Any Other Holiday

DISCLAIMER: If there is something I will NOT do, it’s give anyone credit for the physical and emotional trauma they caused me. Therefore, you will not hear me name my biological mother for that reason. Like J.K. Rowling says in Harry Potter, the name only has power if you give it the power. So, if you want to know her name, ask someone else. Not me. I will not entertain the idea because I refuse to give her more power over me. She took away my youth and childhood, and I will not forget it. Nor will I open myself up to letting her attack me, my family, or, heaven forbid, her grandchildren. She’ll never meet them. Never get to know them. I suspect one day, she may read all these memories of mine. And if she should happen upon this post, I hope she recoils in horror for all the damage she’s caused.

Like most people living in America, I enjoy holidays. Christmas. Easter. Memorial Day. Labor Day. Father’s Day. Even Mother’s Day has its place, even though my thoughts about my biological mother aren’t positive ones. For me, Mother’s Day is a tough holiday because I was never loved by my biological mother. As a matter of fact, I’m pleased she doesn’t know and will never know my children. Sounds harsh, right? That’s because of my memories surrounding a holiday that I’ve tried to forget, and until lately, I have. The holiday? Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving, 1980-something, and our Dad decided we needed to go into the mountains of northern California to enjoy the forests, the mountains, and the colder weather. I say colder. It was actually more frigid than San Ramon. Me, James, Jon, my Dad, and my birth mother drove up to the mountains one afternoon. I couldn’t tell you how long the drive was or the conversation on the way up. But I could tell you I wasn’t looking forward to being alone with our family, particularly bio mom. This trip was one of a few where my Dad chose to move forward with divorcing the abusive woman he married in 1970.

As the oldest GenX kiddo, I was responsible for my younger brothers, Jon and James. James was seventeen months younger than me, and Jon was almost 8 years younger. The gap between me and James meant we were closer, but on this trip? We sure didn’t act like it. Jon was so much younger than us that he gravitated to James more than me. I was okay with that. James was enough of a pest. At least, I thought so back then.

None of us enjoyed the trip, but the smell of autumn in the air made up for it. Crisp and cold. Not like San Ramon. Living roughly two hours outside San Francisco in the middle of a valley meant the cold and chill wasn’t anything like Seattle. We got snow in the Pacific Northwest. But not in San Ramon. But up here? You could feel the cold through your nose in the Stanislaus National Forest. Cold enough to need a sweater or light jacket, but not much more. The leaves were a nice touch, covering the ground outside the cabin or house, I can’t recall, that we stayed in.

Here’s the thing: none of us were getting along very well. I blame bio-mom for all the difficulties because it was her fault. She was the reason for us fighting. We’d find that out after she moved out, shortly before the divorce started. But we didn’t know that on that day.

I don’t remember what started the fight between me and James, but it was ongoing and hadn’t stopped since our three hour drive to the cabin. We stayed with Jon’s best friend, David, and his Mom and Dad, Jo and Rich. James and I weren’t getting along, so in keeping with her abusive behavior, I took the brunt of all of her hostility.

She took me into a separate room, away from the rest of the activities, leaving my Dad taking care of food or visiting with Rich and Jo, I’m not sure which. She was screaming at me, yelling at me about how I was a terrible human, that I was a horrible kid, and that I should be kept away from the rest of everyone because I didn’t know how to behave appropriately. Keep in mind, both me and James were fighting with each other. After she grew tired of yelling at me, that’s when she started screaming and beating me with her palm on my rear end, me doing everything I could to spin away from her. She then grabbed my Dad’s leather belt, the one lying loose on the bed, whipping me with it. She didn’t care if she hit my butt or my legs or arms. I thought I was going to die until Dad broke through the door, hearing her yelling at me.

After Dad told me to leave, I ran out of the room as he shut the door behind me. They never fought in front of us, ever. Even after this Thanksgiving, the divorce was a complete shock to me, James, and Jon. We never saw anything that we thought was out of place. She was cruel to us. Mean and abusive to Dad. If she said something nice, it was always followed with a negative comment. It continues today, as far as I know.

Dad had a lot of questions for me. I think this incident was his last straw. He made up his mind that we had suffered enough abuse, and he couldn’t stand by and watch his wife beat up on his boys, emotionally or physically. I had bruises that were all covered up, red welts, and enough emotional damage that it’s taken most of my adult life to process through all the garbage and figure out what to do with the rest. Ex-girlfriends and ex-wives have told me the same thing over many years: not my kids. She’ll never know them. She’ll never see them.

So, Mother’s Day is my least favorite holiday. But Thanksgiving? Yeah. That’s worse.