Maiyo

Until I began writing this, I’d forgotten that my mother was left-handed.

Depending on the way she clutched the steering wheel on the way home, I’d fly up the stairs and place myself between my bookcase and the door of my room. There was no lock; she unscrewed the entire doorknob after realizing it gave me a sense of control. Shaking, sobbing. I’d wedge myself in front of that door, knees bent, feet against the wall; and she would stampede down the hall, steadily breaking herself into my cage. I occasionally vomited over my legs, caused by the stress of violently lurching forward from whenever she made contact. It only ended when tears or screams etched her face.

Threats were strewn throughout the length of the struggle. She’d hammer the door down. She loved me. She’d lock me inside for a week. She loved me. She’d kill my dog, toss my parakeets out a window. She loved me.

Apparently, I was the most contradictory aspect of her life.

Whenever I finally opened the door, whether from terror or fleeting hope, the results were almost always the same. Her fist was like a freight train; the other hand coiled around my neck being the only maternal embrace I knew. Even then, I couldn’t always make it to my room. Our meetings frequently took place on the stairwell, in which I was whisked down by my ankle or other stray limb.

After eighteen years surviving an alcoholic, manic-depressive mother who refused medication, I relocated to my father’s house. For nearly two years, I lived with his family; and in that stretch of time, my mother attempted suicide only to fail miserably. Since driving head-on into oncoming traffic, she is now incapacitated and resides in a nursing home. I last saw her in the shock and trauma ward of a hospital, swollen like a sack of flesh supported by tubes and wires. There will never be a time in my life when I hear an apology or declarations of love leave her mouth. She has lost the mental capacity to speak; there are no longer any words to be said between us.

The only reason I’m able to share my experience is because of those who I hold close to me. They are the ones whose faces I fought to see everyday. Their smiles were the scarce drops of gasoline that kept the engine rolling, and words alone cannot express the kindness and support that I have received from my friends. While I’d like to think that I’m still healing, the love that surrounds me is mind-numbing. My boyfriend amazes me beyond belief, having stayed by my side through my vehement depression and post-traumatic stress. I’ve gone through stages of grief, self-hate, contemplations of suicide, and multiple identity crises.

Just three years prior to this day, I couldn’t begin to fathom how much of an impact a small handful of people would have on my life, and now I am enveloped in their warmth.

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Maiyo blogs at http://little-notches.tumblr.com/

Thank you for visiting Violence UnSilenced, a speak-out platform for survivors of domestic abuse, sexual assault, and sexual abuse. If you are a survivor and it is safe to do so, we encourage you to share your story here. If you are not a survivor but you want to support those who are, please click around this site and find out more about what you can do.

17 Comments | June 2, 2011 | Filed Under domestic violence, effects of childhood abuse, survivor story

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Richard

"While I’d like to think that I’m still healing..."

You are. You have to be. You shared your story here. Speaking out is at once wonderfully freeing and quite terrifying. You're brave. Keep healing. Keep enjoying the love and support that you have. Thank you for speaking out.

Maiyo

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