# The Love of a Mother



## gokedik (Nov 28, 2014)

She was trying it again; another man to drown in. This would be number three and he was seven. Years old. And loved his mother more than anyone ever had. So when she had a talk about a man in a brief exchange he gave up his happiness for her’s. 
“Michael, is he OK?” she asked like a giddy high school girl. 27 years old herself. And Michael saw that his Mother was happy. Thinking that if she was happy, he would be happy. It didn’t seem unreasonable to him but would prove to be a lesson with him for a long, long time. 
“Yeah, it’s OK.” Michael said with a sullen tone. Not picking up on it, or just not wanting to admit that she saw it, she turned over her home, happiness and that of her little boy’s, whom would be treated like a young male lion when a new alpha arrives. The elder lion, kills and eats them. But Michael despised the man, from the beginning, when he and his mother were just friends. The man’s sister, whom befriended Michael’s Mom and had an apartment directly across the breezeway from her’s. Treated her kids like dogs, training them to fetch, usually alcoholic beverages from the kitchen.

The man was just passing through town, came to visit his sister and met Michael’s Mom, a vibrant, free spirited woman, that was a beautiful girl. Gullible, naive, and sensitive, she would be the butt of jokes that went over her head, but not Michael’s. He hated everything about these people and a resentment flowered into a razor-blade tongue that would sit silent for a decade. Slicing up his self-esteem into shreds of doubt. Giving him an un-diagnosed anxiety disorder before his tenth birthday.

 His love for his mother held that razor-blade in school and everywhere else. He would not speak of the abuse to counselors and endure attempts to crush his spirit from a drunken one-legged man. And the constant beat of demeaning words onto the drumhead of his innocence, which he would, inevitably steal. Not even his grandma nor his grandpa heard a word of abuse or crying. He took it. Like the little man that he was.The prospect of being separated from his mother or her getting caught up with false accusations, terrorized him as much as the man did, himself. He guarded her, when his tendency to throw himself in front of the one’s whom he cared for developed. But during the abuse that she seemed to allow, she was spoken to with contempt and authority. Not propped up by her new love but stood on. Seemingly, insecure about his lack of charisma or attraction. Knowing that she got hit on all day and could easily find a better man. 

The abuse was disgusting, physically, and deplorable, psychologically and emotionally. Keeping Michael in a state of fear, all the time . He was getting used to the it and didn’t feel right when he went a long span without. The only place where he grew self-esteem was the football or baseball field. He had trouble focusing, in class, and had a temper that would make his entire body shake when triggered, but he never, ever unleashed it all. Or even a little. 

His Mom was a victim of infatuation. Once married, she was living in a love-less marriage ruled by intimidation, from him. Michael was not exposed to anything creative, only offered television for entertainment. The drone of an electric meditation, sapped the minds worshiping. Michael scrutinized himself, finding it odd that he was wrong, all the time. He stumbled across artistic talent during the self-analysis, in his room, alone. The pencil and the beauty of a blank page intrigued him most. He could see pictures on the page and just filled in what he saw, revealing the natural allure of Mother Nature.

 Michael’s father left his mother when he was two years old. Visitation was always filled with softball and drinking and falling down with his new “girlfriend”. Watching him have fun. And quit paying child-support when he was nine. Being the coward that he was, he stopped visiting also, unnecessarily. Abandoning his son with another man that was abusing him; not feeling comfortable enough with him to open up. His Mom absorbed the tuition for Michael’s school. And his father moved to the desert where he stayed, alone, for ten years. 

While he son bloomed under dark skies with regular lightning. Into a young man full of resentment and not knowing how to handle it. Besides taking the pain, feeling isolated from God herself and definitely not crying. The desire to not be alive anymore was an un-quenchable thirst, but didn’t know anything about suicide, yet. He spied on his “Dad” and Mom having sex while praying for a sibling. He felt no sexual feelings from it, getting caught when his “Dad” saw him out of the corner of his eye. Unimaginable terror filled his mind when he was confronted by him. He pinned Michael to the floor by his neck and verbally assaulted him with threats of violence. He then made him tell his grandmother what he did, as well as his school teacher. Which he did, unintelligibly and the teacher not understanding, missing a chance to save a child in grave trouble. 

Michael was sans nurturing at home and school. The school recognized his aptitude by putting him into class with students at his level. And then his Mom got pregnant by the alcoholic, abusive, hateful man. But now, there was new blood coming to the family, and it was of this angry, hurtful man. Michael thought that this would surely soften his heart, right? Wrong. He was nine when his first sister was born. The wiping resumed after a brief interest in providence seen in his daughters eyes. He quickly relinquished his fatherly duties to Michael whom learned to change diapers, burp his sister and put a bottle together for a hungry baby. He took a keen interest in caring for her and didn’t mind being asked for help by Mom. It was his job to clothe his sister, in the morning, before going to the baby sitter. And he would hold those memories close to his heart. In the concentration camp that their apartment was, he found solace in his sister’s emerald eyes. He introduced her to the alphabet and recorded her voice, in a little game they played called “Radio station”. He helped her to her feet and carefully guided her as she stumbled over those first steps. Ever attentive, he was, anxious for her next development. He brought her first words out of her lips, coaxing her until she called for mother. She was love incarnate in his eyes. A blessing to a life surrendered to time.

 Michael graduated from Elementary School in an institutional blue suit, that they bought at a discount, with a white shirt and white tie. He hated it and felt like he stuck out like a soar thumb. Then junior high began, in public school, using a fake address so he could go to a school in a better neighborhood, not that he fraternized with any of his school mates, outside of school, anyway. When he was driven away from school each day, everything but the books, stayed behind.

 The girls got treated like royalty compared to Michael’s upbringing. His mother’s meek nature dissolved with the birth of the twins, three years after the first. The girls, all three, had shoes, toys and encouraging extra curricular activities to manufacture some self-esteem. Michael continued to give his mother more credit than she really deserved but there was nothing degrading, or even difficult about understanding her side. He would do anything for his mother’s love. He held no regrets nor resentments and would do it all again if it would bring her back.


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## dither (Nov 29, 2014)

gokedik,
it's uncanny.

I have found myself looking back recently, way back, soul-searching, trying/wanting to reconcile stuff, y'know?
And then you come up with that.
You touched a nerve.
Some wounds never heal.
This happens quite a bit here, and it's tough sometimes.

Respects,

dither


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## gokedik (Dec 9, 2014)

dither said:


> gokedik,
> it's uncanny.
> 
> I have found myself looking back recently, way back, soul-searching, trying/wanting to reconcile stuff, y'know?
> ...


A response is always flattering but to gibe with another's life is quite special to hear/read. Touching a nerve is a constant goal and aspiration of mine. I cannot Thank you enough. Indeed, some wounds are too deep to feel air and thus never heal. I think it's natural to want to hide it but it feels great to let go. You helped me. Much Thanks...MK


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