The Atomic Mom

No Longer Hiding

What may seem like a silly little predicament to most of you, has turned me into a whirlwind of doubts and fears and awkwardness. For most of my blogging career I have went by the name of Katherine Ivy. I liked this name. This name let me hide behind my writing; never forcing me to take full responsibility for my words. If someone attacked one of my views, heck it didn't matter, that was Katherine. It wasn't Ashley. It was never me. While all of my words rang true, and not once in this blog I have written anything untruthful, I simply hid behind a name.

This goes all the way back to my school girl days. I was always the quiet one. When the teacher looked in my direction my eyes shot downward forcefully - just hoping that he/she wouldn't call my name. In the halls I would walk with my eyes on my feet, trying to avoid the glances of the other students as I walked by. I just wanted to hide.

Even to this day when I see someone I know at Wal-Mart I sometimes try to avoid them or act like I don't see them at all. I try to avoid conversation, and mostly confrontation.

I've been blogging for over a year now, the whole time hiding behind this "fake me" that I've created for myself. I have met some amazing bloggers, and have made quite a few friends who all call me by the name that I created for myself. I feel like I have been lying to a lot of you, and the guilt in the pit of my stomach is eating away at me. For the first time in my life I want you to know me. I want you to know my opinions, and I want you to call me by my name. My real name.

Finally, after 25 years I am ready to come out of my shell. I finally, after so so long, feel like a woman and feel that it's okay to be a woman with opinions, and a woman who wants to change things for the better.

So, yes, dear interwebs. I'm here to introduce myself to you once again. My real self with my real name.

*holds out hand for a shake*

Hello, nice to meet you. My name is Ashley. (& yes, dammit. I'm still extremely toxic.)

Addiction : Bravery

[Addiction has touched my life in so many ways, and I have decided to start talking more about it on my blog. If this type of subject matter is too much for you, then feel free to click on over to Momlogic.com for some other good reads/discussions.]

Some people have it, and others do not. Bravery, that is.

The ones I am speaking of are people who blog about a deafening truth. A truth that many of us, even if we are touched by it, rarely are brave enough to speak of it.

This truth is addiction.

Many of us have some type of vice or other, but few of us are ready to share anything like that. On our blogs we try to seem perfect, and untouched by the world's evil ways, and although many times this isn't the case; we try not to show it.

I want to be one of the first to tell the story. Actually, I know I'm not one of the first, and I know there are many out there just like myself and Maggie. Maggie is much braver than I, as she takes responsibility for the addiction that she possesses (or should I say possessed her). I, on the other hand, only wish to talk about addiction and how it has effected my life and my loved ones.

I want to be able to talk about how I watched my very best high school friend drown herself in an ocean of prescription medication. I want to be able to talk about how my ex-boyfriend spent way too much time in the bathroom with a belt wrapped around his arm. I want to talk about how the area that I live in is known for it's abuse of prescription meds, and the interstate that I live off of is called a "pipeline" for OxyContin.

People I haven't seen in years are unrecognizable to me. Scarred faces, toothless mouths, and the overbearing odor of dope. These people take advantage of friends and family members, feeding them lies about money problems in order to get the funds to get their next high. Their children have no parents, but surrogates, in the form of grandma and grandpa.

The absolute and only thing on their mind is 'feeling better'.

Why hasn't this been stopped? Your guess is as good as mine. We have drug dealers who have been dealing for years, and never been busted. We do have police officers, if that is what you call them, but it seems to me that they are more worried about making their quota on traffic tickets rather than on what is really plaguing our beautiful countryside.

When I was a child this was a wonderful place to live. Friendly people, familiar faces, beautiful scenery. Now, it is full of abandoned businesses, and people that are barely making it by.

Almost every family that I know has been effected by addiction in some way or another. Every single one of them, including my own.

Maybe one day I will be brave enough to share my story, but for now I will continue to focus on the stories and lives of others, while I sit here comfortably in my glass house. 

It saddens me that I will be raising my children under these conditions, because honestly I don't want them to feel the pain that I have felt. I don't want them to see the things I have seen, and even though I know it's not possible, I would like for them to grow up believing that the world really is a good place, and that people really are (in spirit) good.

So, what do I do? Do I talk to my children (when they are old enough) about the evils I have experienced? Or, do I let them learn things on their own, and be there when they have a question or a sticky situation?

 

Hopefully, dear readers, I will be able to build up my courage enough in the future to share my personal experiences with the beast named Addiction. But, for now I am too weak. Too vulnerable. Too scared.

 

Honey, just let him love you.

