I tried this last week and I quickly realized I hadn't really evaluated all the content and given accurate credit where it was due. I had delivered a very biased and almost hostile view of portions of my upbringing.
The following is a roughly drafted excerpt from the memoirs I have long been working on and sadly haven't made much ground until recently. I have been writing more and more as of late, however it's difficult to post because I have no internet connection at my apartment, so I have to pack up the laptop and visit a wifi sharing facility in order to connect to the outside world.
All your patience and encouragement for me to write has prompted me to share this. Please let me know if you think it's worth pursuing.
Memoirs.
My story is divided. There are many parts that make up this Amelia. My life could have been very normal and I might have turned out exactly the same, but it wasn’t, it took a lot to make me this way.
From the beginning my life was unusual in some regard. I was the last of 6 kids, two of which were adopted. My sister’s who were adopted have always felt as close and even closer in many ways than my natural born sisters and my brother. For example of my siblings only the two which aren’t blood related to me are the only ones still trying to be somewhat involved in my life after divorce. Lyndsey, being 6 years older than me and looking nothing like me whatsoever, is my closest friend in all my family. She and I somehow understand each other. I have considered the possibility that I was also adopted or found somewhere, but my height and hairline link me too closely with my father and my thighs and ass prove I was born from my mom’s bloodline.
I do feel fortunate to have grown up in a large family. There are many perks to having a lot of siblings. One thing positive is the level of distraction that they can offer. Many times I escaped certain strangling because one of my sisters had done something seemingly worse than I had or at least more attention getting than myself and I was able to fly under the radar. The drawback to that being that I often view my parent’s affection and doting as having been used up by the time I came to the world. Looking back and seeing the difference in involvement in my life versus my older sisters and my brother, there isn’t even a comparison. They had far too much going on in life by the time I came around. My dad was a farmer and was required to be out checking fields and taking care of the land through all the daylight hours and into the evening as well. My mom has always been the most entrepreneurial person I’ve known, I thought she was Superwoman. She owned several businesses and stayed busy helping others. Because of my parents devout work ethic my sisters provided most of the childcare in our house. I felt a bit as if I was raised by my sisters, most specifically my two oldest sisters. As a child I would watch movies in their laps and listen to them talk on the phone, gossip with their friends, truly I felt older just by being around them. Even though I was born in the early 80’s, I often feel as though I lived my teen years through the 80’s just because I spent so much time immersed in pop culture by clinging to my teenage sisters.
More than once I have pondered how on earth my mom took care of 6 kids and now that I am older and able to really evaluate my childhood, I see that she kind of let us raise ourselves and become self sufficient. I don’t remember her even being home much because she owned her own businesses and was really involved with multiple projects. Still, the financial aspect boggles me, I can hardly afford 3 kids, wait I can’t even afford 3 kids. There were luxuries that I absolutely had to forego, like classes of any sort. I remember wanting to be sent to modeling school like my older sisters had been, but not being able to go. College would have been great too, but my parents felt like my teenage pregnancy deserved eternal punishment and considered paying for Avery’s birth as my choosing healthcare through childbirth over a college tuition. I needed their help and they gave it to me as they saw fit, which was to pay for some necessities and then let me struggle to experience the life I “chose” by having sex at 16. I owe my drive and self motivation to my parents, at 17 I learned what it’s like to have to earn a paycheck and I have been working hard ever since. I don’t know what it’s like to relax and plan vacations, I don’t even remember what vacation is.
Even though I sound bitter (it’s because I am a little), honestly I am still working through some of that, I have cherished memories from my childhood. My recollection of youth starts very early because I had a traumatic overdose experience when I was about 18 months old, which I remember with vivid detail. I was supposed to be napping when I snuck into my mom’s bathroom and opened her Synthroid which she took to medicate her under active thyroid. I believe she had that particular container for about a week or so and it contained 90 pills or close. So when I opened the childproof bottle and ate the remaining tablets, I probably ingested close to 80. My mom found me well before any reaction occurred and she drove me to the ER. Once there they began to give me “syrup” which I begged for more of. It was Ipecac which is used to induce vomiting. It worked really well on my 18 month old system, I began to regurgitate tiny pink pills over and over into a mustard yellow plastic container. After a struggle, I was given an IV to rehydrate my little body and placed in a crib to sleep. My mom sat in a rocking chair and the room was dark. As I let myself truly remember and put myself back in that crib, I can sense her worry, I believe she thought she might lose me, it’s one of the only times I can remember actually feeling her love me. It’s weird to say that when I almost died is one of my best memories, but that moment when I felt true concern from my mother is something I will never let go of, it makes me feel better about the rest of my life. Like when Elinor Daswood tells her sister Marianne “whatever his past actions, whatever his present course, at least you may be certain that he loved you.”
My dad has always needed a great deal of affection and because of that he is a master at doling it out. From as far back as I can recall my father has been enamored with my mother, at least he always appeared to be and that president was set. He touched her and complimented her all the time and would tell us kids what a special lady she was. He would tell all of us kids how much he loved us and would openly hug and kiss us. Still to this day he leaves me the kindest voicemail messages just to let me know that at least one of my two parents cares for me even though they both heartily disagree with my life choices (meaning my divorce). I also have a twinge of sadness when I think about how my mom would always shrug him off or even push him away. I know that my season of distance is linked to my idolization of my mother and I was just acting how I saw her act and believing what she spoke about him. I regret those teen years when I wouldn’t accept his hugs. I’m trying to make up for it and learn from it, he is my best example of how affection should be freely given and the quota for loving words can never be met.
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