Negative Spaces

TW... rape. birth/operation/hospital/nurses. grief. exploitation.

I don’t remember the day I had to let go of the idea that I'd see Them, again... (around 2014/15?). 

I know I couldn’t keep thinking about Them. Everyday They were on my walls, Madonna holding the Infant (a picture of me so pale, a loss of massive amounts of blood, thus the complexion). A glimmer of someone I have never really met. What if I am in the reality where I got the second chance, and I'm squandering it? Where I didn’t have to pay with my life? A person who may not ever want to know me? A person who will develop better, without me... Will I live up to Their expectations? Will I disappoint Them? A person who has been described to me in about twenty letters, and a handful of printed out pictures. 

I’ve never heard Them speak. Will I know Their voice? Will I know Their face? Everyone says they see me in Them, but all I see is the negative space, where I see him. The living memory of who They are, walks this world unknowingly half of someone’s whole.

I know that I would have gone insane if I had stayed in my adjacent hometown. I know I would’ve killed my mother if I had kept Them for myself. Just another baby with a baby living with a crazy lady. Just another story of generational trauma to live out their days, miserable in The Midwest. They would never have had a chance to live the life I wish They could have had with me. I see friends post the highlights of their growing families, and I think that’s enough for me; to catch a glimpse of a life never lead. I’ll never surprise my parents with a cute baby announcement. I’ll never be chosen to be a room Mom. I’ll never be showcased as an upstanding citizen; I am a wanderer, figuring out I don’t have my life together. Like, at all. That I probably never did.

I can't begin to fathom a life without Them lurking in the background of my mind. I can't begin to pine for a life I never had, but was promised. Young people not ready for the commitment of marriage to a total stranger, a person who held all the answers of hope and the dream of the perfect life... I don't blame them in the slightest.

I am tired of staying quiet. I am tired of keeping still and being afraid to step out into the light. I am tired of not being noticed for the accomplishments I have achieved despite the goal posts always changing lengths and hurdles, or worse, growing roots. I can’t fathom a world where I kept Them safe, sound, and sane. I would’ve repeated the toxic history of abuse and deep painful turmoil. I wouldn’t have been enough for Their growing mind. I wouldn’t have stacked up to what I always wanted to be for Them, a good mom.

I fear that They already died, that the pandemic took Their life and I never noticed. I never felt Them leave this world. The guilt of this loss will absolutely devastate me, if true.

I fear that They ran away from the parents I chose for Them, and They suddenly surprise me at work.

I fear I won’t know Them when I see Them for the first time since their birth... Even with the pictures they had sent. Will I know it's Them? Who will be standing there beside me for emotional support?

Did you know that They are known around the world? Australians, Canadians, Europeans, and Africauners know Their name. These are my friends; my found family. They were and are my background voices I could count on to reverb my own issues of woe, not just sharing mopos (the predecessor to modern memes). They helped raise me through my 20s even though we were never in physical proximity. They are the handful of souls who knew me before the incident and still love me regardless. There is no shame when they think of me. 

I wonder if there’s shame when my kid thinks of me?

I can't even empathize with Them, I can never see from Their perspective. I gave Them to a privileged family, a higher income tax bracket I’ve been too scared to approach. I don’t feel like I deserve the riches, in case it takes away from Their resources. I can’t fathom a life for Them where They had to endure my woes and wounds, and wear Them as Their own. That’s another fear, I guess; generational trauma ruins the party, again! 

I’ve never wanted my children to wear my wounds. I never want to provide the first core memories of my offspring to be that of toxicity or grief. I’ve never wanted to be the provider of chaos in a young child’s life… they should be wanted in a family; they should feel loved and accepted, and smart, and brilliant.

The moment I heard Their heartbeat. The moment I knew I’d never be the same…. The Moment I knew my life would be different, forever… That I knew that I wasn’t able to be Their home…

At 22, I thought I had a bright future, I wasn’t thinking about the future as life or death. I was spending rent money on booze and kissing older men who knew better… I was going home with boys who would walk me quietly to their apartments or houses and we would have good fun weird times!