[Disclaimer : This is a post taken from my Wordpress blog. In order to view the original post you'll need to go here]

 

 

 During this pregnancy I have mainly focused on myself. My feeling toward it, my favorite names, my plans for the future, my being SOSOSOSO.exiTED about starting my Xanax again once I pop this critter out. * I have completely forgotten to consider the feelings of a certain male figure who could just possibly be the father of this child. Travis. My dear sweet puts-up-with-my-shit (and smiles the whole time) Travis. Reading some stories online about 2nd and 3rd time dads it hit me on the head like a ton of bricks. HE IS PROBABLY SCARED SHITLESS. This is, after all, his FIRST child. I mean yes, we do have the boy, but he is only biologically mine, and even though Travis tries to give me a hand in his own awkward way, it isn't the same.

Don't get me wrong, he loves my son, even in all of his 5-year-old bratty sticking out my mom's butt glory. He adores him. However, he did not have the excitement of waiting 9 months for his arrival. He didn't get to experience that gut wrenching (literally) experience of watching him come into this world and looking into his eyes at THAT moment. He was never able to look at him and thing "I made this.. this is MINE." But yet he does the day-to-day with him. He does everything that he thinks a dad should do, but I know he doesn't feel like a dad. Honestly, I doubt I let him feel like a dad. I tend to hoard my youngin' all to myself.

But this time.. this wonderful moment in our life.. this time it belongs to him. He made this. This is his. WOW. He will soon be in charge of a little PERSON.. a real live person.. and for the next 18 years will make decisions on behalf of this person. The most exciting part is that I know he has never felt true love like he will on the day when our son arrives. At that point everything will change for him. I will fade into the background with the rest of 'life before' and the focus will be on the little man, as it should. He will spend the next many years living and breathing for him and only him, and I know this because that is just the kind of guy he is.

I couldn't be so lucky with #1's dad. Oh there were the promises that he would be a wonderful dad. There were the long talks about our future together.. the one that never was. Then our son was born, and he had the audacity to have another woman in his life at the time to bring him to the hospital. Man. Still yet, I tried. I forgave and forgave and covered up bruise after bruise until I just had no more fight left in me and I gave up, and he went away for quite some time. During that time I moved on, and if it weren't for Travis I'm afraid I never would have. I would probably be sitting here now with that man. I would be walking on egg shells to prevent the next big fight all the while trying to convince our son of a love that was never there for us. I am so thankful that things never go as planned.

When I first met Travis I couldn't stand him. He was annoying, mostly always drunk, and just plain annoying. After awhile I gave in to him literally chasing me around my place of work, which may sound awkward, but if you've ever been in a bar in my neck of the woods I assure you, it is not. We became friends. He badgered me about becoming a couple. I didn't want to. Then one day a lady at work told me she noticed how much he cared about me. I was all like YEAH, but I don't love HIM. She smiled sweetly and said "Honey, just let him love you." It wasn't until then that I realized how good it felt to actually be loved by someone. To have someone who would do anything in the world for you at the spur of a moment. To just know. And feel. I surrendered. I gave up the fight.

After a year or so of what felt to me like friendship I realized that I was happy for the first time. I no longer had to watch what I said. I didn't have to worry about my son seeing "daddy being mean to mommy." I didn't have to worry, period, because all of my worries were taken care of. Or if they couldn't be completely taken care of he sure did try like hell, and just that made me smile.

Three years later and I'm still here. We struggle, like any couple. Sometimes I think to myself that I could surely be with someone younger/hotter/smarter/whatever, but then I realize that nobody will ever love me like he does. So I sit back, relax, and let him love me. I must add that it only took a little while before I loved him, too!

Once Upon a Time.

I've hesitated on publishing this post, but have decided to after reading some of the posts by the strong women at Violence Unsilenced.

I would like to tell you that my son's father was brilliant. I would like to say that he was sweet and tender and caring, and I would like to lie and say that the type of love we had is one not known to many. I wish I were able to brag about my son's wonderful genetic make up, but in fact some of those genes he has hidden somewhere within him scare me. Some of those genes are violent and hateful and a big mess of different mental disorders.

I would like to not talk about this at all, but since this is my blog, and I've told you about everything else that you didn't want to know about then I'll just go ahead and make the story complete. I feel like I've been hiding a big part of my life, and I'm not sure why. I realize now that none of this was my fault.

