Scarred

1
A MOTHER’S CHOICE

It was a typical sunny South Florida day, as my memory recalls. It was the beginning of the school year, and I was only four years of age starting kindergarten. This was not because I was a genius at four; my birthday is in December, and the school year began in August. It is fun, though, to think it was due to the former reason. The year was 1978, and my parents had just divorced. My brother, who is older by four years, went to live with my father after days of protesting living with my mother. I was told he would stand in front of the window calling out for his dad day after day, so it was decided that that was best. I remained with my mother and her new boyfriend, who is now her husband of 35 years. Looking back, that may have seemed like the logical thing to do. Yet, if that were the case, I would probably not be writing this.

Returning from school one day, I got off the bus and my babysitter, who was always there, was not. Most children would be scared in this situation, especially at the age of four. Let me put this into perspective. Four years old … that means I was just transitioning from infancy to childhood. I smile at my young self when I reflect on that moment. I must have been one of those children that people enjoyed watching as I demonstrated independence. Without crying or feeling lost, I knew immediately to walk to my babysitter’s house. As I was passing my block on the way to her house, I naturally looked down the street with my young eyes to what seemed like a long road. I noticed that my mother’s car was parked in front of our townhouse. That car brings up many memories. I called it, as I got older, “The Beast.” It was this brown beaten down car with a sticker of Tweety Bird on the side. We would jam to Black Sabbath with the windows down, and she would pick up hitchhikers in it. I suppose times were different in the late 70s and early 80s, and my mother obviously had no sense of danger, even with me in the car. Eventually, a friend from her new crew of companions stole that car from her. I was told that she was left stranded at a 7-Eleven convenience store when that went down. When thinking about those experiences, I can only shake my head.

As I was walking to my babysitter’s and I saw the car in our parking spot, it all began to make sense; my babysitter wasn’t waiting for me because my mother was at home. All my love for my mom bubbled up into my heart, and I just could not wait to see her. I remember feeling extremely excited. I mean, after all, it was my mother, and she was home! At four years old, that was a big deal! I ran home so fast with such innocence in my motives, not realizing what was on the other side of the front door was about to alter my life and the way I would process everything. What happened next sums up the statement that expectations plus motives do not always produce the desired results. As I opened the front door, I remember my mother running up the staircase that was positioned directly to the right. I heard people start yelling as if something horrific happened. I sat down on the stairs and began to cry because I didn’t know what was going on. My mind was clouded by the screaming, I felt like I had done something wrong because my mother did not return the same desire to be with me as I had for her. She was adamant about getting me to the babysitter, and she came off to my young mind as being very mad. I learned later on that she was heavily influenced by cocaine and alcohol. At that time, I did not know what drugs were, let alone that my mother was on them. I only knew that she appeared mad at me for being home. They finally took me to my babysitter’s house, sat me in the living room, and turned on the television set. I was not throwing a fit, but I sat crying uncontrollably in the chair. For some odd reason, I remember Rocky and Bullwinkle were on the television. My babysitter and someone else catty-corner to me were talking about the situation. I have retained the sense of them looking over in my direction as they stood in another room, which was not closed off from the family room. She could have been talking to my mother, but I can’t make out who it was. All I remember is the rejection I felt. I literally began repeating over and over again, “My mommy doesn’t want me.” I might even have been saying it out loud.

At that moment, that situation altered my universe because I had no ability to rationalize what was happening. All I knew was that I wanted my mom, and it felt like I got into trouble for it. Immediately following this, I was sent to live with my father. The transition finalized the rejection I felt, and I would spend the rest of my childhood struggling with rejection and fighting for my mom to be in my life.