Why I don't have a mother

Sometimes the guilt presses down on me in overwhelming waves.

I am low/no contact with my adopted mother. What she truly doesn't understand is that this is not the way that I want my life to be. I desperately wish that I had a mother in my life who cared for me and supported me and loved me. It is the lack of care, support and love. It is the verbal lashing that I receive at my most vulnerable moments that has brought me to this point where a relationship of nothingness is preferable over being in contact.

In December of 2008 I knew I was going to leave my ex husband. I had 3 broken ribs and my 2 year old and 11 month old had watched him beat me up. I called my adopted mother who told me to pray more and that married was married and that she and my adopted father were not going to get in the middle of my marriage. In subsequent conversations she made sure I knew that she and my adopted father also found me to be a difficult personality and essentially it was a "no wonder you are being hit, you always have to have your say." In the months following, I stashed away as much money as I could so that I could move out with the babies and start a new life. There were times when my skirt would ride high and she would see bruises on my legs or my sleeve would shift and she would see a handprint bruise on my arm. She would arch her eyebrow and purse her lips and turn away. I was in the odd position of knowing I disappointed her further by needing to be disciplined so continuously.

But I did escape. And I did move out and file for divorce. A sin. And I remarried. An abomination. When I called my adopted parents to let them know that I was getting married, my adopted father sighed and said "well that's disappointing, have fun in hell." and he hung up the phone. I wanted to cut off my adopted parents at that point, but I wasn't quite ready to do it yet.

When I was pregnant with my youngest, I was admitted into the hospital andepartem unit at 24 weeks. My baby was born at 26 weeks. When my adopted mother and father came to the hospital, my adopted mother was in a fluster because of an argument my adopted mother and father had gotten into. She wanted to focus on and talk about the issues between them and the oncoming dementia that my adopted father was showing impending signs of. I was flabbergasted. Drs were telling me that my life was in danger and that my baby's life was in danger. I wanted to scream at her that I had more important things to worry about. I wanted to shout at her that if she couldn't support me then, in that moment, that I didn't want her to be in my life at all. But I still was not ready to cut her out of my life completely yet.

When my youngest was born, she was born at 26 weeks gestation. She was 1 pound 6 ounces, weighed after being intubated and after getting her umbilical IV. She was given a 30 percent chance of survival. I was certain I would be purchasing a casket the size of a small shoe box.

My adopted mother came to visit. And she told me that my adopted father was not here because my baby would probably die, and it would be hard on him to meet a baby that was going to die. That this was hard on both of them. That I was putting hardship on them.

And that is when I was ready. That is when I metaphorically pushed both of my hands out in front of me and shoved her out of my life.