On being 30

He was thirty when it happened. When I first noticed things were not okay in my house. That I was not okay. Looking back, I know that there were several things that had happened that I had not processed. I know now, after talking with relatives, that the problems had started well before my lifetime.

On Motherhood is not for Wimps, DaMomma has written a four part series about overcoming part of the demon that rose in her life at the age of seven. She is brave and courageous and articulate, and when it comes to this particular subject, I am none of those things. Quite the opposite.

But she has inspired me to think about it, to stop repressing it, to maybe even talk about it. I can count the number of people who know—who REALLY know. I can rattle off their names. There are two people, however, that really know everything. EVERYTHING.

Him and me.

The demon lives at ten for me. He was thirty.

I always called them ghosts.

At this time, that is all I can say about that. I am not trying to hold you in suspense. I am not trying to build a story. That is as far as I can go right now. This is a big step for me.

I am surprised with myself. I never thought I would talk about this—candidly, openly. I watch other bloggers talk about their problems, their battles, their childhoods with such openness and honesty, and I ask myself, why can’t you do this?

I will tell you this—when K turned ten, I had problems with it—his age. I started to distance myself from him—just a bit, and frankly, I still don’t regret that decision. K and I will always have things to work out—mother and son, and mother and firstborn always have things to work out in the end, but my distancing myself is not one of them, at least in my mind. It was a good time to do so—it gave him more space to develop him—to start another leg of that journey that will determine who one will become. I am not going to say that it is easy for him, or anyone, for that matter, but at the very least I gave him what I did not have.


The freedom to become one’s own person. Not someone else’s person. Not something that someone else broke. Not someone else’s problem to fix.

It amazes me how well DaMomma can write about it, how well she handled it with her daughter. I wish I had done as well. I am not perfect, and I did the best I could at the time, and I still think I have made the right decision. People may think it is a cop-out; running away. Those who know me, however, know how hard it can be for me to relinquish control, and frankly, that was exactly what I needed to do.

I WOULD NOT CONTROL MY CHILDREN AS I HAD BEEN CONTROLLED.

I would break the cycle.

So I got over ten. For the first one.

Then came thirty, and it brings its own set of problems. I will face them head on. Will I turn out to be like him? It’s late in the game. I have always watched myself for symptoms. I still consider it a possibility.

I am good at building walls. It is one of my best defense mechanisms. Everyone has a defense mechanism or two, and they only become dysfunctional when they interfere with normal daily living and interactions.

When I was eighteen he told me that I had become a cold-hearted bitch that no one could possibly love. It was meant to hurt me, but I was glad—grateful that this was the way he saw it. At eighteen, that was exactly what I wanted. To be left alone. It meant that the walls I had built were holding.

I started breaking down that wall years ago—I decided that I didn’t always want to be alone after awhile. I spent my 30th birthday weekend surrounded by people who love me. I received warm birthday greetings from friends and loved ones. I am winning this.

I will make it through thirty.