...

(Early February 2009):

The night in question, I wasn’t even drunk. I knew him, but I didn’t really, did I? He was pierced, and a cook. An arrogant cook. An asshole. He expected his place of employment to call him when they wanted him… He got fired a lot... He had his own knife set. So did my friend at the time. She was a cook, as well.

His roommate was out of town. His roommate and I had once dated--not long. My rapist and I began fondling; we began kissing and caressing. But then I went to sleep?

I woke up to him in me, in a place where there was no consent. Nothing stated previously of a want and navigating a desire. Nothing. I woke up to him taking things from me I didn’t know I had within to take. I remember saying No, twice. He assured me that I would like it.

I remember when it was over, I went to the toilet, there was blood and mess. I never wanted to see him again but was so ingrained with being polite that I let it simmer. I watched something with him on their couch as I sat there in discomfort. Waiting around for a time where I felt comfortable enough to walk out into the balmy afternoon, of a suddenly sunny early February day in 2009… I walked a whole mile and a half down the road to my friend’s bar, where I sat carefully and tried telling her what had happened.

She was of course furious. He was shouted at and cursed. He tried calling me on my scuffed nokia brick, but all I heard was him proclaiming a friendly, “you know I love you—” and then I deleted it. I never wanted to hear his voice or see his face again… but I played along to the tune that we were Regulars at a bar. At a neighborhood bar. We were glued together by mistakes and beer and mardi gras beads. We were an Irish pub with stone floors, and a badly broken parkinglot that has never been fixed. Not even cosmetically.

...

I hope I never have to go back to that side of town. Crickets and I had to live over there. …again. He wanted to have his criteria met and mine wasn’t made that important. He never really grasped the idea of me wanting to forget that night. But I had to relive it over and over and over again, every time I rode by that place… The trauma bubbling to the surface everyday before I had to act happy and work retail. The nights I was told I’d be protected. Once by a stranger and then initially argued from a friend. An acquaintance. An arrogant pierced Albert. I stole his newsboy hat. I lost it somewhere else. I acted like it never bothered me.

I wasn’t ever supposed to talk about it. I’m never supposed to talk about it or mention it. Because if I simply ignore it, it never existed. It never happened if I don’t mention it. Which is what my father wants. 

I had went out again the following night. Maybe I could erase the memory for myself. Maybe if I got drunk quicker, hit on this new fellow, this guy who lived behind the bar, such convience! I met his small dog, Paper. They were white as a sheet of paper. They looked like a fox, but with blue eyes and a pink nose… Maybe they were a fox? His name was Alex, and he looked like a Russian Justin Timberlake. The negative space in Their face remind me of his features. Both men said they were wrapped. It was my fault they lied to me? There goes my blind trust, again… was it my fault for not checking? 

I remember truth telling (defined as, I just couldn’t keep it to myself. I had to tell someone I didn’t know that well personally, that I was violated) all the time to new friends. He took advantage of my vulnerability. I was a very young 22… As others my age were looking forward to graduation and grad school… I was raped. I had to deal with so much so soon. My life lessons weren’t everyone else’s milestones…

I never knew them again. I could never express the full details to anyone and not feel a sense of shame and confusion. I never identified as being raped until years later when society started identifying and naming rape culture… besides the initial, unnatural bleeding, I was scared that I’d have been accused as a liar. I did know my rapist, but is he the father of my kid? Was he the sperm donor or the other person’s whose face haunts the outskirts of what love is supposed to feel like towards a child?

...

The pressures of becoming a Mom, in general, with it being the only option of existing. The role of a woman in the catholic church is either to become a nun or a wife and mother…. There’s very little in between… And so I never felt fully accepted by The Church, but I sure do miss the community.

I thought attaching myself to Crickets as a community-haven was enough. But as he never had enough markers to match my brilliance, he never really fully incorporated me into his life, let alone accepted me as is. He was just like my father, writing a to do list for me to complete, and only THEN will I get what I want; his undivided attention.

