(How I’m Learning To Not) Hate My Moma Part 1

I could write a million blog posts about our relationship, and it not fully be explained. As a kid I loved her, and I know she loved me. 

My preacher used to preach about intenders. People who will change tomorrow, or next week. Eventually next week is 30 years and you’ve intended your life away. I still beg God, don’t let me be an intender. 

My mom grew up the youngest girl out of 6 kids. 4 brothers and 1 sister. They all have a drug and alcohol past, and 4 of them are either in or have battled full blown addiction. Their parents, my Nana and Papa weren’t drinkers. They were good people who fully served the Lord. My Nana was definitely a one of a kind. If I’m able to have a tenth of the faith she held, I’ll be just fine. We only need a mustard seed anyway.

So my mom didn’t grow up in an addict’s house. She had awesome parents. She was a daddy’s girl and to this day everything she says goes back to her childhood. Same as her sister. They are both stuck in that house in their minds.

My mom had me when she was 19. My parents married but divorced by the time I was 3. My dad tells me it was because of drugs. They had a stash that was to be sold to make some money. Mom took the stash, daddy left moma. I don’t know if that’s the truth, but it’s his truth. Mom says daddy left all the time, which others confirm. That’s her truth.

Moma remarried when I was 5. I was the whiny brat that obsessed over my moma. She was everything to me. We would color, she loved to sing, she loved her own moma and we spent so much time there. She was a good fun person.

But sometimes she drank. One of my first memories was being at the movies with her and some friends. They were all drinking in the parking lot. Hey – I don’t think we are supposed to be doing this. I don’t think you guys are supposed to drive with me in the car after drinking. Shut up, don’t tell your moma what to do. She’s allowed to have fun. She’s the grownup, not you.

I shouldn’t have been there. 

That particular night led to one the biggest fights. My mom would go crazy and my dad would have to try and stop the madness. Moma would throw things, punch, kick and claw. Daddy would try and hold her down. During this fight I called my Nana. You’ve got to get me out of here. She did, at least for that night. 

I’ve learned more about moma’s battle by looking back and realizing, oh she was on drugs then. She was a drinker at this time. So many things fell in place, and made sense. 

There was a time period my moma worked for a year. My step dad, stayed home with me. He always cooked and cleaned and the house ran smooth. Mom reminded us about this period for years. I’ve worked, don’t you remember?? I worked while he stayed home!! I’ve done things!!  My parents have been married 34 years. He did not work for 2 years combined over the years. She only worked one. He always provided. I always had what I needed when it was him doing the caring. 

Mom had some surgeries, and I grew up in a specific doctor’s office. I knew all the ladies by name, and spent so much time sitting on the footstool of the big table as she would sit above me with her latest complaint. 

I was a kid. This was my normal. Knock down fights, lunches on the footstool and hanging out with nurses.

But still she was a great mom. She loved me and I knew it. For my 5th birthday she made me a huge Mickey Mouse cake for my birthday. She decorated it for what seemed like days. Until her carpal tunnel flared up. Just kidding. No I’m not, it flared. I heard about it for years. Remember when I made that cake?? Oh yes, I remember how you took an awesome memory and turned it into a “see what all I’ve done for you!”

My parents tried to have another baby and I became a big sister. I was 8 years old. I loved that girl. It was my job to protect that girl. And oh how I tried. The fighting would start, I’d run to her room and close my door in that tiny house. I’d play with her and try to sing real loud. It gave me something to do, instead of just listening to the choas right outside my room.

 I was a happy kid. Like I said, it was my normal. 

There is so much more to tell. The affair, the murder and the scary friends mom picked over us. 

Hopefully it will seep through my words thatI really don’t hate her. Some parts of her I know with a fierceness because I’ve been there too. But other parts of her I’m still processing. My hope is that pouring it all out will allow the remaining pieces to fall into place. 

I’m not just a whiny girl that had an awful childhood. My childhood wasn’t awful and I truly truly loved my moma. She wanted so bad to be a different version of herself and she was for a long time. She was a functioning addict, until she just couldn’t function. It can happen to the best of us.



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