what if-ism
Continuing my tradition of writing about my parents at the top of the year! This time it's considering the what ifs.
My 16 year old body was filled with mid-puberty hormones, angst, and emotional distress. I laid there at night, ruminating. Continuously playing and replaying the moment I knew my mother died. I tossed and turned, trying to shake the memory. She asked us to call 9-1-1, and my sister and I froze. Upon defrosting, we rolled our eyes and said, You’re lying. She was a jokester. It wasn’t until her eyes rolled back that we sprang into action, but it was too late. I didn’t move fast enough. The second she asked me I should’ve had it dialed.
I memory checked so often, that the memory became hazy, and I couldn’t trust what my memory was. I spent majority of high school thinking I was the sole reason she passed away. Had I moved a second faster she would still be there. I cursed myself. I just had to move quicker.
It depressed me. The world became gray and every day I grew more and more miserable. I was motherless, and it was my fault. With my depression, my self esteem hit rock bottom. I hated myself and my laziness. It ruined my perception of who I was. I deserved little. Was there a timeline where I had moved quicker? Was there a timeline where she was still giving us the business? Was there a timeline where she was still alive?
There was no point in thinking this hard, or asking these questions—it wouldn’t bring her back. I stayed in my gray world for years to come.
We stood in the on campus bar. “Oh my Mom’s not alive.” I said, trying not to kill the fun in the moment. I said it with a smile, in hopes it would eliminate any amount of gravity in the statement.
“You’re lying. Who even lies about that?” I exchanged glances with my peers around us. I now had to explain myself in as little words as possible. I sighed.
“Exactly…” I replied. This was the best way to do. That one word. The confirmation. This was a constant conversation I had in college. The others around us verified my uncomfortable truth. The follow up being;
“I’m sorry…Where’s your Dad?”
“Cape Verde.” I left that there. I never felt well enough to reveal that my Dad had multiple families, and was emotionally abusive. I drew the line there.
While going to college was an absolute gift, there was something I never considered — coming out as parentless every time I made a new friend or had to introduce myself. I had to share with people that my life was unconventional. Time after time, I was exhausted and ashamed at what I didn’t have. Growing up, I never had to explain to myself to my peers—everyone just knew my background. College was different. While constantly showing my hand to people in introducing myself, I was grieving the “what if”s of growing up. Grieving a life that I never had. Was there a universe where my life didn’t alter? Was there a universe where I wasn’t met with an awkward silence? Was there a universe where people minded their business?
I sat in my doctor’s office doing my initial intake. The sterile office reminding me of awkward, painful, memories of my mother’s chemo appointments, reminding me I could just as easily land in the same position.
“Any history of disease in the family?”
“Well, my mother died of breast cancer in 2008.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She said. I wanted to reply, “So am I,” but that wouldn’t speed up my family history intake, and get me out of there quicker. The nurse continued to ask me questions, and I replied with “I’m not sure…” “Maybe?” “I do not know.” In a very flat, low tones. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t say anything about either side of my family. I tried to use humor to deflect from my lack of knowledge, but it was not hitting in the same way. It was sad. She saw through me. I didn’t know if anyone had a history of anything. I remembered my Dad had a severed pinky and was short. My mother had an anxiety disorder that I inherited and was often frustrated.
The revelation that I knew nothing was painful. I didn’t know my family history. It’s haunting…still. Is there something deep down I’m supposed to know? As if there’s a secret, and innate something with these identities, I have to unlock. As if there was some secret knowledge from my Mom that she was supposed to teach me before she left the earth. Maybe my Dad was supposed to teach me Creole. The culture of my parents dies with me. Culture beyond heritage. While I can obviously pick up things from a traditional Southern African American household, or Cape Verdean household—it is something else that will die with me. There are parts of me I do not know and that I’ll never know.
Sometimes I think it’s for the better. Maybe all of this happened for a specific reason that I have yet to understand. What am I supposed to do with these experiences? Just keep reliving them as I become an adult? Do I keep reheating these 17 year old nachos? I sit here and I write about them, hoping to come out on the other side with another revelation other than realizing my parents were both complex, traumatized individuals who acted a certain way. My mother being upset constantly, and emotionally unavailable who ultimately would’ve been disappointed in my gay identity, and my father who denied me at birth until he found me beneficial—these are things I have to accept. This much, I know.
Everything happens for a reason, although sometimes I can’t think of what reason God would have for removing a child’s mother, and giving him a father like the one I have, but I have to know it’s for the better. I have to know it’s for the better. I have to know it’s for the better.
—sr