The Complexities of Life & Death

She is dead. The stepmother. I say “the” because to put “my” before it gives her too much ownership. She passed away at midnight. For almost 3 hours now I’ve been sitting here wondering did her soul jettison upward or spiral down? I hear tell the hand that smite me, was actually gentle unto others in years after I was removed from the home and put in protective custody. So does that beckon her to Heaven or to Hell? I cannot help but ponder this. I mean, idly, like from a distance of a thousand miles away.

Oh the complexities of life & death. It seems to be my recurring theme this year. They say when death strikes it comes in sets of three, but this makes four so far and the year is not even over yet. This one though… doesn’t fall in quite the same category of grieving or loss as the rest. It’s elite unto itself.

I trace a finger over her grandest photo. I don’t touch it; I just sort of outline the air above the image of her face from years ago. She had a beautiful smile and was actually a beautiful woman, outwardly. Seemingly warm, but oh, so cold; as cold as her skin must now be. I remember those pretty brown eyes being severely unlike the ones shown so sweetly captured in the picture. Back when they were crazy, insane, intense ugly beacons glaring at me through her fits of rage and madness. I remember the opposite too, of them suddenly placid and twinkling when she gazed upon blood kin. As compared to me, the stepchild, the unloved “thing.” Not only unloved, but literally hated – for merely existing.

Recently someone close to me shared an excerpt from the modern version of the movie Cinderella, whereupon the question was posed: “Was there ever a moment that you loved me even in its smallest measurement?” Which then elicited the reply: “How can you love a pebble in your shoe?” So I imagine I must have been a fucking boulder in hers.

I never saw Cinderella, but I did see Mommie Dearest. I remember leaving the theatre afterward and overhearing the comments of shocked viewers. All the while thinking to myself, oh, if you people only knew…wire coat hangers are small potatoes compared to pitchforks, hoes, shovels, and far worse atrocities. I would have traded [the] stepmother out for Joan Crawford any day of the week.

Does anyone out there know what it’s like for a ‘Mommy’ to repeatedly randomly wake you up in the middle of the night pressing a gun to your temple or a butcher knife against your throat and harshly whisper threaten, “I’m going to kill you, your sister, your Daddy, and then myself!” There were times I didn’t care anymore and would pray for her to just DO IT, get it over with, pull the trigger, or slit my throat, and put me out of my misery...

When I turned forty I had a breakdown. Early one morning I was perfectly fine and driving to work, mentally organizing the many things I needed to do that day, when suddenly out of the blue, I just started crying and literally couldn’t stop. I nearly had a wreck and pulled over on the side of the road trying to get a grip. Except I couldn’t get a grip and that scared the bejesus out of me. I cried nonstop for three solid months. All the tears I had never shed; never had the l u x u r y to shed as a child, being so busy 24/7 trying to keep my wits about me well enough to just stay alive from one day to the next.

And now she’s dead. She lived for 90 years. People think she was a sweet little ole lady. I pass them all the time with their blue hair and I’m always polite and considerate… but deep inside I have to wonder what kind of skeletons may be hiding behind their smiles. Are they really as sweet as all that, the way they appear, or does a monster reside inside?

So no, I’m not mourning her. I will not attend her funeral. But I did mourn. For years I mourned because she didn’t love me. I never understood why. I tried so hard to please her and craved her love despite all the horrible abuse. I just had an epiphany. She was the first woman to break my heart and my spirit. My biological mother was the second. The only difference was the types and shapes of scars left on my body - and in my soul.

There’s a song by Tina Turner called What’s Love Got To Do With It. We know the words and sing along but if you polled the world and asked every person that question, half of them would say NOTHING, but the other half would say: E V E R Y T H I N G. I believe the more important question to ask would be… how did you arrive at your particular answer?