Pride Over Pity (15 page)

Many families had already “tapped out” their loved one. I wanted to be feeling the same joy they were experiencing. Hoping that the next face I looked at would be Javi’s, my entire body shook with excitement. The hunt finally ended when Javi’s face stood out like flower among thorns. He looked so handsome in his uniform and so very different from three months ago. His face was clean-shaven and he barely had any hair on his head. I also immediately noticed that he’d lost a significant amount of weight.

I pelted myself into his arms, assuming that would count as “tapping” him out.

His family had their cameras out, snapping as many photos possible in the initial minutes of the reunion. It felt like we were recreating those famous photographs of women seeing their military men for the first time in months. Kissing a man in uniform is a wonderful thing and then, when you cry all over their pressed blues, it ruins the formality of a momentous occasion. Just kidding.

At Javi’s BMT graduation, February, 2013

Our reunion was so much better than what was documented in the media. The facts were straight, but the reports couldn’t convey the intensity of the moment. Isaac’s laughter was so joyous and adorable; happiness was nearly exploding from everyone. The newness of marriage and our relationship was coming to life again. To see Javi’s face instead of just hearing his voice was so strange after all that time apart. I could hold his hand and kiss him as many times as I wanted. I didn’t have to dream about it or wish it. Magical moments are rare and for a long time I didn’t believe in them. Seeing Javi again created a firework display background and a soaring heart. It made me a believer again.

At Javi’s graduation in Lackland, TX, with my friend Kim, cousin Kaylie, and half sister Mikaila

Chapter 19

For the Love of a Daughter

I grew up among the wreckage of a dysfunctional family. This forced me to learn to live with disappointment and desertion. My personal search to make peace with my childhood became a journey in which I ultimately decided it was no longer healthy for me to have my parents in my life.

For years I lived in a state of denial. I wanted to believe that one day they would accept responsibility for not being the parents I felt I needed them to be. The one-sided exertion often led me to lose control of my actions and emotions. Sometimes the sad truth is forgiveness and fortitude can’t salvage a relationship, even if it’s with your own flesh and blood. Once I gave into that sad truth, I could no longer deny the inevitable.

I’m mature enough to realize that there are people out there who have had unbearably sad childhoods. I’m not trying to make my situation sound any worse than it actually is. I can’t dumb down what has happened to me, but I also can’t become a stereotypical, angry teen who allows herself to be defined by her dysfunctional, destructive past. For what I did have, I’m thankful because I remind myself of those who have it so much worse. There are kids who get beat on a regular basis. There are kids whose parents don’t provide for them and so they starve. Even the most sickening situation of all, sexual assault, is something some children experience at horrifically young ages.

The darkness of some childhoods is unimaginable. Nobody wants to think about the fact that children are victimized all the time. I believe the reason this is so common is simple: not every female is meant to be a mother and not every male is meant to be a father. I’ve made my peace with that.

***

It had been two years since I had flown to Texas to meet my biological father, Raymond, and even though that was the extent of our relationship, he did contact me one other time after his brother had randomly messaged me through the Internet. Since nobody had spoken to him in years, I didn’t really see how he was relevant to me. It’s interesting how I only started receiving these messages once I was on TV. He didn’t seem to have a real reason to be contacting me either. That’s when Raymond stepped in. He emailed me to apologize for his brother and told me he’d take care of it, but I’m not so naïve as to jump on these family “opportunities,” with their extremely delayed timing. Raymond wasn’t like his brother though. After that, he made no effort to contact me again whatsoever. I could have tapped danced on the moon and learned how to breathe underwater, but it seemed like nothing was impressive enough to capture his attention for the long run.

My dad and I were done. I feel like he was never really my father anyway. I don’t think of him as much more than a sperm donor. The painful memory of the one time we spent together has been memorialized on television, courtesy of MTV. It’s okay, though. Meeting my sperm donor was all part of satisfying my natural curiosity. That curiosity died once I realized I wasn’t meant to have a father figure in my life. He wasn’t around for seventeen years of my life and I couldn’t expect him to change because of one visit. I can honestly say that I am okay with not having a father in my life. It’s probably one of the first times I can say that and really mean it.

Meeting my sperm donor answered all of the questions I had stacked up in mental lists for over a decade or so. Finally seeing him with my own eyes, rather than clinging to the illusion I had created, was a kind of gift in itself. There were no more made up, fake parts to my dad. The stories I had conjured up to fit in for the moments I needed a father were gone. I had a clear, solid image of who he was physically and mentally. I finally had closure.

