I have received countless emails, tweets, direct messages etc , over the last several months asking why I never talk about my mother in my blogs. Other than my father saying repeatedly, I deserve the bed next to my mother. I’ve talked about my father, and my step-family, attempted suicide, living on the streets, but my mother, I kind of dance around that subject. Where was my mom in all of this?


My mother is a difficult subject to write about, to talk about, I think it is because I really love her and I really mourn her even though she is still alive. I don’t even know where to begin when talking about her.

My mom, she was beautiful, Marilyn Monroe beautiful. She had an amazing kind heart. Her eyes would sparkle and light up when she was happy. Her laugh was contagious.

She was my hero. My father had a very short fuse; I know I wrote about it in past blogs. I can’t even tell you how many times she jumped in front of me to take the beating that was meant for me. She loved me the best she could.

My mom was and is very sick. She has a disease that not many people understand, and a lot of people joke about. My mother is schizophrenic.


The summer I turned 9 years old we moved from Rosemont, Pennsylvania to Mundelein, Illinois. I was asleep in my canopy bed. I woke up. The room was dark. It was the middle of the night. When I opened my eyes, my mother was standing over me with a large knife. She was speaking in a language I didn’t understand. She blessed me and I recall asking her what she was doing and why she was doing that. I recalled telling her she was scaring me. She told me she was the Pope and that Satan was inside me and that she needed to remove Satan from me. I was 9. I didn’t understand my mom’s disease. I didn’t understand her behavior or why she did the things she did or said. All I knew was, she was going to cut me with that knife. I screamed and called for my daddy. He woke up and wrestled my mom for the knife. She spent the rest of that summer in a mental institution.

My mom spent a lot of time in mental institutions. Some days she was really together and with it. Those were the best days. She use to pack picnic lunches and we would go to the playground across the street with my friends. We had a “secret” fort that was between 4 tall pine trees and we would all sit in there and eat our fluffer nutter sandwiches, and my mom would tell the best and coolest stories. Some days she was a lot of fun.

She was an amazing artist. My favorite roses are yellow roses, and I have loved them since I was 5 years old. When we moved out of the city into the house on Rockingham Rd. My mom and I did my bedroom in all yellow roses. Yellow roses remind me of my mom and my love for her.


I miss that woman. I miss my mom.

In past blogs I have mentioned I was a REALLY BAD KID. I was. I was suspended from kindergarten and first grade and kicked completely out of public school system in the second grade.

My mom took way to many beatings that my father had intended for me. I was a pretty angry child for very good reasons. My mom didn’t deserve to be treated the way my father treated her. He wanted a perfect wife he could show off at parties and my mom couldn’t be that woman.
My father called her horrible names. He kicked her, hit her and made her scream for mercy in front of me. I felt helpless and scared. Powerless is a good word. I was definitely powerless to help her. I had to witness it over and over. In many ways I feel like I was responsible for her beatings.

My dad had this game he would play where he twist my arm until I would cry and he would make me say, “Oh Great and Powerful Master please release me.” If I didn’t say it he would keep twisting my skin. I feared my dad. I loved him but understandably I feared him.


One time my dad threw my mom down the stairs. Her face was covered in blood and I was at the top of the steps crying for my mommy. My mom ran out of the house to a neighbors. I was screaming don’t go and clutching a stuffed horse she had won me at the carnival.

The neighbors called the police. The police came to my home. An officer saw me peering around the corner shaking and crying. He came up the stairs and asked me to tell him what happened.
I could see my dad at the bottom of the stairs. I was scared; I was terrified; I was shaking; I told him she fell. I couldn’t tell the truth. I feared my father and at the moment I hated my mother.

How could I hate my mother so much? I know I loved her.

I hated that she was always sick, that I couldn’t have friends over. That she made my dad so mad. I was just a child, I didn’t understand her disease. I was so selfish.

My dad wasn’t a faithful man. He would bring me to his girlfriend’s homes to meet them and their children while he was still married to my mother. He was trying to get me to buy into the idea of a perfect mommy, that wasn’t sick all the time.

One of his girlfriends who later became my step-mother came up to the house to talk to my mom and tell her that she was going to be my dad’s new wife and my mom needed to move on. I can’t imagine the pain that must have caused my mother.

God I love her and I am crying as I write this. My heart is breaking all over again.


I was a horrible child. I was 11 years old and my mother came to me one morning and she said. I will fight for you if you want to live with me. I love you; I will keep you. I yelled at her, I called her names my dad called her, bad names. I swore. I said why would I want to live with you? I went to school that day, when I came home, she was gone; everything was gone; I never got to say good-bye.

