Broken

Broken(Nicole) There is a lot of my childhood that is just like a big black hole to me. It’s almost as if I was just suddenly here, at ten years old. Almost as if I never really had childhood in the first place. However, there are some memories that I remember very clearly. Sometimes I wish that I could forget them; that I could forget everything that has happened to me. Other times, I want so desperately to remember what my mind is blocking out. What could it possibly be that was so bad that my brain refuses to remember ever happened? Why is there so much that I just can’t recall no matter how hard I try? But overall I’m afraid. I’m afraid of those memories and what they could be. I’m afraid of what they would do to me if I remembered. So sometimes I’m thankful for those blank spots; because the memories I do have, can be so painful that I don’t always know how to handle them.
My name is Sydney and I have lived with my grandparents for twelve years. I am twenty-two years old. I may have only lived with them from the time when I was ten, but from the moment I was born, they were there to raise me. My mother never really knew what it meant to be a mother. When it came down to it, the alcohol always won over me. I could never understand why. I never understood what was so great about the alcohol that made her choose it over me; because that’s exactly what she did.
I never knew my real father, but there was a man in the first few years of my life, who she always called my father. I’ve heard some stories from her about him and the love she had for him. She had had all these plans of marrying him and plans for him to really become my father. Everything changed for her when he passed away to leukemia when I was four years old. She had already had a drinking problem long before he came along but it only became worse and grew further and further out of control after he was gone. You see, my mother never knew how to handle pain and tragedy. In hard times the bottle was her best friend because that was, to her, the only way to fix things. Except, it would never really fix anything. All it would do is cause more hurt and tragedy to others around her; but she never realized that.
Growing up with her, I was never the daughter. I was always the mother, watching over her as she’d lie on the living room floor, sleeping off yet another day and night of endless drinking. I was always afraid to leave her because if I wasn’t there, then who would call 911 when she drank too much or when she’d stop breathing? I had to watch over her and stay by her side, with the phone close to me on the other side. The only times she’d really get up would be when she ran out of alcohol and we had to make a run to the liquor store across the street, or when she’d have to go to the bathroom. Other than that, she never moved from her spot on the floor. Often times, I felt like I didn’t even exist. I could have run away and she would have never noticed.
The apartment we lived in was a small one bedroom place. I used to like it before things got really bad. I remember I practically lived in our swimming pool. Of course that all changed as time went on. I rarely left the apartment; not even for school. I missed a total of almost two years in elementary school because she was never awake to take me. Not that I minded at the time. I hated school. Especially because it meant that I had to be away from her and no one else was watching her. I would just watch cartoons and movies all day next to her. Sometimes I would pretend that she was watching them with me. Other times I would just play with my toys around the apartment. I still remember what it all looked like. The bedroom floor was covered with my toys and dirty clothes. The living room was littered with empty wine bottles everywhere; the entire apartment reeking of the alcohol. The kitchen was probably the worst, with the sink and counter top filled with dirty dishes that had food on them for so long, they were growing mold. The pantry and refrigerator were empty with the occasional expired item and Capri sun juice pouches. They were strawberry flavor because that was my favorite. The freezer had chocolate ice cream. I always remember the juice pouches and ice cream, because that was all I had to eat for a few days. When I had run out of the ice cream, I called my grandparents. I remember how bad I felt having to call them and ask if they could bring me over some food. By this point they had realized how bad things had really gotten with my mother. From that day on, my grandpa brought me my meals every day, whether it my favorite food from burger king, or a meal my grandma had cooked. My grandpa was also taking me school every day and they had helped clean the apartment and, a couple times, even hired someone to clean it up because it was so bad. Of course, seeing how bad my mother’s problem really was, there were a lot of fights between my grandfather and my mother. There was one fight in particular that I recall. My grandpa had come over to take care of me and I guess when he saw my mother on the floor he sort of lost it. I remember him shaking her awake and making her sit up, and then shaking her by the shoulders and crying as he screamed at her, “Look what you’re doing to your daughter!” I couldn’t stand the sound of her loud cries and his yells. I stood there near the entrance of the kitchen crying, and feeling angry as I looked down at the ground and saw a bottle of vodka. I picked up the bottle, and turned away facing the door, raising my arm with the bottle in it and throwing it as hard as I could, then watching it shatter on the wall, the vodka running down it. I turned back around and saw the shocked looks on their faces. No one knew what to do, not even me.