There was a five year period during my life in which this life did not belong to me. I didn't even belong to me. Anger and rage were both daily issues, and the slightest rise in voice tone was enough to make me quiver. There were times when I would have to walk through a store with my eyes on the ground hoping that the lady checking me out didn't notice the humongous bruise on the side of my face. There was a time when neighbor's would become frightened and call the cops in hopes of saving my life, and I would only hide everything from then when they came, because I was more worried about his life. He would hide, and I would say that we had gotten into an argument and he left. They would say "Obviously," to the 'gotten into an argument part, because the bruises on my arms and face were there like big blue and black flags. They would take pictures, and tell me that they couldn't make me press charges, but I at least needed to come to the station to file a report. I never would.

You Can No Longer be a SAHM When. . .

• The only thing you have for your breakfast is Pizza Rolls. Sure, there are a couple of other things lying around, but those have to be saved for the baby's meals.
• You get gifts (such as digital cameras on Mother's Day) and insist they be taken back, because you know you won't have enough money to survive through the week.

A Little Flustered at Family

As the ones who have been reading my blog in the past know, I just met my biological father, that I call my New Dad, in January. Since then things have been okay, but at times I'm left feeling unwanted and pushy. Times like today.

Normally I visit usually every other weekend. I'm presuming this was the weekend I was to visit, because I called yesterday and he invited me up. I got myself and the kid ready, and right before we were getting ready to leave I got a call from him saying: You haven't left yet have you? I'm going to have to work today, so why don't you guys come up tomorrow and we will grill out. In a cheerful voice I reply, "Okay, that's fine. Yeah, sounds good to me." Then we hang up and I bawl my eyes out, ruining my perfectly applied eyeliner.

It's times like this when I wonder if what his evil daughter tells me is true. Maybe it is true that if he wanted anything to do with me that he would've contacted me; rather than me calling him up out of the blue last Christmas. Maybe he doesn't have a good relationship with his other daughter's and doesn't care to have one with me either. I'm so confused about every aspect of this new relationship that just thinking about it right now is bringing me to tears.

Today comes. The day of the so-called grill out. It's already 1pm and I haven't heard from him. I wasn't going to call him at all, and I believe that if I wouldn't have that he wouldn't have bothered to call me either. But, just wanting to see if he said anything about our 'plans' I call him. He asks if we're coming up. I tell him I guess we will if he's not going to be busy. He more or less says that we can come up whenever we want, that he can be home at any time. Then he adds that his wife has gone to see his daughter that's in prison, and that she won't be back until 3:30. That confuses me to no end. What does it matter if she is there or not? Does she have to be there every time we see each other? I was going to try to hurry and get ready so that I could visit with him without her for once. But, then my phone rings again. He says : let's just wait until the wife gets home and we can meet in town for dinner. Okay, I say. Still feeling a little unwanted, and questioning whether I will really go or not. He never makes any plans for us to do by ourselves. It seems like there always has to be a crowd around when we are together. I would have loved to have dinner with him by ourselves so that we can actually talk rather than fill that space with empty meaningless conversation that is edited for his wife's approval.

I'm not sure what it is. He had gotten in the habit before of handing me money ($100 or $200) every time we were together alone. I kept telling him not to do this, but he insisted, and I'll admit that I did take it because I needed it so badly. I'm wondering if he tries to keep her around when I'm with him, because she won't approve of him giving me any money, and he won't do it in front of her. I've told him that I don't want his money, and that I don't expect him to give me any. It fucking hurts, and I'm just rambling on and on.

I don't know what is going on with this relationship, but I'm very disappointed in the way it is turning out. I was very excited to get to meet my dad, and see what he is all about, but how can I do that when his wife is there every freakin' time diverting the conversation to something meaningless and stupid.

I'm crying as I'm writing this and I have no idea why. I just expected so much more. I just expected him to love me and want to spend time with me - by himself. To want to get to know me a little bit more than he does. We took a trip to Nashville, TN. one time together (with his granddaughter that slept in the back the whole time) and that was the best visit we've ever had together. He owns a trucking company, and we rode down there in one of his big trucks. I really enjoyed it. I liked being able to really talk to him, and just him. I felt like he wanted me to ride with him to get to know me better.

I feel like those days are over and now we spend our visits doing meaningless things that are just wasting our time together away.

I'm just so disappointed in this whole thing. Sometimes I feel like never calling him back, and I wonder if he would ever even call me if I didn't.

My heart aches.

Motherhood (in any form) Deserves a Celebration

When I was 20 years old and pregnant with my first child (and only one so far) I was told that I didn't deserve a baby shower, and that what I had done to get pregnant in no way deserved a celebration. It is true that I was young and unwed, and in a two year relationship with a boy that I probably should have never even met, but words like that are hard to hear for a scared young girl, especially coming from her mother.

