Son has been to court (without me) and regained 50/50 custody (without me).  The “without me” part is an enormous relief.  I have little energy left for the drama that falls in the wake of his life.  I guess this has triggered this line of thought.

I didn’t meet my birthmother until I was 35 years old.  She was dead 2 months after I turned 36.  The story behind that is one for a “based on true events” movie, but the telling is for another day.  Even now, I don’t know the identity of my father, except that his first name (I think it’s his first name) was unusual (I know it) and that so many conflicting stories about what happened have been told that the truth is now lost to those who no longer are among us.  I also know that I really like to listen to Tanya Tucker sing “What’s Your Mama’s Name.”

I spent perhaps 24 hours (yes, hours) in the company of my biological mother during my entire lifetime.  She’s been dead for many years.  Despite this, I have to acknowledge that my relationship with her (or lack thereof) has served as the major driving force in my lifetime.

My “mother” – the woman who adopted me – could have no children.  Blame was tossed back and forth between my parents silently, but in that day and time there was no stigma to adopting nor to mothers who gave up their babies for someone else to raise.  People in general were expected to have families, and there was an assumption that if it just so happened that you couldn’t have one, that didn’t mean that you wouldn’t be a great parent.  The same is true now.  That said, the reverse is true as well.  People want kids for a variety of reasons.  In the 50’s and 60’s it was an expected part of life, a right of passage, and not much thought went into whether you’d be a good parent or not short of making sure you had a job, hadn’t been to jail, and weren’t actively in psychiatric treatment.  So, a lot of kids ended up in homes that were better than the ones they were born to, but sometimes still very, very problematic.  That sums up my situation.  My Mom had some very serious, undetected problems. Hell, in the years before I left I still didn’t put my finger on it and call it what it was – mental illness.

But I knew some things were off.  I guess the first time I realized there was a real problem was when I was 4.  I recall living in a large city in a high-rise apartment – 11th floor.  I was permitted to go down to the playground with my brother (2 years older) and play.  I have no idea what my mother was up to in the apartment, except to say that I was happy to go.  There had been a couple of mind-blowing incidents of bizarre abuse and Mom was high-strung.

Flash-forward in my memory and I’m talking to some lady on the bench at the park, telling her in all earnestness that my mother had been in a terrible car accident – she might even die.  I knew this was a lie – I just really wanted to believe it so much.  I know, those are not nice thoughts.  Oblivious, the woman then accompanied me back to the apartment only to find my Camel smoking, otherwise apparently healthy mother answer the door.  This was the last time I remember my mother having any control whatsoever when she got truly angry with me.  I think she had no idea what to make of it – this subliminal line of thought coming from her preschool daughter that she simply could not understand.  She tried to talk to me, but I was 4 and really wasn’t much in touch with my subconscious mind.  I promised Mommy I would tell no more lies.

More craziness would come.  I’ve got images of my mother screaming in agony while Dad and Mom’s best friend pulled her nude from a hot bath and wrapped her up on my parent’s bed.  Her expansive happiness when she thought she was pregnant once, and the raging anger and depression that fell behind it.  She never, ever reconciled the fact that she could not make her body reproduce.  She blamed my father’s low sperm count more than her blocked fallopian tubes and thyroid problems.  And through it all, her mental illness grew worse, and worse, and worse.  Her rage when I got my period.  Most of the crazy came my way.  At least I think it did.  I realize now that Dad would have never said.  He’s been gone for a long, long time now.

My brother escaped through drugs and alcohol.  I escaped through school and at one point, religion.

My whole childhood I dreamed that out there was my “real” mother – the one who if she only knew, would come and save me.  At one point I believed it was Liza Minelli – but she was too young.  I never thought about my father coming to save me.  I had a Dad who didn’t hurt me.  Anyway, no one came to save me.  Never happened.

When I did meet this person – this “real” mother who was to have saved me from everything, amongst all the questions she had was “Are you looking for a mother?  Because I can’t be that.”  I just told her, “I have a mother, but it hasn’t worked out very well so far. So I’m good with that.”

Mom is 80 this year.  I last saw her in 2008.  It took me until 2004 to really, really get over it.  My life.  That neither she nor I could ever be who the other one needed or wanted.  I wonder how much time people waste on what are supposed to be really important relationships in a life, only to discover this is their hard truth?  Some waste a lifetime.