I hesitate to begin this journey. Reliving the moments I had with my father. I am frustrated and angry because it's so much easier to feel those emotions than allow myself to feel the deep sadness that rests below the surface.
I don't have any memories of my father from my childhood. He wasn't in my life. Growing up, I never stopped to wonder about who he was or why he wasn't here. I didn't even know his name. I had managed to get a copy of my birth certificate when I was around 14 years old, and in the space where the father was supposed to sign were typed words saying "Mother does not wish to state..."
Not only had this woman robbed me of having a mother, but she obviously didn't want me to have a father, either.
I recall, after I reunited with my mother, she had been vague about my dad. For some reason, this only fed my curiosity about him. It led me to pick up the phone and call someone that I never intended to speak to again. My very first foster mother.
We talked for a few minutes. She was surprised that I had called her, as I left her home 12 years earlier and never tried to contact her again. Something in my heart told me she was the person to call, so I did.
To this day, I am in awe of the fact that she was able to tell me my Dad's full name and where he worked at the time I was in her home. He was never listed as a custodial parent, and his name is no where on my court records, so I was shocked she had so much information about him.
I thought I had gotten through the conversation without having to discuss that thing with her, until she said, "You know, Tammy...those people brainwashed you." I grit my teeth hard, and fought back angry tears. All I could muster was one word. "ok."
She went on and on about how I was wrong about her son, and I had to cut the conversation short. I hastily thanked her for speaking with me, and hung up.
I take pride in being pretty resilient, and after a few moments, I was able to shake off the emotions that threatened to overcome me, and focus on the real task at hand.
My Dad.
I looked at the slip of paper that had his work information on it. I took out a phone book and looked up the company that my foster mother had given me. It was in there. The tiny font stood out from everything else on the page. The phone number stared back at me and I knew I had a fight on my hands.
I mean, who would remember a man from over a decade ago? I pictured having to explain myself to a long line of people before someone, anyone may have some information for me. I wasn't even sure if they could legally give me any details about him, if they had any.
I dialed the number. My stomach churned. The phone rang. And rang. Then, voicemail.
It was a Thursday afternoon. I thought it was weird no one was there, and I blurted out a quick message after the tone. I recall saying something along the lines of, "Hi, this may sound strange, but my name is Tammy, and I was told there was a man by the name of Lee Bennett working there. I know it has been a long time but if he is no longer working there, maybe you can help me find him? I'm his daughter....thank you."
I hung up the phone and decided to go out and hang with my friends for a bit.
A few days later, that following Monday, I walked into my home. I was living with a foster mother who I had lived with on and off for the past 10 years. She'd kick me out, but would always take me back when I had nowhere to go.
She was a Sicilian woman named Agnese. This woman was larger than life. A hot blooded Italian, her voice could be heard throughout our neighborhood. We had nicknamed her Old Yeller, because man, that woman had a set of pipes! She was a tough old lady. I didn't know it at the time, but as much as she scared me, I later learned to hold her in a very high regard. You will learn more about Agnese, but for now, let me tell you the events that occurred when I walked into her home.
"OH Taymee...OH Taymee! You wonta believea me!! Oh I hava miracle!! " She throws herself at my feet with tears in her eyes she holds my arms and says "I hava the besta gifta for you and I canna give it to you!" Seriously, I thought she was just acting nuts. I had no idea what the hell was wrong with her. I just looked at her and said "Huh?"
"Oh Taymee! I gotta the best phone call and I canna tella you! I want to so bad!! I just canna not and it rips my hearta open!" I look at her, literally unphased. "Ok, Agnese. Well you just tell me when you figure out how, ok?" I pulled away from her grasp, leaving her on her knees crying on the floor. Now, again...she was over the top dramatic, so this was not exactly unusual for her. I figured maybe she was up to something, but was so preoccupied with all the events happening in my life, that I didn't have the energy to focus on her craziness.
I went into my bedroom and shut the door behind me. The phone book laid open with the number staring back at me. I decided now was a good time to call again and see what I could find out about my father.
I dialed the number, less nervous and more focused this time. "Moving & Storage, how can I help you?" a woman's voice said. I grabbed a pen and paper and said "Hi, umm this may sound strange, but I left a voice mail and my name is Tammy. Is there a Lee Bennett that works...." Before I could finish my sentence, the lady gasps and says, "YES! Yes Lee works here, Tammy!! HE'S RIGHT HERE NEXT TO ME!!!"
Facing the Past
These days, life as I know it is ordinary. I have three beautiful boys, a loving husband, a home in the suburbs of America's Dairy land. I go about my days taking care of my family, as they are my number one priority.
People may see me as a typical mom, and I like that. Most days, I see myself that way too.