But attention is really the most basic need for a friendship… Crickets kept redefining the conversations without a consideration for what I wanted; commitment. I wanted him to wake up one day and be romantic… four years to learn me, like I did him. I loped off appendages of my soul to fit the narrative he wanted…. But he didn’t want that of me, he’ll accuse me that he never asked for that version of me… but … he never reflected or mirrored me, he stayed the same. Stagnant and alone and blamed me for not constantly giving him attention. I didn’t want to mother my partner… I wanted to be their best friend. I wanted to be the actual “brains of the operation.” Which is what he would always say to others... But now looking back, was he making a sarcastic joke?… but he never really entrusted me with anything. It was super controlled and monitered. …

...

I have learned my lessons of letting go over and over and over again. The grief of never fitting in with my immediate family. The grief of never EVER getting treated equally in my own family; there was always a divide. …the family portrait was Brother, G, and Dad…. Their family is perfect and the way life should go. …Brother is a great husband of SIL and from what I've seen, an even greater father. ….

I would never want to go back and do life differently, because wouldn’t that threaten all the lives that have been born into this world since? My nephew and Godson, for one… and my nieces…

What I don’t understand is the exclusion… I need to be going to a church and going to mass and reading the bible, and praying to a god for forgiveness…. But I will never forgive myself if I had done something to upset and unsettle the world like a huge detriment to my kid… do They regret the life I gave Them? Do They wish They had stayed with me? Because I can't start backtracking now… I can't go back and wish for a different life… sounds exhausting 

…

Tw, birth...

After the uterus gives birth, this organ is supposed to seal itself back up and the mother is supposed to live. Right after my kid was born, there was a rupture. I lost a lot of my blood. Now who was white as a sheet of paper? My lips turned blue and mauve. The room turned silent as the doctor went from laughing to serious. The mood shifted and I couldn’t tell what was happening. I felt cold all over, like Jack Frost was laying on top of me, except where the baby just came out. That place felt very hot.

Instead of a healthy delivery and the nurses following my wishes for the singing bracelets to be placed on the baby and Their mother…. they were. I think in that moment, my mother realized the parents I chose were as distraught as she was over me… she was on the phone with my father, pleading for him to get there. Instantly.

I remember the overhead lights whooshing by above me; I felt like I was being whisked away to a hospital program on the television. I thought I was going to die. I kept asking for my mother’s sweater; I understood that she couldn’t be in the O.R….. but I wanted her scent next to me as a comfort. The nurse kept telling me soon, but it was over and over a denied request, but she was never going to tell me no… The nurses were very kind. 

My mother's sweater was a modulation of all the autumn leaves’ colors, except gold and yellow… burnt orange and rust and maroon and brown… turtleneck… Crickets’ head looked EVEN BIGGER in turtlenecks and I hated whenever I was reminded. I had thought to myself once that I hope we never had our kid vaginally because I would surely die from a head that big.

The nurse complimented my toes, because I had done them like the bastard candy, candy corn. I remember going in and out of consciousness as the doctor was beneath me, sewing me up through blood and sweat and flesh. Not sure how long I was under.

All of a sudden I recall waking up back in the delivery suite and there was a cup of half melted ice chips. I couldn’t speak, and I was alone.

....

When They were 17hours old, a photographer took pictures of Them and us, the moms. I was always so open and trusting throughout the process. I have very little pictures of my pregnancy because I never wanted to be too sad in the future… but now, I struggle with remembering the days… I would stretch and do yoga every day… I’d walk to get the mail… I’d make sure I was moving… but mostly, I was on my computer, making mopos with people around the world starting their Friday mornings with a bit of a laugh.

