Why I Was Born

My birth was not planned. It was as far from planned as you can get. My parents met at a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, and nine months later I was born. I know for a fact that had I not been conceived my parents never would have married. They put it off a long time. They weren’t married until the month before I was born, but they did not want me to be born out of wedlock. I wasn’t supposed to find out that information until I was much older. One day, I was researching my family online and came across their marriage date. You can imagine how surprised I was. I always thought that they fell in love, got married, and then had me.
My mom doesn’t come right out and say it, but I know my younger sister never would have been conceived if it weren’t for me. My mom always said that she hated not having anyone to play with because her own sister was fifteen years older than her. As a result, my little sister was born thirteen months after me. She had the luxury of being planned: no shame, no rushed marriage, no altered blue evening gown as a wedding dress stretched to it’s limit over a third trimester pregnant belly, no wedding in the dining room. I’ve seen the pictures. It was not, by any means, an elaborate ceremony. It was sufficient for an unplanned relationship, and unplanned marriage, and an unplanned pregnancy. It was an unplanned hell.
My father lived with his parents in our family home during my mother’s pregnancy. She moved into the house. My grandparents were always kind to my mother. After all, this was not my dad’s first unplanned pregnancy. Seventeen years earlier he made another “mistake” and out came my older sister, Bethany. He gave that marriage a shot too and even had two more daughters by Bethany’s mother, Stephanie and Angie. By the time I came around my grandparents had long been adjusted to the idea of bastard children. My grandmother, Nanny, helped my mom a lot during her pregnancy. She gave her advice and cared for her. They became good friends. The wedding dress was actually one of her old evening gowns from nights on the town with Poppy, my grandfather.
Finally, after nine months of worry, embarrassment, late night lasagna cravings, and unexpected life changes, I was born. My parents and grandparents loved me more than life itself. That, however, was not enough. My grandfather and father had connections. They both ran with a rough crowd straight out of Detroit. Poppy had been involved with the “notorious” Purple Gang during the Prohibition, and even Al Capone was afraid of their organization. My father, raised in a crime environment, carried on the family tradition. He was involved in everything from gun and drug trafficking to motorcycle gangs and world of never ending violence. Needless to say, this was not an ideal environment for childrearing.
My mom left my dad. She took my sister and me secretly so that we would be away from the danger. My father was not happy. He knew people in high places and used them to track us down. I remember the night he came vividly. My sister and I were already in bed when I heard someone calling my name outside. I got up and looked out the window of our tiny apartment and there he was. He knew which apartment complex we lived in, he just needed verification of which apartment. He and some of his friends knocked on the door. My mom didn’t even have a chance to lock it before they were in the kitchen. He took out a gun and told her that she had to let him take Jamie and me. She had no choice. Dad took us back to his home. He told our mom she could only see us if she moved back in. She loved us so much that for her, it was a simple matter. She immediately packed her things and followed us.
She was literally tortured for the next few years. She was beaten, starved, and sexually assaulted. In the period when my mother, sister, and I were gone, my grandparents had gotten very sick and died. They both had cancer. The stress of their deaths and his missing children caused him to become very unstable. As far as I know, my sister and I were never abused, and I know for a fact that we never witnessed any of this violence in our own home. He told our mother that it was all punishment for taking us away. After three years, my mother finally got up the nerve to leave again. This time she filed for divorce. She was given custody, and she remarried in a few years to a very kind man that I love as if he were my own father. My father has changed greatly in recent years, and he is no longer the malicious man he once was. They cannot forget their past, but they have done their best to move on. Now, they are best friends and talk daily.
She, however, suffers from sever Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and a number of other mental illnesses. Who wouldn’t in the same situation? She was fairly stable until three years ago. She fell apart. My mother was put into a mental hospital three times in a period of two months. Until this time she had been my best friend, but ever since she’s been completely different. Her health has also deteriorated. She’s losing her memory. Doctors think it may be a tumor in her brain.
