cA couple of years ago, I wrote and acted in a play that was based on my relationship with my birthmother. It was produced solely because The Centre for Indigenous Theatre were lacking in committed students. I, who had been hired mostly as a gofer, ended up being able to participate in the program while getting paid for helping with it. It was one of my first attempts at acting, but not my first for trying to make some sense of my relationship with a woman who unquestionably means a lot to me.
In my worst moments I am filled with worry that I'm going to turn out like her. I dread realizing that I've become so self-obsessed that I am able to overlook the needs of my own flesh and blood. I wonder if there will ever be a time where I could actually picture myself giving my own girl away so that I can spend more time with a bottle or two. And perhaps that's harsh, but baby, until I can make someone feel what abandonment feels like to me, I'll hold onto my own notions, and admittedly, my own self-pity for now.
My play wasn't just about us, but also about her own downward spiral with alcohol and an abusive man. It illustrated my own futile attempts at control and the realization that I was in control of nothing but myself. Because there was no sense of control in that relationship. Both were controlled by their own demons and while he did attempt to control her repeatedly, I don't think it was personal. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't even know her last name.
She stabbed him, finally. Not fatally, no. But last week, my sister got the call detailing her fears of prison and her clinging to a history of violence. It may be the only thing that saves her and that does nothing but disgusts me. The fact that she may spend who knows how long in a jail cell while he's free to walk the streets is the horror here.
We laughed about it, though. We were in shock, yes, but there was something funny to hear her tell the story, but very carefully leaving out the part about what she stabbed him with. It was so funny, it hurt. We could only speculate; but since he's still alive and walking around town bragging about the attempted murder, she couldn't have stabbed him with much more than a butter knife. And while she's been under his finger for years, I can only imagine what she was feeling when she was giving it back to him, finally. She should have killed the fucker.
Fortunately for her, she didn't, and I'm hoping that she won't get a harsh sentence. I truly feel that if there was justice in the world, during their trial he would be the one to be punished, after punishing her for so long. There have been so many trips to the hospital, terrorized and frantic calls in the dead of night. For each time he made her cry he should pay. And he should receive every cuff upside the head, every putdown he's ever sent her way. He should rot in some jail cell while listening to the very soundtrack that has accompanied her life; chants of swearing, a tirade of threats and audible slaps, punches and kicks on an unseen body. And I can't even begin to imagine sentencing a punishment that matches a family torn apart, because of it all.
In my worst moments, I worry that I've done everything to prevent that harm that she's come by, but that I've sucessfully prevented the good as well. I'm a happy girl with a good family and friends, but my lovelife is the shit because of my own attempts at self-preservation. A wall is a wall is a wall, and all that.
And, like the closing lines of my play, it ain't my circus, and it never has been. There's no way that I can step in now, after we've purposely distanced ourselves for so long. But I still dream at night about what could have been. About what I'm so fucking thankful for that wasn't. I dream terrifying moments that I know that she's been through, but wake up feeling relief that it was just that... a dream.
I can do that, at least, and for that I'm eternally thankful.