This post is a lot more serious than any of the others. But it is also the most important so far. My mom is one of my best friends. That being said, she is also the teenage daughter I don't have. She is the child I worry about, the child I pray for. She is the constant dreamer that I advise and try to guide to make the right decisions. My attempts at keeping her grounded don't always work, and it often seems that letting her dream is best. She has been through a lot in life and sometimes pursuing those far fetched unrealistic dreams is the best way to cope with the nightmares that plague you. Let me explain.
My mother has never had an easy life. She married at fifteen. She had my brother at sixteen and had me at eighteen. She had no formal education, only her GED. She babysat for money while raising us so that she could buy the special things we couldn't have otherwise afforded on my dad's enlisted salary. Tupperware pieces were things she indulged in when she could afford to splurge. She sewed the latest fashions rather than buying them at the store as a way to save money. Thrift stores were the place to go to get the things she couldn't make. She sang in church, she cooked for us, she let us stay home from school even when we weren't sick, she let us have coffee so we could feel grown up, and she played countless games of scrabble and dominoes with us. She was an artist and a storyteller. She wasn't perfect but she tried. She was young in age, young at heart, and a dreamer who reached for the stars. Even if they were close stars that might not seem so fabulous or bright, they were her stars and she reached for them. I remember these things because they affected who I became later in life; they shaped who I am today.
When my parents divorced, she left with my aunt and her husband to build what she thought would be a better life for us all. She was being the dreamer that she has always been and reaching for the stars. But as life often turns out, things went sour. She wound up working two jobs to support herself, my aunt, my uncle, and my young cousin. They lived in shabby hotels, they ate what they could afford, and when they couldn't afford it they didn't eat.They washed clothes by hand because they had no washing machine or money to go to a laundromat. She was the dreamer who was fed the promise of a better tomorrow after today. She was malnourished and overworked and her body suffered because of it. Then my uncle began beating them. He started with my aunt when my mom was at work. My aunt hid the bruises from my mom and explained the ones she couldn' t hide as accidents. Eventually he moved on to my mom as well. His violence and abuse left scars that will forever haunt them both. Fractured skulls, broken ribs, dislocated shoulders, nerve damage...all left to heal without medical attention. For anyone who doesn't know: without proper care, these injuries don't heal.
They were both too frightened to leave and didn't know how they could. He controlled the car. He controlled the phone. He threatened to take away my cousin so that my aunt would never see him. He told them that if one left he would do horrible things to the other. He was a maniacal freak that controlled everything and punished disobedience. Eventually my aunt left under the premise of a well paying job and promised to return. My mom stayed to care for my cousin. She was a virtual prisoner.
My mom finally escaped from my uncle in an airport in Puerto Rico with the assistance of a flight attendant in a restroom. My mom convinced him that my aunt (his wife) would be there and they were to pick her up at the gate inside. She knew that she had to get away from him this time and that it had to be a public place. My mother had no money and no plane ticket. She had been severely beaten recently and could barely walk. People were staring and when she doubled over in pain, he sent her to the bathroom to clean up. She begged a lady inside the restroom to help her, telling her how scared she was that he would kill her next time. The woman escorted my mom out of the bathroom and she was ushered over to security personnel. That was the end. She was not able to take my cousin with her because she was not his biological mother. This woman in the restroom saved my mom's life and I owe her a debt of gratitude.
My mom wound up in a battered women's shelter and finally got back in touch with me. I hadn't spoken to her in five years. I was completely unaware of the things that had happened to her. She wanted to see me and she missed me terribly. The woman that met me at the greyhound bus station was a broken shell. She was fragile, aged, and defeated. Years of abuse and hunger had taken a toll on her. A scar ran across her face. Her teeth were stained and broken. Her body ached from repeated breaks. She was a frightened animal that had been beaten too many times. She was homeless and everything she owned was in the bags she carried with her. She had saved up money to travel by bus back to where I lived and had no money even for food. I bought her shampoo and soaps. I bought her food and snacks. I gave her hugs and told her about my life since we had last spoken. I was angry at her for leaving. I was angry that she never called. I ranted and yelled. Then I took a breath and listened. I was 18.
The pictures she showed me that were taken as evidence at the shelter she stayed at after leaving Puerto Rico were shocking. Her face was swollen and purple. She was almost unrecognizable. A bandage covered part of her head and a deep red scar slashed across her cheek. Years later the image from that photograph is still burned in my head. My mom is a small woman. She is about five foot four and one hundred pounds. The monster that did this to her was twice her weight. If she had been forced to stay any longer there is no doubt in my mind that he would have eventually killed her.
Sharing what she went through was painful to her but I am glad she did. Our relationship healed and I matured. By conveying her story to me, she enabled me to recognize the abusive relationship I was in. She helped me leave that destructive relationship before permanent damage was done.
I won't give all the details of what she suffered because it is her story to tell. I hope she will someday use her talent for writing engaging things to tell the entire story so she can finally heal inside. If she chooses not to, that is her decision. I have only shared some of what happened. I am sharing a brief introduction to her story so that others know that there is always a way out; so that they know that what starts out as hitting you "to sober you up" or yanking you by your hair to stop you from leaving an argument when you turn your back and walk away is not okay. Neither is telling you how worthless you are or "accidentally" slamming a door into your head for trying to leave. A man that kills your pet in anger or uses another car to run you off the road just to talk to you is not the actions of intense love. It is abuse. Apologies do not mean change. Abusive people do not change. No person, no matter what they look like, how smart they are, or what they have done in their life that they regret, deserves to be treated that way. That was my story and it would have been worse if not for my mother's courage in sharing her own painful experience. The reality of what happened to her helped me to realize what was already happening to me.
No matter what an abuser claims, there are people who can help. There are shelters. There are laws to protect you. There are others out there who will love you. There are others who have suffered too and can listen to your story and heal with you.
Most importantly, if you see someone who looks like they are in danger or who asks for your assistance and you are able, seek help for them. It will only take a little effort and time on your part and you may be the one that saves their life.
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