#24: Compassion for My Mother

As I detailed in a previous post, my earliest memory is watching my father drag my mother down the street by her hair.  It was home filled with fear and anxiety.  I remember the sounds of my dad banging on the locked doors and windows of our home while drunk, screaming for my mom to let him in. These nights (which to me seemed to happen every night) usually ended with the police being called. My earliest memories were not of myself being abused, but rather of the abuse my mother sustained. I also remember going in and out of women’s shelters with her and my siblings. Unfortunately, the abuse didn’t end with my mom. 

My siblings and I also experienced abuse.  Although we each had our own bed, my siblings and I chose to share the same bed every night because during the night, my mom would come into the room and beat us with a large stick (one of those wooden rods used to secure a sliding door from opening). By sleeping in the same bed, we could rotate which one of us was on the outside and would receive the swats. Even though my brother would wet the bed every night and I would get soaked in his urine, it was worth it not to take as many lashings.
 
My mom would use the same stick and back me into a corner and hit me whenever I would come in from outside. On weekends she wouldn’t want to deal with us and would lock us outside, even in the very cold Washington-state winter only dressed in our underwear. I also remember never getting any sleep because my mom would blast music throughout the house, singing and dancing all night long. The noise would keep me awake (I will talk more about this in a future post). Nights were challenging, but so too was bath time. During bath time, I recall my mother bathing all three of us at once. She would use scalding hot water that burned our skin. We would stand gripping the side of the tub waiting to be soaped up. 
 
Mealtime wasn’t much better. Meals consisted of government cheese, bread, peanut butter, etc. that my mom would get once a month. She would come home with the supplies and make grilled cheese sandwiches and freeze them to use all month long. Every morning we would eat the (still frozen) sandwiches for breakfast. For dinner we ate whatever she decided to piece together (she would fondly refer to these meals as her “concoctions”). We weren’t allowed to leave the table until we ate everything given to us. I would put the food in my pockets and throw them outside into the bushes. I always lived in fear that she would catch and punish me. These are just some of my earliest childhood memories prior to entering foster care at age 9.
 
I have many complicated feelings about being raised by a mother who was abused herself and battled with mental illness. But I do not judge my mother from the treatment I sustained in my childhood. Instead, I choose to look at her with compassion. I have no doubt my mom loved me. But I know she did what she could to survive and with the resources and awareness she had at the time. I hope if you’re reading this you too choose not to judge my mother–or anyone else who may be in a similar position. But rather I invite you to offer an ear or a hand. Judging my mom wouldn’t have helped me or my siblings, but someone reaching out and offering help, support, or guidance could have.
 
"Compassion.  It's not just a word.  It’s a way of being.  It’s not just a concept.  Its love in action." -Jeff Brown
 
Until next Monday…