the flaw in that particular thought. My mother is simply flawed. I have made peace with that fact, but it hasn't always been easy, especially with her living down the road. It isn't easy reading other women's odes to their mothers, whether alive or not, and knowing that I have no such words to offer of my own. Mother's Day is brutal, for there is no card that says "I'm sorry I make you so angry and I'm really sorry we can't get along."

Yes, I love my mom. I wish every damn day that our relationship was different. I have tried so hard and made so many attempts my husband threatens divorce if I try again. Because inevitably, I get hurt. My mother simply can't understand who I am or respect who I became.

After years of growing up with her verbal abuse and believing her that it was all my fault, that I was lazy or stupid or ugly or fat, I realized no amount of change would suit her. And giving birth to my own children, especially my daughter, made me question why I should have to. It didn't matter to me what my daughter looked like, says, does or thinks. I don't care if she wants to be a ballerina or a dump truck driver. To me, she is the most precious gift I have. A mini reflection of myself, an extension of the love I share with her father. So why am I not the same thing to my mother?

My older brother and younger sister do not have these problems to the same extent as I do. My brother distances himself both physically and emotionally from her abusive personality. It is enough to see her on holidays and exchange pleasantries with her when he calls to talk to our father. My sister actually lives with her and has somehow managed to find a way not to bring out the inner dragon on a regular basis.

But there is something about me that makes my mother hurl insults at me whenever she gets the chance. Something about my looks, or my speech pattern or my breathing that makes her remind me, in front of my children, that she doesn't like me. She isn't sure she loves me. She wishes she didn't have me.

Of course, two minutes later she denies uttering those words. And then the "poor pity me" routine begins. It is exhausting and embarrassing. My husband and his family, all too often witnesses to such behaviour, have no words and no explanations. They simply hug me harder and offer a prayer.

My friends, often disbelieving at first, until witnessing awful outrages over nothing, are puzzled and saddened. Most grew up with wonderful parents and can't imagine having this type of relationship with their mother.

My children, whom I have tried to shield as much as possible from this craziness, don't understand how a grandma can be so wonderful to them, but so unjust and cruel to their mother. They are at an age where things are starting to make sense to them and they don't know how to make the pieces to this puzzle fit.

I used to feel sorry about this, pity myself and my lack of a mother. I used to spend hours trying to remember one single childhood memory that involved a hug, a touch or kind words or laughter with her. I honestly can't. I have many with my dad, but not one with my mother.

I know I am not the first in this club, nor will I be the last. But knowing this fact doesn't make it any less isolating. Any less painful. Every argument we've had, every harsh word, I pick apart to examine and see where I went wrong. Was it really my fault that my mother didn't talk to me for two full months from the day I buried my son? Could I have been nicer to her at the funeral? I guess I should have hugged her first instead of waiting until the end of the day. But I just couldn't face that accusing look in her eyes, the one that said I failed as a mother and managed to kill the one good thing I had done.

I haven't given up trying to reach my mother. But now I understand, it isn't me. Something within her is broken and is reflected back to her, every time she sees me. Sometimes she can control that rage and disappointment, other times she can't. But I admit to no longer caring as much. Or hurting as much when she tells me what a loser and a disappointment I am. I fear one day I may stop caring all together. And that saddens me.

Because for all the feelings of shame and sadness I feel when I think of her, I know that I am who I am because of her. I am resilient, persistent and humorous because of her. I am intelligent, sharp and I know what I want, thanks in large part to her and her genetics. I am the mother I am today because of the mother she was yesterday. I wouldn't change that.

But I do grieve that mother-daughter bond, especially when my own beautiful daughter comes up to me to simply hug me and tell me she loves me.

How I wish it were that easy for me.

Lessons Learned

It is humbling to realize how many people are out here, floating about in the blogosphere, who will take the time to try and make a little bitty redneck girl feel better.

For all the well wishes, good thoughts and prayers you sent in my direction, and that of my father's, I thank you. I really, really thank you. All of you. For every key stroke you sent my way, I want you to know it helped. It all helped.

My dad is doing much better. As of yesterday, the doctor's pronounced him stable and took him off the critical list. It was a good day.

Strike that. It was a great day.

Sitting in that ICU room, day after a day, brought back a lot of memories. Some pleasant, other's not so much. But as I struggled with my fear and my memories, I realized something. I would survive this. Even if my dad didn't.

I do wish, however, he had chose another month; a different time, to get sick. With my Shalebug's first year anniversary of his passing approaching in less than two weeks, I really didn't need a reminder of how fragile life is. Or how cold October could be when standing at the edge of a grave in a pretty cemetery.

But now that my dad is fighting to return to his old, ornery self, I thought I would take the time to share with you, dear internet, some of the things I have learned these last two weeks, while sitting in various hospitals, staring at my dad and my husband.

First off, I know now, that no matter how sick my husband is, how legitimate that illness is, I will still be annoyed with him for getting sick in the first place. Heaven help him, he can do no right. I would apologize for this, if I thought I could change this about myself, but since he tends to be a big baby and I tend to be a heartless woman, I'll just choose to accept this quirk about myself.

Secondly, the ICU is a scary place. It doesn't matter how cute the male nurse named Todd looks in his green scrubs, the beeps, tubes, machines and smell of death is still scary.

I learned septic shock accounts for 25 percent of all ICU bed utilization in North America, with a mortality rate of greater than 70 percent.

I learned the leading cause of death in non-coronary ICU patients is septic shock. I learned that sepsis is the tenth most common cause of death overall, in North America.

I learned that watching a dialysis machine take urine out of blood is truly a miracle. Especially when you are packing around a fussy six month old baby who shuts up (finally!) to watch the whirring and beeping of said machine.

I learned it is always funny, no matter how many times I see it, to see an old man waddle about with his back side hanging out from a hospital gown. I also learned an old man's rear is not near as pretty as a thirty year old man's.

Sadly, I learned that watching your father fight for his life, while very scary and humbling, is not nearly as scary as watching your child fight for his life. There is still nothing scarier than rushing to emergency with your sick child in your arms, only to walk out of the emergency room hours later with nothing but a plastic bag in your hand.

I also learned that hospital food is never palatable, my annoying aunt is even more annoying in the face of great crisis and that as screwed up as my family really is, we really love each other. Warts and all. Even when my 6'4" brother hogs the tiny sofa and snores like a lumber jack. Even when my sister uses my toothbrush and deodorant with out asking. Even when my mom shoots pop out of her nose, thereby spraying me with it. Yummy.

I learned there is no better sound than that of my dad finally being taken off the ventilator and telling the nurses he is going to shove his boot up their asses when he gets out of this god forsaken place.

I learned how blessed I am. No strike that. I remembered how blessed I really am. I already knew I was blessed. I just forgot it momentarily.