Today would have been my mother’s 77th birthday. I’ve always known her birth date and I’m always aware when this day rolls around, but there have been so many little things lately that have made me think of her and her birthday. She’s been gone for more than 19 years now, and that in itself is unbelievable. I’m thankful that I did not have to endure her for two more decades, and I’m so thankful that I’m finally at a really good place when I think of her.
For most of my life, but especially since she died, I have been plagued by terrible, vivid nightmares that usually involve her trying to kill me with one method or another. She has run me over, put poison in my food, pushed me off bridges and tall buildings, choked me and her favorite: using a very large serrated knife to stab me with. She has killed me more times than I can count and I can’t even begin to guess at the number of times I’ve woken myself with soul piercing screams.
Not anymore. She finally stopped haunting me earlier this year and though I still see her from time to time in my nocturnal world, she has changed. That look of wild eyed crazy has left her face and countenance and as hard as it is to believe, it has been replaced with what appears to be love for me. I rarely saw that look upon her face in life, and so it’s hard to know for sure that that’s what it is, but it sure looks that way. Just the fact that she’s not rushing me with a knife or an axe or any other sharp instrument is an improvement.
I give credit to the peace in my dreams to a friend who started a mantra with me to keep the nightmares at bay, I also give a lot of credit to myself for working through the years of abuse and pain and most importantly, for working through the hatred and finding love. I have forgiven the person that called herself my mom and in doing so I have mostly found peace within myself.
We were at dinner earlier this week with a group of co-workers when I found out that one of our managers that has recently retired had a birthday today. Same day as my mom. I asked him out of curiosity what year he was born and I about fell off my chair when he told me the exact year that my mother was born. They have the same, exact birthdate. I couldn’t help but look at this man and try to imagine my mother at this age. I couldn’t imagine it, I couldn’t think about what my life would be like had she lived.
I might have found forgiveness for her, but it doesn’t mean I would welcome her back in my life with open arms. Maybe that will come in time, maybe it won’t, but I’m okay with just feeling a little bit of peace after all the years of hell.
So, yesterday, I’m doing a rental for a new customer and part of the leasing process is getting a copy of their ID and their birthdate. This young man’s birthday was June 9 and when I saw the date, I thought, wow…another one. I open facebook this morning and there are a couple hundred birthday wishes for Johnny Depp. Him and my mom with the same birthday? Unthinkable! I scroll further and find out that it’s also the birthday for one of my favorite authors, Patricia Cornwell. I come here to my blog and start writing and realize I need a coffee refill and when I return I flip back to facebook to answer a message and I see another birthday wish in my news feed and this one is funny: Donald Duck!
I don’t discount astrology or numerology and for all I know the day we are born does have significance and a purpose. However, it’s hard for me to connect the dots this morning for all these people that share my mom’s special day. So, whether you are born on this date or any of the other 364 possible days, I think it’s up to us to be who we’re gonna be. We are responsible for our actions, our thoughts and what we do with our lives.
I have plans for this evening that I know will involve laughing and feeling something in my heart that I don’t think my mom ever could. Sometimes I wish that I could go back to her childhood and fix the things that went wrong for her and I wish I could have been there to tell her to believe in herself and to love herself. I truly believe that the reason she couldn’t love me was she didn’t know how to love herself, much less anyone else. She got hurt and broken somewhere along the way and was never able to pull herself out of her own misery and self loathing.
I’m thankful for having had her as my mom. It’s hard to believe that I’m sitting here today and I honestly feel that I am fortunate to have gone through the hell that passed as my childhood. It took a long time, but what I’ve realized is I am who I am because of her and because of what I’ve gone through. I am a better person because I walked through fire and somehow survived my childhood and came out on the other side. Didn’t think I would ever get to this point and I’m crying now because I am at this point and there’s love in my heart for my mom. Amazing.
Happy Birthday Mom!
sumwatsumwhere 