Writing

When my mom was a teenager her father read her diary. I don’t recall her exact age or the consequences of that reading, but let’s just say it didn’t turn out too well for her and scarred her for life. So, when my mother discovered I had a gift for writing, she had this advice: “Don’t write down anything that you don’t want someone else to read.”

In college I took an essay writing class. My professor, Dr. Klooster, the toaster—that is how it is pronounced, after reading my first essay, which sucked, offered me this advice: “Sharon, write about what you know.” I’m not a JK Rowling, a Dan Brown, or a Stephan King---I can’t make up stories.

My next essay was about a sick visit I took my 18-month-old daughter that still to this day is one of my favorite essays. (I’ll publish that someday).

For many years, I have written—reams upon reams, journals upon journals and of course, as an English major, paper upon paper. Much of what I’ve written, I’ve thrown away, in fact burned, because I never wanted anyone to read it for a variety of reasons---fear that I would hurt someone, fear that I would be ridiculed, fear that I would be judged, and fear that it wasn’t really that good. And, as a result, I didn’t write for a very, very long time.

I wish I had all those words back. But the past is the past. And, as I’ve started writing again, and most importantly publishing those words, I’ve tried not to let fear filter those words and have written from the heart.

And, then this week panic struck. My mother, who has spent the last six +weeks in physical and mental recovery, after her last suicide attempt, is being released from the hospital. Much to my surprise, due to her willingness to work on her issues, is returning home. Six weeks ago I didn’t even think this was possible! I thought I was going to have to probate her, send her away and throw away the key. But, that is not the case. Although I am still skeptical about her ability to take care of herself—I’m willing to give her one more chance—make no mistakes though, it is her last.

I started thinking about her coming home. She talked about coming home googling something and getting on Facebook. And, my immediate thought was—“OMG, what if she reads my Blog?” Certainly, I haven’t painted my mother in a particularly good light. But, the fact of the matter is, while she might take issue with me or have a different version of my memories; it is what I know. And, I’m not ashamed and I don’t feel any guilt. And, yes, mom, despite it all—I do love you.

Unlucky 13-more to the story

Prior to Marty’s death in 1997, every single significant and insignificant moment of my life was shared with him.

First some insignificant ones. In our large family, it was understood that the older kids looked after the younger kids. And, even though Marty was the baby of the family and enjoyed 6 years of everyone looking after him, when I came along he, too, despite his young age, was charged with looking after me. He was no longer the baby, I was.

So every time I came home crying (I skinned my knee, someone was mean to me or excluded me, or I lost at kick-the-can—girls do cry over that), Marty got in trouble for not looking after his “sister.” Of course there were more serious incidents—kids will be kids—like the time he coaxed me to jump on the bed and I fell and hit my head and I required stitches; or the time he dared me to put my hand in the flywheel of the exercise bike which chewed my middle finger up so badly that all they could do was let it heal into a nasty lumpy scare that I still bare to this day. Sadly, Marty was physically abused for these more serious transgressions, not me; but never held it against me and throughout my life was always was my biggest cheerleader. He cheered the loudest at my grade-school graduation as I received the Benny Bonano resolution (Hev, you’ll remember that one), at my high school graduation and sobbed with pride and joy the day I graduated top of my English class at John Carroll University (JCU).

I have so, so many memories of our bond….But the one that sticks with me the most, was the day that I got the life-changing news that I was pregnant with Meghanne. Crap! How did a smart girl like this let this happen? 19 my whole life ahead me and I had a plan.

I always excelled at school—okay I spent those 4 years in high school partying, not living up to my potential, but I made up for it when I went to the University of Dayton. Two months into my college experience I totally quit partying and directed 100% of my energies into school. After all, I was determined, I had a promising law career in my future. A party girl couldn’t achieve that. So one drunken night in my friend Katie’s room I took a hard look in the mirror and didn’t like the reflection. I quit cold turkey, and didn’t touch a drop of alcohol until four ½ years later, the day of my last final senior year at JCU—that night is a whole other story.