Most other memories happen in almost quick flashes. I remember a man who lived just down the hall from my mother and me. I never liked him, he just gave me the creeps. We would go over to his apartment, even though I never liked being there. He would always try to get my mother drunk so he could take advantage of her, even though she told him countless times, she wasn’t interested in him. One night in particular he was successful. I was sitting in the living room and I remember seeing him kissing her and feeling her up, and then after that went to the bedroom as I stayed and watched tv. At some point I had to use the bathroom, but in order to get to it I had to go through the bedroom. So I got up and walked in and saw him on top of her. I didn’t understand what was going on and I was scared. I thought he was hurting her. Even drunk, when she saw me standing there crying, she got up and grabbed me and we went back to our apartment. I don’t remember much else with him.
She always had questionable friends. They were all just like her, either alcoholics or drug addicts. One house in particular she took me to, I was running around all the rooms as she was with her friends in the living room. I ran into the friend’s bedroom because I loved to play on their water bed. At some point I had walked up to a dresser or bed side table and saw white powder lined up. I didn’t know what it was but I knew enough to leave it alone. I just ran out of the room and never went back in.
I don’t know when my family made the decision to call social services. All I remember from that day, is being in a strange woman’s car as she drove me to my grandparents, and then sitting in my room as they discussed my situation. I didn’t hear anything of the conversation or at least, I don’t remember, but I’ve been told about that conversation before. Originally, I wasn’t going to be living with my grandparents. The social worker had told them that I had to be taken to Orange Wood, which was sort of like an orphanage. She was going to tell me we were going to go on a little ride, and then she’d take me to my new home. My grandparents didn’t know what would happen to me if they took me, so they begged her to let me stay with them. After a while, she agreed it would be fine, she just had to check out the house and then talk to a judge. She walked around the house, making sure all the toilets flushed, there was running water, there was food in the fridge and pantries. She would also come over unannounced; to check up on me and make sure I was okay and was in a good home. She would spend a little time asking me questions about it as well. She would ask me how I was doing and if I liked living there. I hated having to talk to her. I almost hated her. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just go home and stay with my mother. If I wasn’t there to watch over her, who would? I didn’t understand why my mother didn’t want me to live with her. I felt like I was a burden that she just didn’t want around anymore. I felt like a burden to everyone. I wished all the time that I had never been born. I thought that if I hadn’t been there in the first place, this all wouldn’t be happening. My family wouldn’t be in pain and my mother could do whatever she wanted without having to worry about me; not that she ever really did. I didn’t know how to deal with the pain I felt. All I knew was that when my mother was hurting, if she wasn’t drinking, she was cutting. I would find her in the bathroom, crying and her legs or arms covered in blood and a razor in her hand. I thought that that was how a person dealt with their pain. It was what I had learned from watching her. So one day I thought I would try it. I remember I was too afraid to use a knife or a razor, and I didn’t want to get caught. So I used a broken piece to plastic I found in my backyard and used it to cut my hand. I remember crying from the physical pain from it but mainly being confused. I thought that it was supposed to take my pain away but it didn’t. All it did was add physical pain. After that I decided not to do it again because it didn’t help me. I didn’t quite understand how it could possibly help my mother but I knew it didn’t help fix my situation or get rid of all my pain.
