Beginning, again, can be beautiful.
If I could have coffee with the seventeen year old me, I’d finally be able to convince her that it all turns out okay.
Yesterday the irony of full-circle circumstances didn’t escape me as I recalled my last time in front of a judge. I remembered the former shell of a teenager, standing erect, trembling in fear as my assigned attorney pled my case for emancipation, my “lifegivers” sitting at the adjacent table, pleading clinical insanity and immaturity. They said it was genetic. They said I was lying about the knife to the throat, pressed against the kitchen wall as one lifegiver threatened my own and that of the boy I “had to be fucking,” because I waited just a little longer to be picked up from a cancelled choir practice, the other lifegiver washing dishes at the kitchen sink, non-chalant in a nearly sedated, medicated state. I had not in fact even understood the intimacy of another; instead I cherished the last few moments of fresh air in the hallway of my sanctuary high school, stomach churning from the suffocation that would linger in the four walls I had to call home.
This time, though, we sat before the Judge as his clerk passed the papers before us, requesting signatures here and there, mom chatting about her feral cats, newfound baby mice, and her husband’s lawn service. I sat in awe again, unconvinced that another human was truly capable of choosing me, unconditionally, and pleading a case to be my mother. Only this time there was no pleading; there was a simple affirmation of “yes” and confirmation from the law clerk that I now had “a pretty special momma,” and in my heart of hearts I couldn’t agree more.
Despite the circumstances, I’ve now reached a peace in the journey of healing that I can be thankful for my formative years. For the “mothers” that came before, nurturing my spirit for survival, and even the lifegivers who, despite the nuances of PTSD and military living, still blessed me with the gift of life, a beautiful sister, the passion to be an unwavering advocate for underserved and trauma-laden youth, and the opportunity for better, even if it took 39 years. Even with all of my trauma-informed care education I now realize that accepting the ACES is not excusing them; it’s merely rototilling life’s soil to make room for new seeds to grow.
And to my mom, I’m thankful for your essence, for your love, your calming spirit, and your willingness to pick up the shards that you had no part in breaking. Thank you for choosing me. Thanks to you I can also be the testament to my “kids” that it really can turn out okay, even if it feels like it takes a lifetime to get there.