Back to CRAP! Positive. I’m pregnant! After I told Meg’s dad, my next phone call was to Marty. CRAP! Fortunately it happened at the end of the semester and I’d be home in a week. Marty's reaction… don’t worry “Sha”—pronouced Shea, my family nickname, we’ll figure this out together. Always looking out for his sister.

So I came home and Marty lived up to his promise…we’ll figure this out together…and we did.

To be continued.

Unlucky 13

2007…the year my daughter graduated from High School…the first time I felt true pride and joy; but also experienced the loneliness of an empty nest.

1997…the year that changed everything…the first time I felt genuine anguish and pain.

1987…the year my step-father died….the first time I felt the sting of suicide and substance abuse.

1977…the year my grandfather died…the first time I experienced death and questioned my existence.

1967…fortunately, I wasn’t born yet.

Lucky 7? I think not. Unlucky 13? Absolutely!!

I was born January 11, 1969 at 9:53 p.m. My mother was 22 years-old and an unwed, single mother by “choice.” My father, as my mother tells it, I have no firsthand knowledge at all, claims she told him that if he couldn’t be a full-time father, than he shouldn’t be my father at all. She didn’t want me waiting on the doorstep for him to show up for weekly visits and then to see the disappointment in my eyes when he didn’t show. Apparently, he knew he wouldn’t live up to his part of the bargain. So he chose to walk away forever. We’ve never had any contact, ever, and I’m not sure he even knows he had a daughter. He’s never known the daughter who would grow up to be someone who was amazing. And, I’m not being conceited, boastful or proud, but given everything in my life, I am amazing. I have an amazing ability to think, to reason, to write, to love, to imagine, to cope and most important…to survive. But, maybe if he hadn’t walked out on my, I wouldn’t be these things? So, maybe if he stuck around, he wouldn’t have missed a thing?

It might seem like a noble choice to protect her child on my mother’s part, but considering that she drank through her entire pregnancy and often loves to tell the story about how drunk she was on NYE, just 12 days before my birth, I don’t think so! Plus, who knows if that is even the real story.

But, whatever the case, as a consequence, I became a Somerville true and true.

My grandparents, Ruth and Ray Somerville, took me in and raised me as their own. Knowing that their unwed daughter (a taboo in 1969) couldn’t adequately care for me of her own. And, their children (JoAnne, Jerry, Karen, Patty, Jack, Ray, Tim, Marian, Ruthie, Annie, Peggy, Marty) embraced me as their “sister” and I became the 14^th Somerville.

Most of the older kids were grown and out of the house. But, I thank Ray for my love of football. A senior in high school, he was one of the stars of the NDCL football team and my mom attended every game when she was pregnant with me. Marian & Ruthie, also both in high school, greeted me each day as a child they were here to babysit. They made sure I was fed, had fresh diapers and clean clothes. Annie and Peggy, the two youngest girls, as I would learn years later, harbored jealousy toward me for the attention that I received, especially from their father. And, then there was Marty. The youngest, a kindergartener, a mere 6 years older than me. Number 13. Who from the day I was born was my kindred spirit.

When Marty was born, my mother the fourth oldest, was the oldest girl in the house. JoAnne and Karen left the home at a young age to join the convent. Marty and my mother also shared a deep bond and she always treated him special. She was 16 when he was born and like Marian and Ruthie did with me, she made sure he was fed, had fresh diapers and clean clothes. The difference was my mom was a working girl at the time. Instead of high school, she opted to attend “beauty school,” as they called it then, and became a teenage working cosmetologist. With the money she earned, she dotted on Marty and the younger kids, showering them with gifts, buying them clothes, shoes, soda, candy and toys that were luxuries outside of holidays in a family of our size.

Although living at home, mother was able to hide her pregnancy from the family until she was 8 months pregnant. The large smocks she wore for work and her larger size allowed her to conceal her growing belling. She also wore an old school girdle everyday which may explain why I was born with my forehead smashed in. When she finally told the family, she told Marty she was bringing him home a “big surprise.” He thought I was going to be a new football, but instead he got me. I’m sure he was initially disappointed, but little did he know, I would turn out to be one of the best gifts he’d ever been given. And, unlike my father, he choose to unwrap it, embrace it unconditionally love it, play with it, and nurture it until the day he died, October, 27, 1997.

To be continued.