I went through my pregnancy mostly alone. I had made some friends through going to school, but no one of real substance since I don’t know them anymore… Shake, and others are the very few that knew me immediately after…. But no one really knew my pain or understood the pickle I was in… not really. I kept all well hidden because we never want to upset society with the truth of the family… this weird odd notion of a concise functional family, of a harmonized life... it was all a lie. My family is a total mess, and at the center of it is my father’s shame.

........

After I arrived home with my mother in STL, my father sent flowers. He sent his favorite flowers... tiger lillies. And a note written in a stranger's hand, "You did the bravest thing for [Them]" ....where was he? I needed him. I needed family members. I needed them to come together and be there for me. FOR ME... but all I had was my insane mother.... an immature irrational piece of pain... A person who shouldn't have placed so much blame and their own suffering on their children while they were just trying to grow up... who should've been THE PARENT more than us regulating her.... 

...

As a pregnant person, I had very vivid dreams… I had a dream that my best friend from high school saved me from a dragon… I had a dream where I had a legit penis; flacid, and an obvious representation of possessing a foreign object as I was three months pregnant at that time… but I had two nightmares. The first one, in context, was before my grandmother passed away in 2015… in the first nightmare, I was very noticeably pregnant, and grandma had passed away in the dream, and my Dad didn’t permit me entry because he didn’t want to explain my bump…

Him and G almost barred me from Brother’s wedding, but that’s a different entry… that actually happened. That wasn't in the dream.

The second nightmare was having my kid in the hospital and not being able to find the parents… and then looking for them. And coming back to my room where the baby was missing… and I was frantically looking, but no one was in the hospital but me. That was the scariest.

...

Back in March 2009, after I had told my father that I was pregnant, he told me that the Family was not to know…. Then he proceeded to tell the family some sugar coated BS and my grandmother went to her grave thinking I had some fling with a guy… 

I had made my grandfather cry because I informed him that wasn’t the truth… To an 88 year old man, I probably could never use a heavy word like Rape… but I did use the phrase about my kid... “Their conception wasn’t a mutual endeavor. I was taken advantage of.” …Grandpa held up his hand, retreated to his room, and I heard that old man weep. I acted like I couldn’t hear him… but it made sense that my picture wasn’t on his mantle of remembering grandkids he was proud of… we went through his stuff after the funeral. Neither me or my sister held room on those shelves. My kid’s picture was there beneath others… which honestly was very touching to discover. Brother and his family were center stage. Of course. The golden grandchild.

...

Tw, exploitation: 

I never understood why my father could never tell my story correctly. He had also initially told me that Brother was to NEVER know… and I respected that. Whenever I would speak to Brother on the phone, I wouldn’t mention the hurt and anguish and pain and anger....and loneliness… I would ask him about his hobbies and his well rounded life. I would get post cards from Italy from him going and seeing the world on his school’s money and time. I’d hear about this scrawny young man attempting Rugby…

Our Dad told Brother my “whole” story once he became interested in girls… and so our Dad exploited my story, didn’t even tell me he was going to tell Brother, and then told him the “wayword” story of his older sister and to not be like her...an unfit adult… don't become another scab or scar or wound for him to bear… another shame point counted towards him… 

I never could talk to Brother the same way ever again. He and I fell out of touch… he grew up the rest of the way without me… All for the best.

If I actually join a church, will it be to seek approval and finally acceptance? If I actually complied and obeyed my father’s wishes… I’d be living a dull boring life in the shadows of what ifs…. What if I could’ve been great if he had paid enough attention to me as I grew through my formative years with a better network of support and resources and the proper care to get me a better start to my early 20s… ??

But that wasn’t life. I was still recooperating from everything changing every few months… I don’t have a home. I don’t have a homebase. I don’t have a best friend. I don’t have an emergency contact that isn’t a family member…. I don’t trust my father with legality items and I don’t trust my mother with rationale.

She can start a revolution; but she can't run a country.

…

I can’t fathom a life without a support group. But where do I find support? I don’t trust the church… I don’t trust new friends to be there for me beyond initial physical needs and emotional discussion woes…. Or is that a definition of friend?

