Ephemeral
Ephemeral- lasting only but a short moment; fleeting, momentary, short.
I opened up, today. For the first time in years, I opened up to an unfamiliar face and released an undiluted roar of emotion that I have held in my head for an ungodly amount of time.
Today, I looked in the eyes of a soul mine had never met, and I talked, something I’ve always had some issue with. Either I talk to much or too loud, I share too much, I don’t communicate enough, I apologize too much, I’m too narcissistic. I’m too quiet, I’m too awkward, my sense of humor isn’t fit for the setting. Today, I squeezed a twenty one year long journey into an hour, but lord knows I talk so quickly, it flew by.
Today I talked about my abandonment issues. This is always the easiest place for me to start, regardless of friend or stranger. Being raised by a single mother is not at all a rare situation. In fact, it’s often relatable. I grew up without my father, and to this day, have never met him. We talked once on the phone, for a short time that I don’t remember. Ephemeral. We have the power to remember so many useless facts, while forgetting things of importance. There is almost nothing I wouldn’t give to recall the sound of his voice, be certain of what I said, what he said. Maybe that phone call is what pushed him away for good. I was only seven, I don’t understand what I could have possibly said to ruin a relationship we could have had. My entire life, I have spent wondering what my short comings were to not be enough for him to love me, why I wasn’t enough to want.
Father figures I’ve had in my life have left as well. I understand it couldn’t possibly be because of me, but it’s so hard to let go of someone who promised to take care of you. I’ve had men who came and stepped up to the plate, and even gone as far as to say they would legally adopt me. Willingly take me in. Say they would be my new dad and love me as his own. And they’ve left.
Today I talked about my mother, the woman who raised me “on her own.” The woman who’s one job was to protect me and care for me, and who I cannot honestly say tried her best. While I know my mom loves me, she has never known how to show it properly. Looking back, I was a very sweet, smart, well behaved kid, and yet I grew up hating myself, believing I was never enough. There’s an entire novel of stories I could get into to talk about her, but it would just be broken record at this point. I was told I was selfish, I had no common sense, and I was ungrateful. I was told I could go live in a girl’s home many times. I was told she was going to put me in foster care because my dad wasn’t around, and she couldn’t “be a mother anymore.” I was told over and over again that she had lost her respect for me. My mother had problems of her own, but always managed to take them out on me. Every angry thought, every bad day immediately was reflected on me. I grew up scared of my mother. Physical abuse was minimal, but the psychological torment she put me through, unknowingly or not, has followed me for years. I am afraid I’m never enough. I’m afraid when someone raises their voice too loud. I am afraid when people don’t respond as quickly too me. Every good memory I may have from my childhood with my mother seems fleeting. Ephemeral. I know what I went through could have been much, much worse, and I understand that “she is still my mother”, but at 20 years old, I made the long awaited decision to cut out that toxic part of my life. The part of my life that made me feel like I wasn’t good enough and I was only a disappointment. The part that made me feel like I would never have a happy family.
Today, I talked about my history with sexual abuse. I talked about how at only 6 years old, I knew how grown up intimacy was supposed to grow. My first abuser was some years older than me. I had chronic nightmares, the same plot over and over, about this time in my life. This went on for years. I would run to get help, only to be dragged away and instructed not to tell anyone about it or they would kill me. I had these dreams well into adulthood. My second abuser was a family member, who thought I was asleep that night. I was 7. I told almost no one for years, for fear of being made fun of. I didn’t tell my family, because I didn’t want to be the reason my family fell apart. I saw him for years afterwords, a dark stain on every holiday we went to, every family reunion, every time I heard his name. I finally confided in my mom, years after it happened, and she did the one thing I was afraid she would do. She told the rest of my family. I still pretend like nothing happened, but every god damned holiday, there remains a noticeable uneasiness. My third abuser was someone I loved, someone I trusted. Someone who had broken my heart and my trust and my happiness. Someone who wanted me to wait for him, while he “experienced other people”. When he found out I began to see someone else, he did what I assume gave him his power back over me. I was pinned down that night, sobbing, and begging while he kept telling me how much I missed this, how bad I wanted this. I didn’t. That night, I took my entire bottle of anti depressants. I swallowed all of them with vodka to wash it down. I went to bed that night, expecting to never open my eyes again. I slept for two days. When I woke up, I was told that I was lazy, and being unproductive. I went back to school that Monday, and told no one what happened. I didn’t open up about this to anyone, until one night, I drank a little too much and in the midst of being black out drunk, I confessed to George everything. I told him about the rape, the over dose, the fact that I went back to my abuser afterwords. I still don’t know why I told George, and why I don’t remember any of it. But I do remember the nightmares I had and how I turn off certain songs that sound a little too familiar. I lost a piece of myself that night. The strength I thought I had was gone, short lived, ephemeral.
