On Parents Day, Tammy Palazzo reflects on her version of growing up alone.
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Not belonging is a terrible feeling. It feels awkward and it hurts,
as if you were wearing someone else’s shoes.
– Phoebe Stone
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Could I still be an orphan with two parents very much alive but who had emotionally abandoned me?
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I have been pondering a conundrum all day today. Technically, by definition, I would be considered an orphan. Both my parents are dead and the dictionary defines an orphan as “… a child who has lost both parents through death …” Now, despite the fact that I am adult, I am also still someone’s child so the definition applies to me. The puzzling part for me is related to how I might have defined myself before my parents died. Could I still be an orphan with two parents very much alive but who had emotionally abandoned me? Upon further investigation, orphan is also defined as “… a person or thing that is without protective affiliation; not authorized, supported, or funded; not part of a system; isolated; abandoned …” I guess those words apply to me as well. Could I truly consider myself an orphan despite the fact that I lived a pretend life that seemed ok from the outside? I had my own room, food, some clothes, and was able to bathe daily and show up at school presentable. I was not the rough, scruffy, debilitated child we all think about when we think of orphans—or at least I wasn’t on the outside.
I did everything I could to stick it out in my house, a place where my father had left then returned then left then returned, only to become a complete stranger to me, and with a mother who regarded me, most often, as an intruder.
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I have two siblings who are significantly older than I am. My sister is 14 years my senior and my brother is five years older. Because of the circumstances in our home, I really did not grow up with either one of them. My sister was sent away to live with my aunt and uncle shortly after I was born, and my brother dropped out of school and left home at 16. I was alone and was the oddball. I studied hard and was focused on going to college. I did everything I could to stick it out in my house, a place where my father had left then returned then left then returned, only to become a complete stranger to me, and with a mother who regarded me, most often, as an intruder. I struggled to live out my fairy tale dream that would result in me packing up the car and leaving for college armed with my milk crates full of my vinyl record albums and boxes bursting with books that I cherished and could not part with. I fantasized about driving off into my future where I would be liberated of all the painful memories of my youth and embark upon a new journey filled with freedom and serenity. I was committed to live out that romantic notion but, of course, what I never realized then was that I was an orphan and fairy tales don’t come true for orphaned children. Orphaned children don’t have the anchors tethering them so there are no fears that they might simply drift away, lost forever. Orphaned children don’t enjoy the luxury of being loved and nurtured and, even in the roughest times, being reminded how proud their parents are of them. Orphaned children are stressed, overwhelmed, and challenged to feel secure in any aspects of their lives. They have attachment issues—they attach too much or never at all. They do not have the skills to navigate the complexities of relationships because the only thing they understand is abandonment. They are alone and they are scared every single day.
♦◊♦
I was relegated to walk around my house being ignored by own mother, having her pretend that I simply did not exist. And it was always my fault. It was always my doing. It was always deserved. I made her behave that way.
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It has been nearly 30 years since I left my home in Queens, NY to go away to college in upstate New York. I left home believing that I was leaving all of the misery behind me and would have the opportunity to start a new life for myself. I believed that escaping the abuse from my mother, who had long since emotionally abandoned me, would provide me with salvation. The very first time I defied my mother, the day I looked at her and began to peel away the mask and illusion of the loving woman only to find a hard, cold, sad, and broken cadaver was the day my mother disengaged and left me at the side of the road. Like an unwanted animal, she practically tossed me from her car and drove off, never looking back. Metaphorically, of course. I was forced to sit in the front seat with her and look back over my shoulder at the young girl sitting on the grass alongside the road, confused and afraid, wondering what would become of her. My mother forced me to watch her and would drive back there again and again to see her still sitting, hoping that someone would come to pick her up. But, why would anyone? She was invisible. She was voiceless. Her cries were only heard inside her head. She had no way of letting anyone know that she needed help, that she needed to be rescued, that she had been orphaned and was destined to sit beside that road until, possibly, her legs were strong enough to allow her to walk the long distance to find shelter. She was all alone and nobody could lend her a hand. I watched her over my shoulder each time we drove by that road, through the arguments and the rejection and the silent treatment when I had committed some unknown crime for which the punishment was isolation in the hole. I was relegated to walk around my house being ignored by own mother, having her pretend that I simply did not exist. And it was always my fault. It was always my doing. It was always deserved. I made her behave that way. I brought it upon myself. I was made to see that little girl, scared and alone while my mother laughed and drove by even faster.
I would wonder why I could not fit in with the other girls who were rushing sororities and going to parties and falling in love.
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Of course, when I packed my bags to finally leave for school, listening to my mother’s sobs, her relentless reminders about how she was being abandoned, being forced to worry about how she might get on without me, I did not realize that she had secretly tucked away, underneath the books and the vinyl, knives that would jut out when I was not looking. I would feel the stabs and watch the blood flow but would never truly understand where it was coming from. I would wonder why I could not fit in with the other girls who were rushing sororities and going to parties and falling in love. I did not know that they saw the blood dripping from my hands and could not possibly endure the troubles it would take to bandage me up and nurse me back to health. I was unaware that the carnage they saw was the little girl who had been run over one too many times by 18-wheelers who swerved a little too close to the shoulder when she stepped out in the darkness of night to see if, perhaps, today might be the day that she would be rescued. Those other girls were scared. They didn’t want to see me so they looked away.
♦◊♦
I grew up. The wounds began to heal. I disconnected from my mother in order to not to continue the cycle of abuse. Slowly but surely, the little girl shirked off into the woods where I could no longer see her when I drove down that highway but I knew she was still there. Every now and again, I tried to find her, ready to offer her a soft bed, a cup of tea, a pair of slippers to warm her feet. I looked and looked. Sometimes I would wander through the woods, getting nicked by the prickly bushes but I would not give up. Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of the little girl but she would run away, afraid to reveal herself—worried that her scars were too gruesome. Afraid that her pain was too deep. She had lost her words. She had lost her sense. She would run away and I would return to my car and drive off, hoping that the next time she would feel more safe and come out to let me help her.
My mother and father were not suited for the battlefields of parenting. They were not capable of loving something other than themselves.
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So, really there is no question, no mystery, no puzzle to solve. I am an orphan. For both my mother and my father could not provide the love and care that is required when you choose to bring a child into the world. They were not suited for the battlefields of parenting. They were not capable of loving something other than themselves. They were not even able to love themselves. Perhaps, in their own way, they too were orphans. Perhaps their souls were lost in the woods and they walked through life as zombies, searching for brains to nourish themselves to regain the strength to become human.
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I still search for the little girl and, every once in a while, I see her and she reminds me through her strong gaze, through her longing looks, of her pain. She shows me that she is broken and she pleads with me to fix her. I have lots of tools and I have lots of love. One day, I will bring in reinforcements. I will pull together a team and we will go into that forest and find her. We will pull her out and we will heal her. Right now, it is a solo mission for the most part. Sometimes I let someone else sit in the front seat while I pull over and head out on my search. I let them see that there is a little girl lost in the woods. But, one day, I will let them see her face.
This post was previously published on the Life Stories blog.
Photo—Faisal Akram/Flickr