The beginning is always the hardest

When I started this blog my intentions were to share my story and that’s not what I ended up doing with it. I ended up writing about the things I see wrong in the world with a little bit of my story mixed in. I’m not sure why I don’t share my story, it’s worthy to share, but it’s also hard to believe, it’s also hard to remember and what I do remember I’m not sure it belongs to me, so I talk about other things that I know are real.

The current year is 2023, my brother has been gone for almost 14 years and I have been alcohol/rx free for 6 years. I haven’t seen or talked to my mom in almost 2 years, I recently wandered away from my dad, and I’ve got most of my blood relatives blocked from seeing my social media posts. Each one of those actions have enough of a story behind them I could write a book which is my goal.

The problem I’m having is where to start this story of my life, there are so many branches and twists and turns. In 2018 I learned my maternal great grandmother was to blame for the childhood my mom was gifted with and my mom in turn gifted to me. You see, my grandma, my mother’s mother, became pregnant while home from college back in 1944 or 1945. I can only assume she was with her boyfriend and loved him dearly, we were unable to ask my grandma about this as she locked it away inside her mind and the boyfriend passed away before we discovered all this.

Thanks to science, our family learned there is another family out there with our blood. A family I deem as lucky. Lucky to have gotten away from the disgrace and shame that spewed out of my great grandmother and showered over her daughter. My grandmother was sent away to a maternity sanitarium where she was mentally abused and physically roughed up until she had the baby, forced to give him away, and told to never speak of it again. And she never did. Not even when that man came in 2019 and told her he was the little boy she gave away, thanks to DNA.

I was able to meet my new uncle, my new aunt and my new cousin. They are some of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met and I can’t help but be envious and resentful at the same time. Envious because they carry the same blood as me but seemed to have an amazing life, and resentful towards him because after my grandma had him she was so traumatized by the shame inflicted on her every child she had after him suffered immensely. I imagine she was terrified to love the children she had after that first one. I wonder if she loved her husband, I wonder how she felt each time she found out she was pregnant knowing her first child was forcefully given away. I wonder how she felt when she finally had her last child, my own mother.

I never knew my maternal great grandparents. I didn’t know my maternal grandfather. They had all passed by the time I was born. I only knew my maternal grandmother and sadly I never knew her well. Children were to be quiet and out of sight when we visited her. Outside or in another room playing quietly was what my brother and I did when visiting my moms mom. It’s actually what we did living with my mom as well. Out of sight was our life.

I have heard stories about my great grandmother, not a lot of them. When my mom speaks of her it is done with great admiration and love, she was my moms favorite person. My mom spent a great deal of time with her grandmother, spending weekends with her, driving her around, all great memories for my mom. According to my mom she was a fantastic human being, listening to my dad describe her she was a monster who thought she was high class and looked down on everyone who didn’t measure up to her standards, which was most everyone. Seeing how my family has ended up, I think I believe my dads version over my moms.

Knowing what my grandma went through even if I only know a fraction of it I believe in generational trauma, I believe in history repeating itself and I believe we get second chances to correct historical mistakes. Learning all that my grandma went through I’ve felt I’m reliving her life. It’s hard to describe, it’s hard to explain, I feel like her voice was taken from her by her mother and I feel like some how she has a second chance to be heard by going through me. It also feels like my own mother has gone out of her way to try to silence me, maybe that’s from the influence of my great grandmother.

There was a book written about the sanitarium she was sent to it’s called Mansion on a Hill (find it here Mansion on a Hill: The Story of The Willows Maternity Sanitarium and the Adoption Hub of America https://a.co/d/cN5HmYY)

I’ve started to read this book a few times and it was hard to read. It helps make sense of the world today and those steadfast beliefs that we desperately need to change. When I try to read this book I can feel my grandma’s pain and fear, I feel her suffering, I can remember her coldness and how important it was for us to be quiet while visiting. I cry trying to read this book because it gives meaning to my own suffering and why my own mom was unable to love me or my brother. I am also thankful this book was written because it finally helps me understand why I must break free. I need to finish the book now.

I’m writing about my life, my parents, and my brother in hopes that we can all heal and find the peace we should have for the generations that will follow us. Enjoy your day and follow along to read more about my family. Share, comment, like, you know the drill.