It was for reasons such as those, among others, that I waited until I was almost 7 months pregnant to tell my mom, even though I lived with her during that time. During the second to last trimester of my pregnancy it was fall and winter, and I was able to wear big thick sweat-shirts in order to hide my tummy. I also spent most days trying to avoid my mother at all costs. The whole time my boyfriend's family said, "I can't believe your mom doesn't know," but she didn't, and I focused my entire being on keeping it that way. At what was supposed to be one of (if not the) most important times in my life I was busy hiding in my bedroom, bawling my eyes out, and working long hours to save money to move out, because I knew I would have to when I told my mom the news. Every fiber in my being and all the energy I had was put forth to keep my 'tragic' secret.

Then the day came. I have never felt such humiliation as when I told my mother I was pregnant. I believe the first word out of her mouth after me divulging my secret to her was "abortion." After I told her no that I wasn't doing that, and that it was too late anyway rage filled her veins and I was called anything from a slut to a whore, and the phrase that still hurts the most and makes me sick as it plays over in my head is, "you're just (insert boy's name here)'s little slut aren't you? That's all you are." These words scarred my heart, and still play over and over to this day. My beautiful son was then referred to as a "n*gger bastard," because his father's mother was African American, and I was told he would be an outcast to the entire family. Why would I want to do this to a child? Why why why? I can't repeat everything that was said, but you get the jist of it.

Needless to say, my family never gave me a baby shower, and actually I spent the last couple of months of my pregnancy hiding myself from society (at my mother's wishes demands). When shopping she would suggest that I go to the next town north so that no one I knew would see me. She wouldn't tell anyone that we knew. She didn't even tell the family.

While thinking about this period of my life, my heart swells with pain, and I'm wiping the tears from my face. I ache and yearn to have those 9 months back. I yearn to sit and rub my tummy and talk to my unborn child and play music for him, and I yearn to have protected him and myself from all those horrible words and that hell-on-earth that we lived in. It would mean so much to be able to enjoy the most important 9 months of my life as a woman rather than feel the humiliation and shame that was forced upon me.

One thing I remember very clearly is logging onto babycenter.com, and talking about my pregnancy in the forums. Every time mom would come near I would quickly shut down my browser for fear that she would look at me and see the bit of excitement twinkling in my eyes. That was not allowed, and would have only been shot down with a reminder that my "situation" was nothing to be proud of or excited about. I had heard this so much and it was beat into my head so hard that 75% of me believed it too by this point.

If I could go back I would do things differently. I would walk around proudly in public, without taking my mother's advice (or directions should I say) to not go into public in our town. I would buy beautiful maternity shirts instead of wearing over-sized sweats, and I would show off my bulging tummy rather than trying to suck it in and slouch over to hide it. I would enjoy my pregnancy and the changing of my body rather than being shameful. I would put together a beautiful nursery instead of throwing together the second hand things given to me at the last minute by my family who she didn't approve of my telling until around 2wks before my son's birth. Looking back I know that all of this was completely wrong, but who else did I have but my mother? Who does a young girl turn to in times like these? Her mother. So I acted on all of her suggestions, regardless of my better judgement.

Now, almost five years later, I know what it means to be a mother. Motherhood is not about marriage, although marriage is a beautiful thing. I've learned in my years as a single mother that marriage does not equal motherhood and motherhood doesn't equal marriage. Motherhood is about strength, endurance, soft smiles during 4am feedings, sweet kisses after bath time, reading Dr. Seuss over and over and over again. It's about time outs, and baseball games, and being "the meanest mommy in the world" every now and then. It's about hugs, and laughter, and chocolate covered faces. And, did I mention Dr. Seuss? That is a lesson that I wished I had learned 5 years ago. Another thing I wish I had known back then is that motherhood, in any form, deserves a celebration.

Happy Mother's Day!

The Missing Piece

"Life is short, but sometimes it is bigger than the strength she had to get up off her knees."

- Whiskey Lullabye by Brad Paisley & Allison Krause

My hands were shaking as I tried to dial the number on the phone. I sat outside during a blistering cold winter in Ohio. I kept fumbling with the phone, trying to get the number right, and second guessing myself the whole time. I probably shouldn't even be doing this.

I finally got it right and forced myself to push the call button, trying to keep myself from gagging from my nerves that were tied into knots by this point. A lady answered, and I asked for him. She said hold on. Oh my god, he's there. I wasn't expecting this, and when he got on the phone I had no clue what to say. I had to force myself to not hang up. Just say it. Just say it. So, I blurted it out in a fit of nervous vomit. I asked if he knew my mom. He said yes. I told him that I had been told that he was my father. Not knowing what to say to this he says, "No, honey I don't think so." With those six words my heart broke into a million pieces. I gulped and wished him a happy holiday and hung up. My head dropped as shame and heartache filled me. I finished my cigarette and stepped inside.