Today, I talked about my miscarriage. I talked about how vulnerable I was after losing my baby. How confused I was. It hurt to know there was some relief. I was 16, close to 17, when I found out I was pregnant. I was young, scared, unsure of what to do next. I began to write letters to my baby, originally to help myself come to terms with what I was going to endure. But with every letter I wrote, I grew more attached. I would write, telling about how much I loved it already, how I couldn’t wait to meet it. How much I was going to do and how hard I was going to try to ensure it lived the happiest life. We poured over baby names, and decided on Jameson. I just knew I was having a boy. I knew before I ever actually knew that I was pregnant. I dreamt about for an entire month before. I dreamt about the little boy I would be holding in my arms. I knew. Of course, when I told my mother, she expressed very clearly how disappointed she was in me, told me all the things I would have to give up, but I was ready. I accepted this before I ever told her. I was working at the baseball fields the day I miscarried. It started with spotting in the morning, but by that evening shift, it was concerning. I was bleeding way too much. I called my mom immediately and we rushed to the emergency room. The doctor ordered an ultrasound. I prayed that we would still hear a heartbeat, see a picture on the screen. There was nothing. My baby was gone, and my world was shattered. The tech didn’t have to say anything, I knew right away there was not going to be a Jameson anymore. After I was wheeled back into my room, the doctor confirmed what we all knew. I didn’t sleep properly for two weeks. I couldn’t fall asleep without taking something to force me down. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t eat. I wasn’t just sad about my loss, I was sad that I was relieved. I wasn’t going to be a teen mom, I wasn’t going to have to give up prom, I had my life back. And I felt selfish. I hated myself for finding comfort in the fact that I didn’t have to grow up quite yet. Above all this, though, I hated that my baby wouldn’t grow up to read the letters I poured my heart into. These documents with every change I felt physically and emotionally would never go to anyone. They served as a reminder for what once was, a brief moment. Ephemeral. George and I haven’t necessarily tried to start a family yet, but there also has been no pregnancy announcement. There have been no positive pregnancy tests. We don’t know yet if we can have a family, and one of my biggest fears is that the only positive test I will have will be for my baby that I lost. It’s hard not to beat yourself over things like this. To not be mad at yourself and your body for not being able to do the one thing it seems like every other woman can do. It’s hard to understand that I’m not broken, and these things take time and that everything happens for a reason. After all that I’ve been through, my miscarriage is what I believe I’ve struggled with the most.
Today, I told a stranger all these personal, vulnerable events in my life that seem to stand out the most. I woke up feeling sick to my stomach knowing I would have to go to get another counselor, tell my story yet again, and start my progress over. But I did it. It’s not a major stepping stone to other people, but this is the movement I’ve been waiting to make for myself. I’ve tried for so long to be a catalyst for change in other people’s lives, talking about my recovery from suicide attempts and self harm, informing other they aren’t alone, that I don’t take the time to tell myself the same things. I’m not alone. Every single thing that I’ve held on to was a brief moment in my life that I allowed to control me for so long. I’ve been through eating disorders, cutting myself, trying to overdose, I’ve written suicide notes, I’ve made plans, and I’m still standing. And I have to understand this is not for nothing. I still have some very bad days, where nothing seems worth it. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be a better me and encourage people to do the same. I am not my abusers. I am not my past. I am not a lost cause. My name is Mackenzie, and I am hopeful.
