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A drunken Army doctor at Fort
Hood
improperly delivered me more than a half century ago. As a result, my
mother hemorrhaged and nearly died. She never faulted the
doctor, only me. She blamed me “for nearly killing her”.
To her, I committed attempted murder at the moment I was born.
When I was older I tried to talk to
her about it. But she always had the same response, “I tried to kill her”.
Just a couple months before she died, I brought up the subject and after
all that time, more than 44 years later, she cried when she described how,
as a new-borne I premeditatedly tried to kill her. While sitting on the
sofa and sobbing, she asked me, “How could you do that to me?” I had no
answer.
I am certain I did not try to murder
my mother at the moment of my birth or at any time in my life.
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My mother said repeatedly throughout my
childhood, she wished I was never born. She would say it at the dinner
table, in the living room, out of the blue; it was "I wish you were never
born”. She said it with venom and conviction. I believed her.
This didn’t make me
fell good, as you can imagine. At times I wished I was never born.
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She repeatedly called me stupid for every
mistake in word or deed. Stupid. It was the four letter word of my youth.
She said it every day. It got old and comfortable. Stupid me.
I don’t like the
word stupid.
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When I was six and in the first grade a
neighborhood girl about 13 years old named Nancy sexually molested me. She
would lead me to a single car garage across the street from where we lived
and do sexual things to me. My mother knew because she saw me being lead
away and I told her about what Nancy did to me. She responded with silence
and indifference.
This made me afraid and alone; I had
no one to help me.
Later, when I was
older and wanted to talk about the sexual abuse, she blamed me for it.
She said I must have done something to make Nancy molest me. When I was
young I believed this.
About five months
before her death, I tried to bring up Nancy but she did as she always did,
just stared at me in silence. For her it was okay for her son to know as
much about the female anatomy at six as most men do at 26.
I still have intense
anger at my mother but not Nancy. My mother molested me with her indifference and blame.
►
My mother never conversed with me while I
was a child. It was yelling about this and yelling about that. I believe
she got perverse satisfaction in yelling and making threats.
I still get stomach
aches when people yell at each other.
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Mom used ridicule at home and in public.
For example while in an NCO Club, a place to eat and visit, I would dunk
my French fries in mustard, not ketchup like everyone else. One evening
she pointed this out to everyone in the club, saying what I did was the
stupidest and weirdest thing she ever saw. She laughed at me and others
did too.
Want to know something? I still
dunk my fries in mustard!
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Mom would rarely be awake before we went
to school. She never made a brown bag lunch, ever. I did made them for my
siblings and me. When she was awake, she stayed in her bedroom, reading
and yelling. I do remember a few times when she put out some cold cereal
and milk as breakfast but that was when I was about 8 years old. And it
was for just a few months, and stopped when we moved to another city.
I don’t particularly care for brown
bag lunches to this day though I do like some dry cereals.
►
Her mother, my Oma, was, as I said, mean
and angry. She liked to see turmoil and tension and create it when there
wasn’t any. One evening while babysitting us, she got my brother and me
to fight and then punished both of us by beating us with her fists and
slapping with her open hands. I told my mother about this and she said I
was lying.
Mom rarely believed what I had to say.
One day, after dad arrived home and he
pushed the buzzer at the street so we could let him into the apartment
building. My brother and I raced to open the door for him and Oma
immediately began yell at and beat us. Mom came out of the kitchen to see
what was going on and Oma stopped. Later, mom assured me that in the future Oma would not beat us, she
would.
In reality, she rarely did so.
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We were living in Europe when Kennedy was
assassinated. There were about 8-hours difference so it was about 9:30 pm.
The family was at a bowling alley on-base but I was outside watching
soldiers running and jeeps racing by. I asked what was going on, and a
soldier said President Kennedy was shot and killed. I ran in and told my
parents. My mother responded by yelling, “Don’t be stupid. Stop lying, the
President hasn’t been shot!”
I insisted that he
had and after a couple minutes of making a spectacle of myself, the guy at
the snack bar turned on the radio. The news of Kennedy’s death came in
clear. Everyone left for home.
As we were walking
up to our apartment, we stopped to talk to a neighbor. She was crying. By
now, so was I. When mom noticed I was crying, she turned around, slapped
me and told me that I had nothing to cry about. She told me I wasn’t sad.
I learned emotions
were forbidden at home, at least when mom was around.
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If she could, mom would see the negative
in everything. When I was about to take the GRE, Graduate Record Exam she
said, “Why bother, you’ll fail it anyway.” The GRE was very important and
my place in Graduate
School was assured if I passed. Fortunately, I passed the exam and with a good score
too. She turned away as I told her about my score; I could see she was
annoyed.
I
sometimes think of that moment and do so fondly too!
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My mother did not show affection toward
me. She might have before age five but I have few memories of that time.
She never once said she loved me. Never.
I don’t remember her kissing me
either or showing any tenderness. She never tucked me into bed at night, never read to me or do
anything that would be normal mother-son bonding. However, one summer
afternoon, when I was 35, she blurted out she loved me and apologized for never
saying it before. I told her it was too late.
I think of that moment with little
emotion.
