A Letter to My Mother

Since my blog is the reason my parents haven’t talked to me in over half a year, it seems only right that I would post the letter I’ve written to my mother this day.

To Mom,
I know it has been a long time since we’ve talked, but honestly, I haven’t known what to say. The last time we spoke, you were concerned about my mental health, but would take no responsibility for the reason I am the way I am. I read the letter you sent me, and Aunt Bonnie and Gramma have mentioned just a few things you guys have discussed in conversation concerning me, and I realize a lot of my feelings toward you and dad are because of things that happened long ago, but they did happen, and helped to shape who I am, whether you want to admit or not.
I know that you planned me. I know that you both gave me everything you could as I was growing up. You showed me how to have faith in God, and I always do and will,  despite the fact that dad thinks I’m “fallen so far from the Lord.” Believe me, my faith is the only thing that kept me from killing myself when I was a teenager, or doing something worse.
I appreciate that you loved me so growing up, and did what you thought was best for me, which is why I refrained from telling you both about my blog. I respected you enough to shield you from the things that would have caused you pain or sadness, but I realize now that not being straightforward with you wasn’t honest, so I will be honest in this letter.
I know that you and dad both felt you made mistakes with the past relationships you had. Which is maybe why it was that your three older children felt mistreated or unloved. I can understand why my sister would have been jealous of me, because I know the pressures felt by being the “good child”. I understand why you felt you had to keep me distanced from my brother, though I don’t agree with it. I am blessed to have a brother who loves me so unconditionally, because his is a love I have never felt from another human in my life. He really is my best friend, and I understand his depression.
I have no children of my own, and that’s an whole other issue, but I know that a child is supposed to be the MOST important thing in a person’s life, other than God. That doesn’t mean you have to agree with the way they live their lives, or approve of them in any way, but I know that you are supposed to love your child(ren) unto the ends of the earth and back, and in such a way that they feel loved, and feel good enough, and feel that they can tell you anything.
I know I was a child long ago, and the things that happened then shouldn’t be of any consequence now, but I think of my childhood every day. You tell me I was planned, but clearly you and dad did not discuss my raising to the extent that you discussed my existence, because I remember many many times when dad disciplined me with pieces of wood that splintered and broke with the force of his rage, while you pretended he was not taking his anger out on me instead of you. I remember when you both found condoms in my room, and dad literally threw them in my face and told me that “no one would ever want me again” since I was no longer a virgin. I don’t have to have a kid to know I would never, ever stand by and allow anyone to say such a thing to my child, even if it was my husband, and even if I did agree with him.
I mentioned that I contemplated suicide when I was a teen. Perhaps depression is a hereditary thing, and maybe I have it, but I can tell you that ever night when I thought about it, it was because I wasn’t allowed to do much as a teen. I don’t mean being allowed to go out and party and kiss boys and get into trouble; dad was sooo concerned about the state of my virginity that he took me out of school, and wouldn’t allow me to stay at my friend’s house because she had a brother who had friends. I will tell you, you two raised me well enough to guard my body from those who would defile it until I was definitely old enough to know the consequences of my decisions. In fact, when dad was so worried about my sex life, I was innocent enough to tell Jeremy I might never want to have sex. I was with him for a year and a half before we ever had a physical relationship, and that was after I had already left home. (I know you both think I dated him before that, but you are so wrong.) This is what I have learned: sex does not make a person who they are, and virginity or the lack thereof should not make another person treat that person like a non-human. Dad has treated me that way.
That was long ago, and you’re right- it doesn’t matter now. But I have learned that while I can forgive someone for such things, I see no reason to include such people in my life. You are my mother, and I will always love you, and I understand that you think dad is the love of your life. Maybe he is, but I know from experience that he does not treat you like a queen as a husband should, and does not treat you like his most precious gift, which you are. Do you want to know why he and I don’t get along? Because I am just as stubborn as he is, and I refuse to accept the way he treats you. He demeans you in front of people, and there is no call for that, because you are the sweetest woman I have ever known. You deserve to be near your family if you want to be, and you deserve respect from your husband. If you think you have that, then as I said before- I am glad for you. But I see the way he treats you when you both come to visit, which is why I no longer wanted to have contact with him years ago.
I love. Love is everything to me, and love given to me is reciprocated ten-thousandfold. I love my extended family, because they have shown me love always, even when they might not have agreed with me, and have always hoped that I achieve my dreams. Dad, my father, has never even been interested in what my dreams were, unless they had everything to do with God. Dreams and goals can still include God without having to be such things as missionaries and pastor’s wives. God has given me a talent for writing, and music, and painting; what I do with it is my choice, which is also something God has given to me, as he has to us all.
I love this world that God has placed me in, and I love the gay people who are in it, because God created them too, and made so many of them amazingly flamboyant and beautiful. I love all kinds of music, because God gave men the ability to write such things. I love my beloved, my Rockstar, because he is a good father and he has the talent that God gave him to be able to play the guitar without knowing how to read music, and has given him the passion and the patience to deal with and try to understand my fucked-up self, even though he doesn’t understand my sadness at all. I love that God placed me in a church that is my family’s church, and put so many people there that appreciate my talent, even if it is a church that dad doesn’t approve of for no reason at all. I have received more love from the Methodist Church in 7 years than I ever received in every Baptist church we attended as I was growing up. There is no evil in that.
Concerning my blog: when I started it, I knew not what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wanted to hone my writing skills. Through the comments and the readers I’ve received since I’ve had it, I have been able to understand myself better, and I my confidence in my talent has grown considerably. I know not that if I ever finish writing any of the many books I have started writing, people will read them, and enjoy doing so. I am more honest in my blog about my experiences than I ever have been in real life, and that has made me be more honest in real life. Sometimes, though, the truth does hurt, as I’m sure most of this letter does. This too, is not an evil thing.
I am going to stop writing this letter now, because I have said enough, I think. I am sorry if I have cause you heartache in the past months, and I hope you can forgive me. I love you, mommy, and I just want you to accept me, flaws and all.
Love, Sparkle