I guess didn’t believe she was leaving or didn’t think she would go like that, but she did. I was all alone in the doorway crying, sobbing, with my dog. My mom had left me. My grandmother was living with us at the time. She came home from work and found me.

My chest hurts as I write this. I feel like I can’t breathe. This is so hard to write.

My grandmother was so angry that my dad didn’t tell me he was sending my mom away or that he proposed to another woman that night. They got into a huge fight. He hit my grandmother, his mother, he hit her in the face. Then my grandmother left me. She moved in with my aunt and uncle. She was the only person that loved me unconditionally in my life and she left me too.

Shortly thereafter, I was at my soon to be stepmother’s home. I recall eating chocolate cake, and then throwing up in my dad’s car on the way home. He beat me so badly for throwing up in the car, I couldn’t go to school the next day or the day after or the day after that. He was so angry and mad because I had gotten sick. That’s when the beatings really started I mean the beatings where I should not have survived.


My mom was no longer there to defend me. She had taken the beatings all of those years and now I had to take them. I was now my dad’s punching bag. I felt abandoned by those that really did love me.

At 11 that just really made me want to hate my mom more, because at 11 it was all about me. How could she have abandoned me without even a good bye? I must have been a really lousy person, completely unlovable. I really wanted and needed to be loved. I was so angry.

I saw her again a few years later and only a handful of times before she was put into a state mental institution. When Alexis was born, I brought her to see her. She knew I was pregnant with Victoria, and she wanted to see Tori after she was born. I couldn’t do that because Tori was born in October and it was cold; I didn’t want all the cigarette smoke that was allowed inside the hospital unit my mom was on around my new baby.

My aunt had called and said my mother had made threats because I hadn’t brought Tori to see her and she was placed in a high security unit and I would not be able to see her for a year; she had told me it was best to not go. About a year later the same aunt called yelling at me for not going to see my mom. I tried to remind her of what she said to me prior and she just became irate. I hung up and from that point we were on bad terms. A few years after that she contacted my father about me signing away my rights to my mother or something in regards to her being able to care for her. I don’t even know. My father said it was best and I did.
I never saw or heard from my mother again until after my grandmother died. My father had passed the year prior and another Aunt had located my mother now living in a half-way house in Pennsylvania. I decided to write her and I sent her pictures of the 4 children I had at that point. She wrote back and it was an amazing loving letter. I agreed to talk with her on the phone. We had a few phone calls. All the medications made it hard to understand her, but I tried. She mumbled and slurred and laughed. I kept writing but she stopped. I kept calling, but the staff said I couldn’t talk to her.

She abandoned me again.

I couldn’t keep going through this. How many times can one person be rejected by their parent? I understand she is sick. I am not emotionally strong enough to be rejected over and over again, so I let her die in my heart. I let go and said no more. I can’t let her back in. I can’t take the pain any more.


I know that sounds horrible and cold, but it is reality. I need to protect myself and my heart.

As much as I love her and hold on to the happy memories I have, I also hold on to the night mares. She locked me in the attic; I kicked and screamed I was terrified of the attic. She burnt me with cigarettes whether intentional or not I don’t know, she left me all alone in that house with that monster who married that woman with her spawn that destroyed me and she held a knife over me at 9 years old.

She left me, without a good-bye. I must have been a really horrible child.

My stomach turns.. I am so confused when I think about my mother. I love her. I hate her. I care about her. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what is right.

My aunt is a saint and she has tried to encourage me to see my mother or talk to her again before she passes on. I really want to, but I am really scared, because I really don’t want to be hurt ever again. I am 46 years old, but I am still that fragile child that doesn’t want to be rejected by their mommy again.

During one of the few visits I had with my mom as a teenager, we danced to this song over and over again… this song makes me smile and remember her love in a positive and happy way.

4 thoughts on “Mommy

  1. You were never a horrible child, you were a CHILD. Your mom was ill, but as a child you couldn’t be expected to really understand that. My heart aches for you. I want to reach out and hold that small child who you were, and tell her that you are loved. Since I can’t do that, I will instead tell you that you, my friend, are indeed loved. Loved by many. But you were never a horrible child. And you are not a horrible person. You are a good person. And you have a beautiful heart.

  2. When parents misbehave no matter the reason, it is a child who feels responsible. It is not right, but children do not have the ability to reason outside of their personal guilt. I am sorry for your pain and although difficult, writing about it will help. Thanks for sharing this and believe me when I say your childhood was a nightmare, not of your doing and certainly not your fault..

    • Thanks John.. I think through my writing I find the one common thread… the need to be loved…. I figured out that I dont need to be loved or accepted by anyone other than myself. 🙂 It’s time to be my own hero! I appreciate you and your support.

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