I know that none of this is my fault, but I can’t help feeling responsible for the situation. I know that I did not choose to be born, and I didn’t make my father that way. In the few years that I’ve known these terrible details of my past, however, I have wanted nothing more than to change the past. I keep thinking that if I hadn’t been born my parents wouldn’t have been forced to marry, my mom wouldn’t have been drawn into the lawless lifestyle of my father, she wouldn’t have been traumatized by losing us, and she wouldn’t have been tortured. Maybe if it weren’t for all that she wouldn’t have had to go to those awful hospitals, and maybe she wouldn’t be in such terrible shape today.
I know in my mind that none of this was my fault and it was all their decisions, but I can’t help feeling the overwhelming desire to apologize to my mother for everything. I want to tell her how I wish I could have not been born if it would take away all the pain my birth has caused her. I know the past can’t be relived, and I know I had nothing to do with the choices made, but I regret everything she was forced to endure. She has done more for me than anyone knows, and I have to overwhelming desire to explain to her how much I appreciate all she’s done. I want to be best friends with her again, but I can’t. Mentally, she’s gone. She isn’t the same person anymore. Her memory is starting to go, her personality is completely different, and even her intelligence is gone. She can hardly walk on her own, and she can never finish her stories. Simple things confuse her, and Jamie and I literally have to baby sit her from time to time. My step-father is a good man, and I will forever have unending gratitude towards him. He has taken care of my mother through all of this, and has loved my sister and I as his own daughters.
For me, the hardest thing in my life is thinking about my past, and I have handled all these events in many different ways. I have absorbed myself in books to try to forget. Books are wonderful tools for escaping your world. I’ve battled with myself over the years. I’ve faced anorexia, bipolar disorder, and obsessive compulsive disorder. I’ve been to a myriad of therapists over these problems and the emotional problems stemming from my past. When my mom was hospitalized I was so depressed that I literally got flu-like symptoms and had to stay in bed for two weeks even though the doctors said it wasn’t actually the flu. I’ve had an ulcer, caused by stress, insomnia, and many issues with trusting people.
However, none of this is my identity. I’ve chosen to use all of this to my benefit. My identity is formed by the lessons I’ve learned in all of this. I am devoted to Christianity, and have learned to trust God in all things. I know he’ll bring me through everything. I’ve seen firsthand the negative consequences that come from alcohol, drugs, lawlessness, and premarital sex. Thus, I have abstained from drugs, sex, and alcohol. I know not to do the stupid things I’ve seen peers engage in and regret.
My identity is not just learning from mistakes though. I’ve learned from the good things as well. I believe in respect because my mother and step-father surely deserve it. Family is important to me because they are the only people who go through everything with you, and even in the bad they will support you. I understand the value of moving on from the past and not letting it define you. I know the value of the friendship I had with my mother, and of that which I share with my younger sister. I am motivated to try my hardest because even when life is bad there is still a reason to keep going. I know that inner strength is the key when your whole world crashes down around you. I know all about loyalty because my step-father has stood beside my mother for all these years, and though he easily could have left when things got tough, he never did. I believe in forgiveness. If my mother could forgive my father for the awful things he had done, there is no reason why I can’t forgive someone. And, above all, I know love. I know my father loves me even if I made things a little harder on him. I know my sister loves me because we’ve been each other’s support all these years, and we’ve gone through everything together, and we have become close friends. I know my step-father loves me because he’s always believed in me. He’s taken care of my mother, and treated me like I’m his own daughter. Most of all, I know my mother loves me even though my birth brought her into a world of terror. She never once thought of aborting me or putting me up for adoption. She never considered leaving me with my father, and she never once gave up. She loved me enough to risk her life, health, and sanity. She endured everything for me. She was my best friend.
I may have gone through a lot in my life, but I consider myself blessed. I have so many people that care about me even though my entrance into the world caused so many problems for everyone. I have never felt unwanted or unloved. I have made it my goal to take all the best of all these people in my life and make it a part of me. I have tried my hardest to be the kind, caring, loving person that my family has taught me by example to be. It’s tough to fill their shoes in all these aspects, but it is my goal. I owe a lot to these people, and I thank them all for everything that they’ve done. I could have dwelled on the negative and incorporated that into my identity, but that would not be what these people would have done. They have molded me into the person that I am today.