It just takes a word, a smell, a tiny trigger point to snap me back into reality. I'm not typical. I'm no where near ordinary.
It is for these reasons that I struggle coming here. It is a reminder that I can't pretend my past never happened. I have to face it head on. I need to confront it. I need to let my story pour out of me, and I am driven to do so because I know someone, somewhere will benefit from hearing my experiences. It is a driving force that once revved up inside me with such power, such force. I wanted to scream it to the world. That is, until I got to the hard parts.
It's weird, because talking about my past does not bother me so much. I am open when people ask about my mom or family. I talk about my life in foster care, about being adopted, then returned. I can talk about the abuse I endured, and it doesn't affect me.
Writing about it is the hard part. The emotions pour out of me, and I relive every moment. I am faced with so many questions as to why I went through all that I did. I am reminded of the injustices that happened to me, and it makes my heart ache to think that these things, and more, are still happening to children all over, and nothing is being done to give them a voice.
That is what drives me. What brings me here. I want to be a voice for them.
I sit here, with my 3 year old on my lap. He just woke up and stumbled out here searching for me. He's still half asleep and he is snuggled up close to my chest, eyes closed, stroking my hair, strands falling and twisting between his tiny fingers. Something about being this close brings him comfort. I recall that feeling, as I had just a glimpse of moments like this when I was close to his age. The fleeting moments when I could crawl into my mother's lap and press my ear tight against her chest. I could hear her voice through her breast and it soothed me. I recall holding onto her as tight as I could, if only for that moment.
When I look at my little boy's sweet little face, I cannot imagine one day without him by my side. As much as it pains me to think of life without him, I know his trauma would be magnified much more if I were to ever leave him and not look back.
It makes me wonder how she could do that to me.
It hurts. A lot.
Rejection is one of the most awful things you could ever feel. It means you are not wanted. It's hard not to take that personal, especially when it happens over and over and over again.
Being surrounded by my family is the only comfort I have, and I hold onto that with all my might. They haven't rejected me as of yet, but the fear that is embedded deep within me remains. I pray they never turn their backs on me. Rationally, it sounds ridiculous, but I know it can happen.
For now, I relish every moment I can. My boys are my life, the very breath that fills me. We go about our day to day. We have the typical family struggles, especially now that I have a teenager. Anyone with a teenager should be able to relate to how fun it is to have one. I have moments where I scream, when I want to pull my hair out and I feel like hitting my head on a wall, but those moments all seem to disappear each night when I peek on my boys as they sleep. Secure, safe, tucked in their beds, not one ounce of fear in their little hearts, as they dream away.
They know where they rest their heads every night. The number will always stay the same...
One pillow.
I named this blog Seventeen Pillows for each pillow I rested my head on as a child. My journey through each of those moments is a difficult one, but it is a road I need to take.
People may see me as a typical mom, and I like that. Most days, I see myself that way too.
It just takes a word, a smell, a tiny trigger point to snap me back into reality. I'm not typical. I'm no where near ordinary.
It is for these reasons that I struggle coming here. It is a reminder that I can't pretend my past never happened. I have to face it head on. I need to confront it. I need to let my story pour out of me, and I am driven to do so because I know someone, somewhere will benefit from hearing my experiences. It is a driving force that once revved up inside me with such power, such force. I wanted to scream it to the world. That is, until I got to the hard parts.
It's weird, because talking about my past does not bother me so much. I am open when people ask about my mom or family. I talk about my life in foster care, about being adopted, then returned. I can talk about the abuse I endured, and it doesn't affect me.
Writing about it is the hard part. The emotions pour out of me, and I relive every moment. I am faced with so many questions as to why I went through all that I did. I am reminded of the injustices that happened to me, and it makes my heart ache to think that these things, and more, are still happening to children all over, and nothing is being done to give them a voice.
That is what drives me. What brings me here. I want to be a voice for them.
I sit here, with my 3 year old on my lap. He just woke up and stumbled out here searching for me. He's still half asleep and he is snuggled up close to my chest, eyes closed, stroking my hair, strands falling and twisting between his tiny fingers. Something about being this close brings him comfort. I recall that feeling, as I had just a glimpse of moments like this when I was close to his age. The fleeting moments when I could crawl into my mother's lap and press my ear tight against her chest. I could hear her voice through her breast and it soothed me. I recall holding onto her as tight as I could, if only for that moment.
When I look at my little boy's sweet little face, I cannot imagine one day without him by my side. As much as it pains me to think of life without him, I know his trauma would be magnified much more if I were to ever leave him and not look back.
It makes me wonder how she could do that to me.
It hurts. A lot.
Rejection is one of the most awful things you could ever feel. It means you are not wanted. It's hard not to take that personal, especially when it happens over and over and over again.
