Happy Mothers Day! I Do Not Hate You!

A Blessed Childhood Turned To Trauma. Yes, I Still Love Her.

I do not hate my mother. There, I have said it. I know some who know bits of my story might accuse me of suffering from Stockholm Syndrome because I can easily admit that I love her. After all, did she not choose to stay with an abusive, alcoholic, predator instead of protecting her daughter?

As Mother’s Day closes in, I have always had a difficult time. I love my mother, but I still have wounds that I am not sure will ever fully heal. The difference between me and my siblings is that I am the one who remembers. I remember my mother before she broke. My siblings have only known chaos. Strangely, this memory, which allows me the ability to forgive what many believe is unforgivable, is also what keeps us from having the closeness she shares with my siblings.

I was an only child for the first seven years of my being. On the surface, I was the envy of my cousins and the kids in the neighborhood. I had more than enough. I had my bedroom and a playroom. I had a mom who cared, one who had rules, many of them. I had a dad that came home every night, well, most nights. I had toys, a bike, books, a doll collection, and a radio. At age five I had an 8-track player with self-selected 8-tracks that ranged from Mozart to the Bee Gees. Later, we were the first family on the block to…