Tears were pouring. It was all I could do not to break out into a loud sob. I felt if I didn't tell someone that I would explode with pain, so I ran into my aunt's room, and told her what happened. She was speechless, and just held me as I cried. I told her that I was so embarrassed. So ashamed. How could my mother tell me something like that, and let me embarrass myself like I just did. My aunt told me that she knew the truth, and she knew he was my father. She held my hands in hers and prayed with me while I shook and cried. There are no words that can explain the utter pain and emptiness that I felt at this time. Complete desolation. If I have ever had my heart shattered in my life it was then. A million f*cking pieces. I could almost feel it bleeding. From all I had been told about him by my mom and my aunt in the past month I expected it to happen differently. I expected him to tell me he was so glad that I called, and that he had been waiting for twenty three years to hear from me. Instead, he made me feel like a stranger. It was almost unbearable.

By the time my phone rang I was so choked up that I didn't know if I could answer it or not. It had only been maybe 10 minutes, but it felt like days. I managed to answer after sucking back snot and clearing my throat, but I know he could tell I was crying. Anybody would've been able to tell, but I weakily whispered a sad "hello?" It was him, just like my dear aunt had promised me three minutes ago when I felt no more hope. He continued to tell me that honestly he wasn't sure if I was his daughter (I very well could be), but he asked what I looked like. I told him that I had dark hair and dark eyes like him. Like the picture I had carried in my purse for the past month, the one single old Poloroid that had filled my heart with such hope. He told me he wanted to meet me. I agreed, and told him I would call him when I retured to town from visiting family. He apologized for not saying more when I called him, and said I had caught him completely off guard. I continued to cry after hanging up. I was shocked, and still a bit hurt. My aunt just held me and told me everything would be okay, in a way that she only could, and I felt like a five year old child rather than a twenty three year old woman.

A week later I returned home, but didn't call him. I was scared, and wasn't so sure anymore that I could do this. I shouldn't have to do this, and I shouldn't have to feel like this. He called me for two days before I actually answered it, but when I did he told me he wanted to meet me, and we agreed to meet for dinner the next day. For that single period of twenty four hours I was a mess.

I pulled up to the restaurant fifteen minutes late. Even though I was living right behind it at the time, I just couldn't hardly get myself in the car and over there. I almost didn't even go. Curiousity made me. I wanted to atleast see this man that created me. I wasn't to see if maybe I had his brown eyes. I wanted to atleast know what it felt like to talk to my father. When I walked in I didn't recognize him. He had aged so much from the picture that I had of him from twenty four years before. His black hair had turned to grey, and wisdom filled his dark brown eyes. My dark brown eyes. For the first time in my life I sat at a table across from my father, my daddy. I looked into the eyes that had looked back at me from the mirror for twenty four years. Do you know what he said to me? He said the exact thing that I had hoped and prayed he would say, and my heart filled with love and replaced the hurt that had held it hostage for so long. He told me that he has always known that I was his daughter, but my mother never would tell him so. My mother told him I belonged to someone else. He told me he used to see me in the grocery store with my grandma when I was little, and follow me around watching me, but never talking to me. He told me he had driven by my house multiple times over the years hoping to see me playing outside. I felt no insecurities sitting with him. I had no doubts. Meeting this man for the first time in my life wasn't even akward, because I already knew him. I felt like all of the mixed up pieces of my life kind of fell into place sitting in that restaurant. I felt like a little girl again - remembering all of those times when I was a little girl wishing for a daddy. When I was a cheerleader, and wished more than anything that he was there cheering me on. I would have been a dream come true for me when I was younger to have my mama and my daddy in the stands watching me cheer or play basketball or even graduate from high school. I'll never have those things now, but my son will, and that means so much. He will have his grandpa, and remembering how much my papaw meant to me my heart overflows.

I will never be able to make up for the time I've lost with him. I'll never be able to look up in the stands and see him cheering me on, nor will I be able to hug him after walking across the stage at graduation, but there are so many years of memories that I now have to look forward to with him. I no longer have to wonder why my dad didn't love me enough to stay with me. I don't have to spend the rest of my life wondering, and I am so thankful for that. I still have questions, but it is quite possible that there are no answers. I'm so grateful for getting a chance to meet the man who created me, and the man who would've been in the stands cheering me on every time if he would have known. He was never told that I was his daughter, but he knew. He still knows, and so do I. We will spend the next years trying to make up for lost time. I may never have the "daddy" that I always wished for when I was little, but now I have a dad, and hopefully one day I will be able to call him that.