Parents, Part 1

This post has been bouncing around in my head for a week now.  I spoke to someone a week ago on the phone whom I used to regard as the closest thing to a parent.  I've had a couple of instances in my life where that feeling was awakened, but this couple was definitely the strongest and closest I've ever been to having parents.

I'm not sure where this post will go, or how long it will end up.  It might have to be told over several days.  However, I do know that I should put in some disclaimers.  So here goes:

If you do not want to know any really personal details about me, you should not read further.

If listening to a person tell about their life makes you squeamish, you should not read this.

If you are a part of this story, and don't care to rehash the past, you should not read this.

That being said, this all started last week, like I said, when I got the call.  This is someone I recently discovered through Facebook, and have had FB and e-mail conversations with since then.  I really wanted to hear from his wife, even though I had no idea what I would say to her, and knowing that she doesn't like to write, I gave him my phone number, and hoped that she'd call.

He called instead, and it was wonderful to hear his voice.  I realized through the conversation that he and his family probably had no idea what an impact they had on my life.  How do you make something like that known?  It's too personal to share aloud, really.

So I've been thinking about parents, and what they mean to a person.  I think, even in adulthood that people are still connected to their parents.  I've known people, and heard stories from others, that have lost their parents early in adulthood, and even though they are grown, they still feel bereft, and lost for a time without that presence in their lives.

I know several people who are still quite close to their parents, and talk to a parent on a weekly, if not daily basis.

So what is this bond?

I lost my parents early in life.  They are not dead, although they might as well be.  My father left me when I was barely two, and from what I've heard about him, he is not someone I would want to know, even now.  My mother, unfortunately, did not leave, although I was probably around five when I realized she was not a nice person, and I did not have to like her.  This is one of my earliest memories.

My mother was abusive, physically and emotionally.  When I was around five, I remember being dropped off with my younger brother at an in-home daycare facility.  It could have been a babysitter, but I remember there being several other children, which is why I think it was probably a daycare.  It was just for the day, and to my knowledge was the first time I had been left in the care of another.  I had no family other than my siblings, but my sister, who is ten years older than I, usually took care of us, so I'm not exactly sure why we were left in this place.  Maybe my sister was in school.

I remember being terrified.  I was a shy child.  I know that is hard to believe for those of you who know me now, but I was.  Quiet, and shy.  New experiences scare me.  So I sat alone in a corner, and sucked on the crook of my elbow the entire time we were there.  As a result, I gave myself a hickey.  At the time, I didn't know what a hickey was.

When my mother picked us up, she was furious about the hickey.  She beat me quite thoroughly right there in the street because of it.  Not knowing what the big deal was, I could only decide that she was unreasonable, and not a nice person.  I think that moment changed my life.  Ever after that, I could distance myself from her.  Granted, she gave me lots of reasons to reinforce my decision.  I think kids are resilient, and they protect themselves in many ways.  She was a source of pain, and it seemed easy enough to detach and distance myself from that.

As I got older, this distance helped me.  I loved to read, and I would lose myself in the fantasy or fiction of other people's lives.  However, I also saw how other people lived, and I knew what I lived every day was not the only way.  It was not normal.  This knowledge along with the belief that my mother did not love me, and therefore I did not need to love her back, made it hard for her to get to me.  Sure, the beatings stung, but as they didn't seem to get her the desired affect, they grew fewer and less intense.

I have huge gaps in my memories, so it's hard to say when and how things changed, but I do remember a few things.  My oldest siblings were all between 8-11 years older than me, and were out of the house before my memories start to solidify.  I remember the night my sister being kicked out, for the second and last time.

I have to note here that I will forever be grateful for my sister.  She looked after me, and was my primary caregiver for as long as she lived with us, and for many years after she would do everything in her power to protect me.  I attended a conference recently where a respected neurologist talked about the studies that have been conducted on touch with small children.  He showed the effects of positive touch and negative touch with a series of MRI scans of the brain.  It turns out that children who receive only negative forms of touch or no touch at all have stunted brain growth and development.  A scan of two brains, one normal and one from an abused child showed that the brain size of the abused child was actually much smaller in size than that of the child considered to be living in a "normal" loving home.  I have no doubt that it was her care in my early years that allowed me to grow, thrive, and become who I am.

To be continued....