Ohhhhh, Canada…

Do you have a story from your life that is just a bit too bizarre for people to believe? A story that includes a friend or two, that when it comes up, they shake their heads and say, “Ohhhh, yeah. I remember that.” A story that, to an outsider, may be somewhat un-interesting, but perhaps in some little way shaped the direction of your life? Here is mine…

When I was 19, I was dating my now ex-husband, still had a friend or two I hung out with, and was not yet a jaded, disenchanted bitch. I was living in my first apartment, and learning the ins and outs of relationships, and of life.

One day, my friend Carebear called me up and told me of a grand idea she had come up with. It was to be her 20th birthday, and she had decided that she and I must make a journey to the frozen land of Canada to go drink. (Because the legal drinking age is 19 there). At that time, I had not yet become the raging alcoholic that I now am- in fact, I distinctly remember reaming my ex out for having stashed his Bloody Mary ingredients in my kitchen cupboard. Anyhoo, since Canada is only a 4 hour drive, I said, “Wooo! Road trip!”, though I made it quite clear that I would not be imbibing any spirits once we reached our destination. Carebear responded with, “Good. You can be the DD.” And so our planning began.

Because it has been many years since I took a geography class, and I tend to live in my own world where places move inadvertantly, I cannot tell you to which province we went; it was whichever one is directly above Minnesota. Anyway, Carebear was at the helm of her Buick LaSabre and I ran the map. We finally arrived in Canada unscathed, schmoozing our way through customs without a hitch, at around 11 P.M. We found ourselves in a little armpit of a town known as Fort Francis. (I say armpit because the town sports a paper mill, which lent it it’s lovely bean-burrito fart smell) We located a hotel, booked a room for the night, (while exclaiming how cheap everything was in Canada) re-applied our glittery going-out makeup, and proceeded to cruise town looking for a drinking establishment.

After a half hour of unsuccessful searching, Carebear happened to see two men stumbling along the side of the road. “We should ask THEM where a bar is!” She exclaimed, already pulling over behind them.

“They could be rapists! You don’t know what kind of people are in Canada!” I replied in horror.

“Oh, whatever. It’s already 11:30. We aren’t even going to get to drink if we don’t ask them. Hey!” She had rolled down her window and yelled at the dudes to get their attention.