Being surrounded by my family is the only comfort I have, and I hold onto that with all my might. They haven't rejected me as of yet, but the fear that is embedded deep within me remains. I pray they never turn their backs on me. Rationally, it sounds ridiculous, but I know it can happen.
For now, I relish every moment I can. My boys are my life, the very breath that fills me. We go about our day to day. We have the typical family struggles, especially now that I have a teenager. Anyone with a teenager should be able to relate to how fun it is to have one. I have moments where I scream, when I want to pull my hair out and I feel like hitting my head on a wall, but those moments all seem to disappear each night when I peek on my boys as they sleep. Secure, safe, tucked in their beds, not one ounce of fear in their little hearts, as they dream away.
They know where they rest their heads every night. The number will always stay the same...
One pillow.
I named this blog Seventeen Pillows for each pillow I rested my head on as a child. My journey through each of those moments is a difficult one, but it is a road I need to take.
Orphaned
Sunlight beamed through the crisp blue sky, it's rays caressed my face as I sat there staring at the sky and listened to the leaves rustle around me.
They were waiting for me but I couldn't leave.
It was so calm here. Peaceful. The large oak trees towered around me but they were no match for the wide open sky above. As the breeze gently stroked my hair, I felt comforted. I gazed at the trees in front of me, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
I felt their eyes on me. I knew I should get up and walk away but I was afraid to. Walking away would forever change who I had come to be. Right there in that very moment I was sitting with my father. Just the two of us.
My Daddy.
He was resting in a powder blue box in front of me. I sat there frozen. Staring into the woods beyond that box. Inside my head I was pleading with God to please just give me one more moment with him. Praying for my dad to get up out of that damn box and tell me this was all a joke. Sure, I'd be pissed at him, but I'd still have a father.
The funeral director patiently waited for me. I knew once I got up and walked away, he would lower my Daddy into the ground, burying not only a man, but a daughter too.
Time doesn't stop when your heart is broken and I knew I had to force myself to head back to be with the rest of our family. I placed my hand upon the shiny box, over a spot where I felt his heart would be. Tears flowed freely as I whispered to him that he now knows my heart. He had spent so many years wondering if I really loved him, and now I wanted him to be at peace knowing that he could see into my wide open heart how my love overflowed for him.
Every muscle in my body fought me as I tried to move away. I wanted so badly to stay there in that moment with him. I knew the challenges that lay ahead and I didn't have the energy to face them.
"Goodbye, Daddy."
My heart ripped in pieces as I turned my back on that box with my father inside of it. I took one painful step after another and lost all my composure as I realized why it was so hard to leave him behind.
They were waiting for me but I couldn't leave.
It was so calm here. Peaceful. The large oak trees towered around me but they were no match for the wide open sky above. As the breeze gently stroked my hair, I felt comforted. I gazed at the trees in front of me, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
I felt their eyes on me. I knew I should get up and walk away but I was afraid to. Walking away would forever change who I had come to be. Right there in that very moment I was sitting with my father. Just the two of us.
My Daddy.
He was resting in a powder blue box in front of me. I sat there frozen. Staring into the woods beyond that box. Inside my head I was pleading with God to please just give me one more moment with him. Praying for my dad to get up out of that damn box and tell me this was all a joke. Sure, I'd be pissed at him, but I'd still have a father.
The funeral director patiently waited for me. I knew once I got up and walked away, he would lower my Daddy into the ground, burying not only a man, but a daughter too.
Time doesn't stop when your heart is broken and I knew I had to force myself to head back to be with the rest of our family. I placed my hand upon the shiny box, over a spot where I felt his heart would be. Tears flowed freely as I whispered to him that he now knows my heart. He had spent so many years wondering if I really loved him, and now I wanted him to be at peace knowing that he could see into my wide open heart how my love overflowed for him.
Every muscle in my body fought me as I tried to move away. I wanted so badly to stay there in that moment with him. I knew the challenges that lay ahead and I didn't have the energy to face them.
"Goodbye, Daddy."
My heart ripped in pieces as I turned my back on that box with my father inside of it. I took one painful step after another and lost all my composure as I realized why it was so hard to leave him behind.
I was an orphan...again.
Pause
I never imagined these past couple of months would be so busy! I have so much I want to share here, but my other blog is keeping me so occupied it has been hard to stop thinking with my mind and start sharing with my heart, which is what this blog is for.
So, I just want you to know I haven't stopped blogging here, it's just on pause until after the New Year when things start to settle down!
Have a wonderful Christmas & New Year!
So, I just want you to know I haven't stopped blogging here, it's just on pause until after the New Year when things start to settle down!
Have a wonderful Christmas & New Year!
Coming Up Roses
I took this photo today of my anniversary roses. I wanted to capture them before they wilted.
Center of attention...
I love how cheery they are and wanted to share!
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