The One Who Loved Me

Growing up my “real mom” was supposed to be a secret. I wasn’t allowed to talk about her. I was threatened with a spanking if I cried when the song that was played at her funeral came on the radio.

I wasn’t allowed to speak of her at all.

“Let her rest in peace,” my father would say, “it doesn’t do any good bringing up the past. She’s dead and gone and talking about her won’t bring her back. Let her go.”

In Kindergarten I broke down crying in class during a Mother’s Day project. I shared that “my ‘real mom’ got cremated”.

I got in trouble for it at home.

In first grade I broke down crying in class during a Mother’s Day project. I shared that I missed my “real mom”.

I got in trouble for it at home.

In second grade I broke down crying in class during a Mother’s Day project. I shared that my “real mom” was dead.

I got in trouble for it at home.

In third grade I vowed to never break down in class again. I vowed to never again mention my “real mom”, to never again think of her, to act as though she had never existed. I would do as my father had instructed and let her “rest in peace”.

To survive the process of “letting her rest in peace” (aka extreme compartmentalization), I had to take all of my grief, all of my sadness, all of my memories of her, every single hurting part of me, and place it all behind a door.

It wasn’t hard to do.

After all, it was already as though she had never been there.

Not long after my “real mom’s” death all of her belongings were thrown out or given away. Any reminder of her was scrubbed off and removed from the home.

My father took every single photo of my “real mom” out of our photo albums and took down every single family portrait from the walls. He dumped the photos into a cardboard box and placed it in the attic.

“Shouldn’t you keep a few pictures out for Sammy?” I recall my father’s friend asking him.

I wasn’t allowed to see my family on my “real mom’s” side. My half sister, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, my grandfather, my great grandmother; all were taken away from me as my father cut ties.

I was made to call my new stepmother “mom”.

My “real mom” ceased to exist for me until I was twelve years old.

The door I’d been forced to shove my grief behind began cracking as the sorrow and loss it held back began to swell and grow stronger.

When the door finally broke I broke, too.

Ever since I’ve been trying to put myself back together again. Much like Humpty Dumpty, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men haven’t been able to fix me.

Bit by bit I’ve been collecting all of my broken pieces. Slowly, over many years, one little section at a time.

As I’ve been repairing myself I’ve found strength amongst the brokenness; the strength of my mother’s love.

I’ve found her love in my intelligence, in my creativity, and in the memories that come tumbling forward like an unraveling sweater.

When I find her love it heals me. My mother’s enduring love is my medicine; it helps me put myself back together again.

She was never my “real mom”.

She was my only mom.

She was the one who loved me.

S.Ziegenfuß