There was only one other time I ever cut myself. I was twenty or twenty-one and I hadn’t even realized I had done it at first. Things were so bad with my mother again and I just felt like I was falling apart. After two years of being sober, she started drinking again and I cut her out of my life. She was constantly calling me on my cell and calling my grandparents, leaving awful voicemails of her crying her empty apologies and her asking me how I could abandon my own mother. Everything had become too much and I was sitting in my bathroom just thinking about everything she had put me through. I thought about all the times I called 911 to come and save her, all the times I sat next to her, looking over to make sure she was still breathing. I thought about all the supervised visits she showed up drunk to, and having to watch the police drag her away. I thought about everything she said to me in her messages, usually saying I’m ungrateful for all she’s done for me and how dare I treat her so poorly. I thought about the times she called me a bad daughter because I wouldn’t take her to the store to buy alcohol. All of it was so overwhelming to me that I just broke down and cried to a point where I couldn’t even breathe. It almost felt like an out of body experience, like I wasn’t really there. Then I felt a little sting on my left hand and saw blood coming from a small cut I had scratched into myself. I cried even harder because I thought I was becoming like her. I never wanted to become that person. I will admit that there are times when I want to cut myself, just to know that I’m alive and can feel; because most of the time, I feel numb. But I never let myself because I just think of my grandparents. I think about what it would do to them if they found out and how they would feel. I never want to hurt them like she always did, and that keeps me from doing anything I’d regret. I still have little break downs where I’ll just cry until it feels like there’s nothing left, but I can’t seem to cry out all my tears and all my pain. There’s always more. I’ve also had anxiety attacks but lately, those don’t happen much. I’ve learned how to calm myself down when I feel one coming on and am usually successful. The nightmares don’t seem to stop though. During harder times, I’ll have nightmares. They won’t be about my mother, but they can be truly terrifying. At one point last year, the nightmares had gotten so bad and so frequent, that I would purposely keep myself awake most or all night, because I was so afraid. I was afraid of sleeping because I knew I would have nightmares and some of them would make me wake with an anxiety attack. Other times, I would wake up shaking and crying. Even when they don’t happen as much, I’m always a little anxious when I take my sleeping pill, because I just want the nightmares to stop. Eventually they always do, even if it’s only for a little while.
Today, she is, as of recently, out of my life. After two years of not speaking to her, I finally let her back in. My dear aunt, and my grandma’s sister, passed away and it made me think about how we never know when our time is up. And it made me realize that someday I will lose my mother and I didn’t want that to happen without trying to make peace with her. So I slowly let her back in my life, although taking baby steps was hard, and it felt more like I was being pushed into taking bigger steps with her. But I wanted to forgive her, I wanted to let go of all my anger and my resentment. So for a few months, we talked and I saw her about every other week and at family affairs. It felt good to know that she was involved in the family again and not alone. I had hoped that having her daughter back in her life would make her change. But it wasn’t long before she proved me wrong.
Everything was going really well until she disappeared for a week. We were all worried that something had happened to her but I think that in the back of our minds, we all knew the truth. After a week, on a Wednesday, she called to check in like she always did. She tried to act like everything was fine until my grandpa caught her in a lie and she admitted to drinking again. After so many years of pain and heart break from her, my grandfather finally told her he couldn’t take anymore. He told her he didn’t want to have anything to do with her from this point on. I never said anything to her. The few times she’s called, we ignored it. Now it’s been a couple weeks and we haven’t heard anything. It’s sometimes, easier, this way. If I don’t hear her, I can forget, even if only for a little while. The part that’s worse about it, is not knowing where she is or if she’s even alive. My fear is that she could die, and she’d be alone. I know it’s not my fault but I still blame myself and I know I’d never forgive myself if we got that phone call we’re all afraid of. Every time the phone rings, I’m afraid that it’s an officer or the hospital, calling to tell us she’s gone.
I try everyday to forgive her for everything she has done to my family and me. But every day I realize that that may never happen. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her for hurting my family, especially my grandfather. He sacrificed so much for her, and for me. Both of my grandparents did. She never seemed to realize just how much.
I carry all of this with me every day. And every day I try to let it all go. Maybe someday I will be able to and then I can finally be truly happy. I just have to take it day by day and remind myself to be strong, because I know I can be and I know I am.