I don’t understand how to make friends without alcohol or late night partying...and outside of work? I don’t understand how to maintain friendships in ways that make sense and are healthy…. I understand my own emotions, but I'm still installing boundaries… and advocating for myself.

The shame my father has for himself and his divorce… the knowledge that I accidentally found a draft of his annulment on the computer he gave me to use for school…. The implication that marrying our mother was a mistake… I understand that he needed to write that in order to be married again to G… but there was no mention of his children not being also mistakes. The shame my father feels towards me and my plight is his problem.

I am tired of being silent. I am tired of never expressing. I know how to keep my cool and be even tilt when I am in a flustering situation… I have learnt all these skills in his gaping absence.

I had so many questions about fellow humans. I had tried my best in school, both academically and socially. I had to ask Cousin S so many questions about other dudes and what they must be thinking… I had to confide in him and others for answers… I had fun with my friends but were they stable friends to have? …I have met one or two people from that era, and they are THE SAME… it’s actually kind of sad… people are damaged and they never move on from those state of mind. It’s safer to stay put, stay safe… But I always want to keep going…. Keep growing. Keep learning and dancing...

But I cannot keep moving. I really want to find somewhere more permnanent. Somewhere I can be myself and be safe and well rounded. Somewhere I could be myself and be me… I always wanted to live with sane family. I thought I had that in my early 20s because I really wanted to finally live with family… but when I was 20, and as we all know, age is a number that dictates the course of one’s life… The world was scary… I wanted to be able to confide in family, but I also wanted to be accepted… so I played the part. I played pretend as I went through life pretending I had my shit together….

I still don’t know what I’m doing…. But I am figuring out how to take care of myself and asking for help if I need it. There are parts of me who wish I could do it all on my own, but I’ve been so starved of familial attention, everyone else is busy with their own successful lives… no one has time to hang out. Understandable.

I know my triggers. I know I can’t wait to be able to support myself… but there will be so many debts… bitter and resentful… should I carry those wounds, as well? I asked for it, didn’t I?

…

There’s an installation at an Erotic Museum in Las Vegas Nevada… I wrote “I’ll always blame myself.” ~Snow~

I’ll always blame myself for not being more aware of my surroundings. I was so starved of a meaningful connection and the constant EXCLUSION from the immediate family.... I don’t blame Sister for caving like she did and settling for the life she was told would cure her…. Get married, have babies… extend or exclude legacies….

A child should be wanted and well prepared for… they are not a commodity. They’re not anyone you, the parent, can control… a good parent should have a child and keep up wanting to know them in some capacity. A child is an individual, not a blank slate.

.......

I got twelve years knowing where my kid was and what They were doing, and how good They were at school… what They looked like… but I had sent Them professional photos of me and Crickets …I told Them I had found my forever partner! I had promised Them that he was it… but I guess in the end he was just doing me a bunch of favors… according to him 🦗🦗🦗.

We were in love with the ideal person we were with… not the as-is-person… he wanted my Mom energy, and I was willing to give it with the caveat promise of romance and best-friendship…

…I had told my kid about people in Canada and the UK and South Africa… and Australia… of *W* here in the states…. people who are no longer walking this earth, breathing our air. Oldfags (internet term) knew of Them. …they knew me before the incident. They’ll continue to know me now. I have always been open and welcoming for others to follow suit. 

No one will ever replace my parents, but I have had to piece together a patched network of people together to call them a family; some share my DNA, but most don't… people who come from a large family, closely knit… if you know a good friend IRL, for most of your life…. If you have a home………………….. count yourself lucky you're not me.

…

Where the Heart Is……………. Tangled…………… DW; River Song………………… men should stop writing these stories. They don’t understand the pain of motherhood. The constant grief and anger and shame… the people who would rather die keeping secrets instead of telling the world this story, to benefit mankind… to inspire or to warn! ….to share myself to the world... Would be interesting.

I’m inching closer to that…

Is that just what authenticity is?

...

Snow.