My Mom

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My Mom and I during her 58th birthday

I was not an easy child to deal with. I was born angry, that’s what I remember being told many times before. My switch was easy to flip, and my tantrums or bursts of fury were very frequent and appeared out of no where. I picked paint off the walls whenever I was put in time out, I threw and flung furniture across rooms, and I kicked holes in walls and doors. Yet my mom handled every bit of my hell with pure love, acceptance, and understanding.

For example, I remember coming home from elementary school, and unleashing my anger on my family. Mom had tried spanking me before and it either didn’t help or made things worse. She just didn’t understand where my behavior was coming from. One day after coming home from school, she knelt down and gave me a hug. She asked me what was wrong? And I burst. I cried and told her about some kids who were taking my lunch money or food from me. I don’t think my mom spanked me ever again after all this, and instead we did what we now call hug therapy. I think this led Mom to her understanding of what an emotional child I was and how difficult sorting those feelings out was for me.

Mom never saw my siblings (Joe and Jessica), and I as a group of children. She always looked at each of us as who we are as individuals and connected with us each on that level. The rules she gave us were unique to who were. When we talked to her, she listened to what each of us had to say. The bonds she created with all three of us is unique and strong because of how she treated us, talked to us, and interacted with us on each individual level.

As I turned into a teenager, I didn’t get much easier to handle. Yet Mom never faltered in her ability to support and love me. When I wouldn’t listen, talk, calm down or anything she gave me other outlets to get those ugly things out of me. She gave me my writing, she gave me my art; and when I started writing on my bedroom walls, she read what I wrote and embraced the new way I chose to express myself. Anyway I chose to express myself she accepted. No matter how I appeared, Mom always saw me for exactly who I was. She has always loved me for who I am, and whenever I lost sight of myself, she did all that she could to remind me of what kind of person I am.

If it weren’t for the journals she had given me and recognized what writing did for me, I’m not sure I’d still be here. There were even times when she wrote me letters to communicate with me. I still have them, and cherish them immensely.

Mom isn’t just my parent, she’s my best friend. As I got older and older, and has our bond and trust grew stronger and stronger, I opened up more. I can tell her anything, talk to her about everything, and I have no fear of judgment or rejection. I never have. She did exactly what a parent should do for their child, which is make them feel like they’re significant and that they belong. Because of all the ways she accepted me, supported me, and loved me, I do feel those things.

I can’t speak for my siblings, but I would be astonished if they didn’t feel or think of our mom in the same or similar ways as I do. In Joe, Mom recognized his musical ear and helped him gain music as an outlet by getting him a guitar. She never hesitated to let him play his music and when he started creating a band in and a little after high school, she allowed them all to practice at our house. Mom also recognizes internal struggles Jessica has, and does everything she can to support her through them. She may not always know what to do, but she always listens and gives the best advice she can give accordingly. Our mom is our boulder, grounding us whenever we feel like we’re just floating around in space.

I would, and definitely could say more about who my mom is – what kind of person she is – but I think for now I’ve got it covered. My appreciation and love for her goes far beyond anything I could ever write, and I hope I never fail in letting her know it.

©S.T. Jan. 16, 15

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A Formal Introduction

My name is Sara. My initials spell SAT, and I’ll leave you to guess what the middle and last ones stand for.

I was born June 22, 1989 to JoAnn and Calvin.  I’ll be turning 28 in June. I’m the middle child of three; my brother is turning 31 and my sister will be 24 this year.
I’m the only child my mom labored with. Like my brother before me and my sister after, I was delivered through c-section seventeen hours later. I’ve been told I looked hairy and purple, and I was mad as heck. Soon after, the physical issues did subside, but it would take much longer to heal from the deeply embedded anger that I carried with me into this life. To this day, there are still many deeply rooted things I continue to balance and understand, but all of that is for a future post.

 
I grew up in a house my father built with my great uncle (his side). They built it on a piece of property my grandparents (mom’s side) split with my parents. Our house was a three bed, two bath home. Coming in through front door, there was a small entry way with a small kitchen nook to the left. That nook was later converted into a fourth bedroom. Beyond the entry way was the living room, and a hall way to the right which led to the main bathroom and bedrooms. When you looked down it, you could see the bathroom. The first door the left of the hall way was my parent’s/mom’s room. It had its own full bathroom with a slider door that separated the sink from the toilet and shower. In the back of the room, there was a sliding glass door that led to the back deck. In the back of the living room, double doors led to the same deck. To the left of the living room (when coming into the home) was the kitchen and dinning room. A bar counter separated the kitchen from the living room. I remember sitting at it and watching my mom cook. Going back down the hall way, there was a right turn, and at the end of that were the bed rooms my siblings and I had. For most of my childhood, I shared a pink bedroom with my little sister, and our brother had a blue room right next to ours. The windows looked out into the front yard at the almond trees that were there. We lived in this house until I was about 20 years old. My house and all the memories I have of it, are also a topic of their very own.

 
I’ve been writing little poems for as long as I can remember. My grandpa on my mom’s side had saved a poem about a blond haired and blue eyed girl I wrote when I was five or six, and one of my aunts on the same side of the family has a poem about peace I wrote when I was probably eight or nine. I don’t have full recollection of doing these, but I do remember writing a lot and making up stories and characters. I think that’s why anime turned out to be so appealing to me when I discovered it around eleven or twelve.

I also remember keeping journals. One of the earliest journals I have is one I decided to write upside-down and backwards in. If I recall correctly, I wrote that I did this because I wanted it to be complicated to read in case someone found it. As I grew older, my mom recognized how I was writing and what I was trying to say with it; and when we were having our biggest communication problems, she used writing to close the gaps. I still have letters and cards she wrote to me expressing to me her love and concerns for me.

I had always had a hard time verbalizing my emotions and issues.  When I was in elementary school, I would have tremendous tempers that spanking or punishing never made a difference in. My mom started hugging me and asking me what was wrong instead. That was when I finally admitted that other children were taking lunch money and food from me.

My mom is also a post of her very own, but I will say here that I am internally grateful for her. If she didn’t recognize this need to express the way I did (and still do), I don’t honestly think I’d still be alive. By supporting my writing, art, and personal style, she gave me a place to belong. And that was something I thought I’d never have, and it’s something I still fear I will either loose or only have the illusion of obtaining.

As a child, I role played before I even knew that was what it was called. My mom used to have a red, silk night-gown that I used to play in. I felt like a princess in it, so I ran around my yard as one who escaped from poisonous snakes and hot lava. We had a swing-set that had a slide and teeter-totter on it, and I remember pretending to use it as a escape route or obstacle course.

When I got a little older I started role-playing, writing stories and creating characters by myself or with friends. I created characters when I was little too, but I don’t remember writing like that until I was older. Poetry, on the other hand, was something I always remember doing.

Now that I’m older, I can see where writing has always been, and always will be, a part of my life. I’ve lived through it since birth, it seems, for I can’t think of a time where I wasn’t doing it in some way. I wrote my feeling and events in journals (still do); I write poems (this is really the first time I’ve decided to go through with pursuing it this strongly); I wrote short stories and role-plays in middle and older childhood; and I even used it to communicate and talk to people, writing letters to multiple friends in high school and even to my mom when I couldn’t verbally talk.

I’m grateful for this. I’m thankful that this turned out to be part of the mix that made me the cake I am. Because when I read this and I think about it, I wouldn’t be who I am without it.

©S.T. Jan. 28, 17