I have grown so much because of the inescapably harsh truth. I’m so much stronger because of these toughening experiences. I feel like my mom wasn’t there to rub my back and tell me how much she loved me. I don’t remember her ever telling me that I was worth a damn when my dad sat back and didn’t contact me after meeting him back when I was a frightened pregnant teenager. In my opinion, she was a “told you so” kind of mom and always would be. My mom may have been physically closer to me than my sperm donor, but she still seemed as clueless as he was.

Our current “relationship” isn’t far off from what has been shown on television. It just proves we never grow. Again, I’m fine with that too. To keep myself from getting hurt, I have told my mom that we would no longer have a relationship. As a teenager, I confronted her several times. I wanted to be up front so she knew where she stood in my future.

“You will never know your grandchildren,” I said spitefully, wanting to induce the same wounded feelings she raised out of me.

“I will not attend your funeral.”

That seemed a bit much, even for me. What’s worse than not attending your mother’s memorial? I wanted to show her how intensely hurt I am and that I wasn’t going to let her crawl back any time she decided she wanted to be part of my life for a split second.

I distanced myself for protection. At some point, for my own sanity, I admitted her faults to myself. After that, for years, I was consumed by anger. This was followed by the maturity to confront my demons and let go of the past. Endless tears and much counseling later, I have finally accepted what I feel is the unavoidable truth: my mother will never ever change. I no longer believe she possesses the capacity. Didn’t she have a good enough reason to make the change? I guess I wasn’t enough. Sure, that stings worse than a hundred bee stings, but sometimes you have to force-feed yourself the truth. It’s easier to swallow down the road.

The little pieces of wisdom I have gained over the years don’t make me an expert on anything, but I do believe that others can benefit from what I have learned. I have educated myself about addiction and addicts because I lived with one for a majority of my life. I wanted to learn everything I could about addiction because I wanted to understand why my mom was like this. As a child, I was confused. As a teenager, I was angry. Now, as an adult, I need answers.

When I was a teen, I recall my mother trying to get help but it seemed like she was not able to stop drinking. The nine months when I felt she was sober held so many beautiful possibilities and made me feel like life could be so wondrous. If felt myself wanting to be around her more. Sadly, I only felt this way for a short time.

I don’t want my mom in my life until I feel she’s accepted responsibility for how I’ve seen her behave. It hasn’t exactly been easy for me to block her out completely, but now that she doesn’t contact me very often, I’ve found keeping her out to be much more manageable. I will always gladly speak to her if I feel she hasn’t been drinking, but if I hear the slightest bit of a slur, I will set the phone down. I have a choice now.

Every day I struggle to find forgiveness. I try to convince myself that my mother did the best job she could raising me. Do I fully believe that? No, not really. Forgiveness does not come easily. As a mother, I’d do anything for Isaac. I’d make any sacrifice to provide him with the best life possible. I believe that’s what being a parent is all about—putting your child before yourself. I don’t feel like my mother or father ever did that for me.

I feel like they taught me a huge parental lesson: what kind of parent not to be. It’s like a handbook of rules and regulations type of thing.
101 Ways You Shouldn’t Treat Your Child. 1,000 Situations You Should Never Put Your Child In
. So that’s it. There’s no magical, happy ending to my relationship or lack thereof with my parents. I don’t expect anything to change. There’s no more wishing for improvements.

I’ve found what I was looking for. Javi and his family have embraced me as one of their own. The special place I’ve received as an honorary member of their circle is enough for me. Everybody has problems, but how bad would it be to go through them with people like this to support you? Once in a while, I’ll have a silent awareness of the big love I feel I missed out on for so long. I’ll see how lovingly they treat one another, and the envy I try so hard to suppress rises up to remind me of what I wish I had.

Obviously, I feel like I come from an unhealthy place, but the love and support of the friends I’ve picked up over the years have salvaged my perspective on what family means. I am thankful for those who have stuck by me. On my mother’s side, my cousins, Jen and Candy, have always done what’s best for me. They were the same ones who went out of their way to buy me the beautiful, unique prom dress that I wore on the night Isaac was conceived. They had helped me look into adoption options when I was pregnant and still unsure if I was capable of being a mother to my baby. I am so grateful to them. Unfortunately, they both live hours away in opposite directions so we don’t see each other as often as we’d like, but it’s okay because I know they’re only a phone call away if I do need them.

I try not to dwell on my past. I don’t let my mind take me on adventures to pity land, where I’m alone and unloved. Self-pity is easy. I would know. I spent the majority of my life asking the same question:
why me?
Eventually, I realized there is always room for growth. Moving on from the past and working to improve your situation is the real challenge. Talking through my insecurities and childhood nightmares has changed the way I perceive everything. Instead of wallowing in pain and regret, I have risen from the ashes of my past. Because of that I am now stronger and healthier for myself and everyone around me. Pride over pity is the only way to live.