The last time I talked about Crushed, my next planned memoir, I put the introduction behind a paywall, accessible only to my paid subscribers. I’ve opened it up now for all to read. I’ve done nothing with that memoir since that post in May 2023. I was busy getting my second middle grade novel ready for publication, polishing a young adult novel (that will release next year), and putting Katya Noskov’s Last Shot into the world.
Now I’m working with a pinched nerve in my neck that radiates pain down my left arm and into my fingers. I cannot use my pointer finger to type. But for the first time in more than a month, I want to write. I started another novel in spring of this year and I’ll probably get back to that once this nerve issue is resolved.
For now, I’ve decided to work on the memoir, but here on Substack. This post will be available to everyone, but after that, all chapters will be for paid subscribers. It’s going to be a semi-polished draft, probably with lots of typos. The flow won’t be the same as with my other memoirs since I am still working out the content, but I hope you’ll enjoy the stories.
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The First Love
Before I even took my first breath, my first love was already tainted.
I wouldn’t realize this until I was an adult, when hateful words were hurled at me with the intention to hurt. My mom was so good at throwing her losses in my face, making me feel guilty for her choices and failures. In one of these heated arguments, where I tearfully screamed that a mother was supposed to love her daughter, the woman who birthed me let it slip that she never really wanted a baby. She had gotten pregnant hoping a child would fix all that was broken in her marriage.
My dad stayed for two years after my birth. I think he genuinely loved being a parent, but that wasn’t enough to make him stay. She said she threw him out; he said he chose to leave. It didn’t matter to a two-year-old who needed to be loved. I can’t shake this image in my head of my dad leaving with all his things, and me trapped in my playpen in the corner of the living room, watching it all. I can see my mother seething with rage. When the door closes behind him, she turns to me, her eyes narrowed with blame and disappointment.
Of course, there’s no way I could have that memory, but I know how my mother was. She resented my presence. Repeatedly, she would stop talking to me over some perceived slight, like choosing to go out with my friends. She told me I was dead to her and she no longer had a daughter when I rebelled against her. She said I was unloveable and would be alone forever. She granted me love when I met her conditions of acquiescence, compliance, and submission.
For decades, I tried to put space between us, physically and emotionally. My grandmother pressed me to mend fences. “She’s your mother,” she would say. “You have to get along with her.” And so I would apologize for things that were not my fault. I would push down my pain and anger so I would be given permission to love her again.
It wasn’t until I was in my 40s that I was able to finally sever the tie to my mom. Someone I encountered who specialized in healing mother-daughter wounds said something that would change my relationship with my mother forever.
It’s okay to not have a relationship with your mother.
That one sentence gave me the permission I needed. Until that moment, I had been led to believe that a relationship with a parent was a requirement. It never crossed my mind that I could choose to walk away from the toxicity and emotional abuse. So that’s what I did. I stopped calling. I didn’t answer the phone. At first, I listened to the messages filled with harsh and manipulative words. Eventually, I found the strength to ignore the voicemails. I knew what she was saying. I didn’t need to listen to it anymore. It only took a couple of months for mom to stop trying to reach me.
I never learned how to properly love and be loved. This brokenness would follow me for the rest of my life, tainting every relationship I was to have. I would chase love in all the wrong places and with all the wrong people. I would compromise my health and safety. I would make myself a doormat and tolerate mistreatment. The bad choices would start with my first crush.
NEXT ISSUE: Hot for teacher
What I’m reading
I have two books on the go right now: book 2 in Hugh Howey’s SILO series, Shift, and Samantha Shannon’s The Priory of the Orange Tree. Shift is dystopian fiction and it’s fascinating to read as the second book in the trilogy goes back in time. It moves between two timelines: before nuclear disaster and then post-bomb drop. The Priory of the Orange Tree is epic fantasy spread over more than 800 pages. I’ll be with that one for a while.
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