Walking Away

There's this song currently playing on the radio. The first time I heard it, I thought it was beautiful. I was driving in the car and as soon as I heard the piano introduction, I was hooked. I got home that evening and wanted to share it with my kids, so I looked up the YouTube video. Like many others, the song became even more poignant for me after seeing the video. Take a look:

Now here's what makes me different from most others: Most people, when they watch the video, become emotional at the scene where the elderly couple is introduced. Watching the emotion of the man as he is saying goodbye to his wife stirs great emotion. For me, though, I'm teary from the first scene. The scene of the little girl huddling on her bed, with a blanket wrapped around her, which she eventually pulls over her head.

I've mentioned bits and pieces of my childhood before, that things weren't good. So when I reacted with strong emotion to the little girl, I assumed I was simply identifying with her fear, her isolation, hiding under the bed to escape frightening scenarios. From there, I went on, always listening to this song with a touch of emotion, remembering each time the little girl who felt so alone. For that reason, I typically avoid hearing the song, I don't need to spend every day remembering my childhood: I find that best left for the occasional thought.

Then, a friend of mine posted to Facebook a cover of this song. The band covering the song is called Pentatonix and I absolutely love their music, I sang in an a cappella choir for eleven years. When I saw the video, I absolutely had to watch it, knowing the music would be even more beautiful than the original song. I commented before I clicked the link, "OMG, I know I'm going to cry!"

Sure enough, I did. I bawled my eyes out watching this video, crying so hard tears were dripping off my chin.

Afterward, because I take a walk down memory lane every time I hear this song, it finally dawned on me why it is this song touches me so much. It can't possibly be just the image of the little girl, she's not in the Pentatonix video.

No, what touches me is realizing I did exactly what this song suggests one might do: I walked away.

I've mentioned previously walking away is a big deal for me. One of the reasons I end up (and stay) in abusive/disrespectful relationships is I can't stand walking away from people. I felt like my parents walked away from me when I was a teenager, because they kept passing me back and forth, "My spouse has a problem with her, I need you to take her for awhile." "I can't handle the stress, I need you to take her back, I'll pay for her plane ticket." And so it went until I moved out on my own.

Wait. I moved out on my own.

In light of my previous recollections/thoughts from, "A Promise to Myself," I remember from a very young age I couldn't wait until I was old enough to get away. I promised myself over and over and over again as soon as it was legal for me to be on my own, I would move out. That is exactly what I did.

When I was thirteen, I needed out of my mother's house so bad, I wrote every adult relative I had asking if I could move in with them. When that failed (one of my aunts turned me in, read the letter to my mother), I turned to looking for my father. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of him in seven years, my last memory of him was him being arrested outside my house while I screamed and cried and was dragged away from the window by my older brother. The military police jailed him and held him long enough for my mother to pack up my brother and I and move us out of state.

When I went looking for my father, my mother reminded me he was a junkie and an alcoholic and abusive. "Not to me," was my reply, "he never abused me." With that, the search went on until I eventually located my father, who was five years sober at that point. How that ended can be found in, "Attention, Love, and Affection," after telling my father for over a year that I would leave and never look back if he didn't stop abusing me and start parenting me, I finally left.

This is the point of this story: My parents didn't leave me, I left them.

While I was homeless, shortly after moving out of my father's house, my mother begged me to come back and live with her. I told her, "I can't. I have to stand on my own now, I have to prove to myself that I can stand on my own and be okay."

So I did.

The little girl who sat huddled in a ball, rocking, crying, stroking her own hair, she got up and she walked away. She proudly and boldly looked her abusers in the eye and said, "No more. I will not take it anymore."

Just like the song says, they were the ones that I loved and I said goodbye. Now that's empowering.

Calling Mom

I talked to my mother on the phone last night for 2.5 hours. Time was, many years ago, where that was a short call for us. My husband, my kids, all knew, "When Grandma calls, find something else to do, Mom will be on the phone all day."

I had talked on the phone with my Mom for the first time in many months just two weeks ago when I was in the hospital for emergency surgery. My partner pointed out that I would be an absolutely dreadful daughter if I didn't call my mother to let her know I was in the hospital. He said, "If one of your daughters was in the hospital and only sent you an e-mail, don't you think you'd rip her uterus out next time you saw her?" Yeah, he can be a violent guy. But he had a point.

So what had me going so long without talking to my mom? Well, simply put, I had hit another life stage where I felt I simply had nothing in common with her and felt wounded by many perceived injustices both past and present.

And you know what?

I'm glad I called her.

I had forgotten, for whatever reason just how much she and I have in common. I am practically a carbon copy of that woman. And I've realized through the events of my life this year that what I once perceived as failing in her was simply my own naivete.

Why you ask?

Well, I saw her as harsher, less trusting, less believing in the goodness of others and the world. And yet, here I am, 34 years old and my own veil of innocence is being lifted. I'm starting to see the world a bit more realistically. I'm realizing that not everyone means well to their fellow human being and in turn, I'm becoming a little more skeptical and a little more cautious.

At the same time, my own children are now young adults. I find myself hitting that panic stage where I worry about their launches into being independent people. I'm questioning myself, my parenting, my choices, and everything in between. And in this questioning, I find understanding. Understanding for my mother and what I had previously perceived as slights against me as a person were simply her own worries, fears, questions of herself and her choices.

Last night, as we chatted, we talked about our differing perspectives during my teen years. She said, "I blame myself, you know. I should have tried harder to help you, to get you to do what I thought you ought to so that you would be in a better place now."

I said, "Mom, please don't blame yourself for that. That was me and my choices. You told me what you thought was the best path for me and I flat refused to take it. That's not your fault, that's mine. I don't think there was anything you could have said or done differently to cause me to change my mind, I was far too stubborn."

She replied, "You come by that honestly, you know. Not just from me, but your father, as well. We're both absolute mules when we think we're right."

I consoled, "Yeah, that's definitely me, Mom. But here's what I want you to know: Even though I now know you were right, I should have taken that path you suggested, you still raised one heck of a kid. You know I won't take shit from anyone and thanks to you, to you, Mom, I am one of the strongest people I know. Because of how you raised me, how you taught me to see the world, when life gets tough, I don't take that as a sign to quit, I take that as a sign to try harder."

"You know, honey, that's funny. That's how I've always seen the world. Whenever things get difficult and I fear I'm going to fall, I take that as a sign to fight harder. I wouldn't let anything or anyone keep me down if they manage to knock me down."

"I know, Mom, me too. And thank you, thank you so much for that. It doesn't matter what I thought of it when I was a kid, it's one of my strongest assets now and I can never thank you enough for bestowing that feature on me."

And now I remember why it is that my Mom and I can spend so much time on the phone. She is me, older and wiser, more learned about the world. Talking to her is therapeutic in so many ways, coming to terms with both who I've been and who I am and keeping an eye on who I will yet become. Because try as I might, I will always be her daughter and I'm damned proud to say as much.