The two guys sauntered up to the car, drunkily, and the cuter of the two popped his head through my open window, leering at me, which caused me to hunker down in my seat. “Helloooo, pretty ladies. What can we do for YOU?” He slurred.

Carebear took control. “We were looking for a bar. It’s my birthday, and we drove up from Minnesota to drink.”

The guy leaning in her window smiled goofily. “OOH! It’s her birthday! Well, we will show you ladies a good time.” As though transmitting thoughts through their liquor breath, the two guys immediately hopped in the back seat. Carebear and I looked at each other and shrugged. Off we went.

When we arrived at the bar, the guys asked what we would like to drink. Being the non-lush that I was at the time, I ordered a Diet Pepsi, and the cuter of the two, Dan, proclaimed, “You don’t drink?! Wow. You’re different.” (So I’ve heard) Carebear proceeded to get plowed on gin-and-tonics, while flirting with Dan’s friend who’s name was Sam.

After Dan had whispered to Carebear that he thought I was cute, she presented him with one of my senior pictures (it was only 6 months after I graduated) and wrote my phone number on the back. She informed him, “She has a boyfriend, but he’s a tool, and you’re cuter.” I tried a desperate attempt to retain said photo, reprimanding Carebear for giving my number away to a strange man. She laughed.

After bar close, I assumed my post as Designated Driver, asking where I could drop our Canadians off. Carebear, in her drunken state cried, “They’re coming up to our room! Duh.” Alrighty then. I didn’t really know how to respond to that, so I just drove.

When we got back to the room, Dan and I decided to head on down to the lobby, since Carebear and Sam seemed intent on having naked fun time. We spent 3 hours drinking coffee and talking, and then returned to the room, assuming that any sexual activity would have been completed by then. Sadly, it had not yet begun. I lay down on the other bed, and Dan asked if I would mind if he lay down beside me. I thought fleetingly of my boyfriend back in America and then decided that lying next to another man was not committing any cardinal sin. Dan and I spent the whole rest of the night talking, while trying to tune out the drunken sex that was going on in the next bed. When the morning sun began shining through the window, Dan whispered, “I know this is really weird, but I think I love you, Sparkle.”

Sidenote: Ok, I realize that was probably a line, but at the time, I was a dumb kid, ok? I realized he was probably lying, but at the same time, I AM kinda awesome. Maybe one night with me IS all it takes…

“Oh, ummm, ok, I don’t know what to say to that.” I was immediately nervous and got up. After rolling Carebear and Sam outta bed, we went for breakfast.

We had originally planned on only staying one night, but Carebear had had such a lovely time with what’s-his-name, (no, she never DID remember his name) and I had had good conversation with Dan, so we stayed another night. The two drunkies again got smashed and tussled in the bed next to us (Oh, the joys of hearing, “Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean that to happen. I’ll get a towel”) And Dan and I talked again, though there were a few attempts made to get his hands into my drawers. We left the next morning with good will, and Dan once again proclaiming his surprising love for me.

Carebear never again talked to Sam, but at the time, she was dating a Marine who was based in California, and she eventually told him what had happened in Canada. They spent many many hours on the phone in heated conversations, breaking up and getting back together. When they were together, and mention of Canada (such as Clearly Canadian, Labatt Blue, or Shania Twain) would induce the Marine to uttering, “Fuckin’ Canada” in an ominous way. After 9/11, he signed up to go overseas, and in the end, they ended their relationship. Whether it was Canada’s fault, we will never know.

As far as me and Dan goes: we exchanged phone calls back and forth, (because Carebear gave him my number) the entire time while Dan proclaiming what a “perfect woman” I was and how he had “never met someone like me”. After a fateful weekend when I tried to give my boyfriend my virginity and he refused (WTF?!), I took me and my rejected twat back to Canada for another weekend sans Carebear. But that’s a story for another time.

Needless to say, when we arrived back from Canada, my boyfriend(ex-hubby) was irate that we had gone in the first place, especially when I told him we had picked up two guys. Though I assured him no hanky-panky had taken place in my nether regions, he felt betrayed, and hated Carebear ever after. Perhaps that was the beginning of my relationship’s end, but every time me and Carebear think about it, we just shake our heads and say, “Ohhhh, Canada….”