A Single Womb Apartment

Some of you might have noticed that it has been a while since Paint and I last had anything to say on the baby front. There’s a reason for that.

The proper etiquette and rules of decorum state that you must ensure the members of your family know of your impending parenthood before you begin engaging your social media channels. Paint and I have been dutifully waiting until it was time to send out announcements, and now that they have been received we can officially let the cat out of the bag:

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Between Revelation and Readiness

In the last post Paint mentioned that there was a not insignificant amount of time between when she realized she could be the mother she wanted to be and when I officially boarded the baby bus. She was dealing with existential mom drama and still managed to get it dealt with long before I was ready to entertain the idea of spawning someone. What was my excuse? Equally damaging parent drama? Fear of commitment? Unwilling to make the necessary sacrifices? Continue reading

Hitting, Yelling, Shaming

In my last post I shared a little about what it’s like to be resented by your only parent. What I didn’t share is how that resentment permeates into your being, your self worth, and your life. After moving to Knoxville in 2005 I was awed by the sense of freedom I felt. Imagine spending your entire life living in a house with dirty windows. You never realize how beautiful the world can be until you go outside. It shouldn’t surprise you that I never went back. Continue reading

What I want you to know about being resented

A typical occurrence in my childhood home consisted of what can best be described as “the mad dash”. Because my sister and i were typical kids we left our chores to the last minute. At the sound of the alarm from my mothers room we would begin the desperate scramble to make sure everything was in its place. Baby, fed and bathed. Dinner, cooked and ready for her to take with her to work. Hairbrush back where she left it. Her chair, empty. We learned eventually what would send her into a screaming tirade about how we didn’t love her and why couldn’t we just BE GOOD?

I know now that none of this was typical. My mother got pregnant with my brother while I was being molested by her husband. Six long months after his birth I would finally confess in a puddle of tears on the top bunk of the beds I shared with my sister, completely convinced I wouldn’t be believed or worse, cast out. Child molesters say some fucked up shit.

Thankfully, neither of those things happened. She believed me, he was arrested and I couldn’t wait to live happily ever after. Except theres no happily ever after when you destroy your family.

My mother became two distinctly different people, seemingly interchangeably. One desperately wanted to be loved and accepted. That version took us out of school for shopping days and tagged along with my friends and I for movies and girls nights. As long as I was doing everything her way she showered me with gifts and clothes. She worked tirelessly to earn our love with overpriced prom dresses and name brands.

But then, and I learned to detect when the winds would change, she would turn on me like the scorpion on the waters edge. Screaming about perceived grievances and slights. It was terrifying. I wouldn’t learn until years later this behavior is common among borderline personalities, which I suspect my mother has. I was left wondering why I was so bad. Couldn’t I just make her happy? After all, she was a SINGLE parent…that sentence always dripping with resentment.

So I tried harder to “be good”; but what I was really learning was to people please, to have no boundaries, and to need NOTHING. If I didn’t need anything I didn’t owe her more than I already did for raising me ALONE.

So I got a job. Then two. I bought a car. Applied to college and got the hell out. The day I left she didn’t even say goodbye.

Being resented by your parent for existing is like living with a boulder balancing on your hat. Eventually you get used to the weight but it makes all of life so much harder. You have to be very careful of making any sudden movements and you’re constantly aware of how much space you’re taking up (too much).

Thoughts on Thirty

As I write these words, I am in the process of turning thirty years old. It is only in the last three days that I have come to terms with that fact. Prior to that, the realization that I was approaching thirty was cause for existential ennui. Or, more accurately, the lie I’ve been telling myself for the last decade has been a cause for existential ennui. Continue reading