My mom's in the hospital. She shattered her wrist falling from a ladder, I heard. Well, actually, I read it on facebook and then my dad texted me about it later. I don't talk to my parents. I've kept in contact with them off and on since I left for college, but they don't know me and I choose not to keep a relationship with them. The only reason we've stayed in touch (on my end) is because of my younger siblings; I'm the oldest of six.
Growing up, I never "attached to my parents". I'm sure there are a lot of reasons why that might be the case, but suffice it to say that I distrusted them from a young age. The only things I really know about myself as a child are that I crawled to my crib when I was ready for bed, my mom weaned me from breastfeeding by leaving me with my grandparents and going on a cruise with my dad, my favorite toy at preschool was a basket, and we spent most summers in upstate New York at my grandpa's house. Oh, and my dad went to jail when I was 10 for choking me at the dinner table because I wouldn't eat my vegetables.
He got out of jail shortly afterwards because his parents posted bail, and I stayed outside the courtroom with a lady from church named Mrs. Robertson (Roberts?) who had a deaf son. There were at least two times I was taken out of school to wait outside the courtroom in case they needed me to testify, but they never called me in. I played with some small Polly Pocket-sized toy rabbits and a small house. I tried not to think about why we were there.
My mom dropped charges sometime after that, and my sisters and I had to visit him at his parents' house some weekends even though I didn't want to go. I tried to make jokes to lighten the mood (I pretended the refrigerator was named Amanda, since the brand on the front said Amana), I played Dr. Mario tetris (the one with the red and blue pills), and I listened to Mariah Carey Christmas music on the computer in the living room. My mom and dad got back together sometime after that and went on a cruise to Mexico, and then we moved to Colorado where people wouldn't talk about them.
Things were good for a minute. We had a hamster named Winnie-the-Pooh who always bit us, and my mom got pregnant with my third sister in Colorado. We lived by a famous hockey player named Adam Foote who played for the Colorado Avalanches. There were huge, awesome red rocks in our backyard along a trail. I was also too scared to go on the sixth grade sleepover field trip and I was mad at myself for it.
Seventh grade, Idaho, new baby sister followed by two baby boy brothers in the next five or six years. Hitting started again after 9/11 when my parents lost all their money when the stock market crashed. Every time I went to a meeting with my bishop at church (at least once a year) I prayed that he would ask me if my parents abused me. I didn't know how to bring it up myself, but I hoped that he would think to ask me, if he was inspired by God. He never did.
I stayed to protect my siblings. I got the brunt of it, although the sister right below me got her head slammed into windows and walls, too, and she also got kicked and straight-armed in the chest like I did. The other kids were mostly safe, to my recollection. Just some spanking and some yelling, which I decided that I would never do to my own kids.
I threatened my parents dozens of times about calling the cops, but they just told me good luck, that foster care was way worse than they were. I called two relatives, sobbing, asking for help, and they declined. "Please just help my dad, then!" I begged. They said they would see what they could do. Nothing happened.
I left for college, I kept in touch with my siblings, and I created a life for myself. I became happy, with an undercurrent of mad. I did counseling after my dad called me on my birthday and told me that the elephant in the room was that he and my mom thought I had bipolar disorder. I marched into a counselor's office and told her that I thought I had bipolar disorder and that I needed to be checked for it. She had me take a multiple-choice test that showed no tendencies towards mental illness, including bipolar disorder, but she was interested in why I thought I had it. We discussed my parents, I defended them (as usual), I attended a group session for survivors of abuse, and I doodled in my notebook while everyone talked. I said almost nothing, except for once. And another time I walked out because it hit just a little too close to home. I gained confidence in myself through my counselor, who was a brand-new graduate intern. She got a real job and I couldn't track her down after that, months after she cleared me and said I no longer needed her. I still feel like I do. I also stopped believing whole-heartedly in the church that I had clung to for so many years.
I jumped around jobs, following money and my heart, and I ended up in South America for six months where I immersed myself in the Spanish and Portuguese languages I had come to love in college. The ultimate bucket list item I decided to do when faced with the idea of marrying a guy with three kids. I hated the idea of marriage, but I liked dating. I got asked out by 8 guys the week of Valentine's Day the year before I met my husband. I was hard to get, and it was because I didn't like any of them, except one who lived too far away and one who didn't like me back.
I met my husband after my trip. Two weeks after, to be exact. He was the American date I was excited to go on before moving back to Arizona. I never ended up moving back; we drove down together and brought all my stuff back to Idaho instead. Married, first surprise baby after our first wedding anniversary, second surprise pregnancy two months after our first baby.
I found out the twins were dead at my 19-week anatomy scan. If they had known there were twins (like, seeing them on the two ultrasounds I had early on), there would have been an 85% survival rate of one or both of them. But they died and I hated the ultrasound technicians and I hated the OB doctor who said, "Well, even if we had caught the problem, you would have had to travel to Houston... or Salt Lake!" The Utah hospital that could have done the surgery was less than 3 hours away.
But hate invaded my heart, not sadness. Hate for my husband, surprisingly. He was the only adult I loved, and he got my wrath. No one else was safe enough for it, I guess. He survived it and we moved on, but I still never cried. Until today, on the bench, by the river.
I haven't dealt with my twins' death yet. I can't, until I let Sad out from underneath Mad. And Mad is also hiding Scared. I've hidden Sad with Mad because I'm Scared. Scared that more people will think I'm crazy, like my parents have repeatedly told me. Scared that people would take away my younger siblings and put them in foster care. Scared that my daughter will die, like my other two babies did. Scared people will ask what my dad does for work (I don't know) or why I don't talk to my mom.
So I'm letting Scared out, and I'm still scared, and tears come out when I think about people finding out my secrets. But I want to cry for the right reasons, like missing out on having twin boys alongside my daughter. Like finding out there are two in there at the same time as finding out they're dead. Like watching identical twin boys at the kiddie pool and wondering what it would have been like. And like facing my fear to find closure about why this could have happened and what I'm going to do about it.
So, in order to dig out Sad and be able to mourn for the boys I never got to meet, I'm going to pull a fast one on Mad, confront Scared, and let my secret out. I'm sure they're going to attack me the second I push "Publish", but I'll take that risk for getting to feel my boys.
