Hidden Graveyards: My secret past that pushes me forward while trying to hold me back

I am writing anonymously. I am writing anonymously because in order to move forward, I can’t identify with my past.

And yet it somehow defines me. It pushes me forward to be different, whilst holding me back, wondering if my dreams and pursuits are really possible.

I don’t talk about my past. None of my friends know it, except my sister in law, who is one of my closest friends.

I don’t want people to know it. I don’t want people to view me through a biased lens.

I want to give off the vibe of having a good life. I do have a good life. I just have a rotten past. And my current life often feels like an uphill battle to recreate this life. I want people to assume I have a loving and supportive family, well, because, that is normal, right?

So, who am I? Let me show you the face the world sees first. Without showing you my physical face at all.

I love life. I love to learn new things. I love people and make friends easily. I love to travel. I love to read. I absolutely love trying new things, and going new places. I am physically active and in good shape. I smile a lot. I laugh a lot. I am focused on my professional goals and working hard to make them a reality. I like people and feel comfortable with people from all different cultures and backgrounds. I am outgoing and feel happy around people. I also like time to myself. I like to write, and think and read. I nearly always work out alone – it’s my escape.

People view me as confident. People view me as elegant. I don’t know why. I like that people view me this way, and many people have voiced these views as if these characteristics are a given, but they also make me laugh. I think I come across confident because I like people and am comfortable around people and am focused on my goals, and I read a lot so I can communicate well about a variety of topics. But this is not confidence. I often cry alone at night. I wonder if anybody will ever really love me. If I will ever be ‘normal’. And yet I seek to achieve normality, and then leave it in the dust – I strive for excellence. How people view me as elegant is a mystery, I am quite a clumsy person. But hey, I’ll relish the illusion.

When I fall in love, I fall hard, and I struggle terribly with insecurity. I always fear the object of my love will leave me, or fall in love with somebody else. And somehow my fears become reality.

In fact, I don’t believe my fears are founded in and of themselves. I believe my fears create their own reality. Fear does that. It changes you. It takes away the fun, spontaneous person my lover fell in love with, and makes me questioning and demanding. I don’t mean to be demanding – intellectually I know it pushes the other person away, but emotionally I feel so desperate for love and reassurance. I am working on changing these characteristics, because now I see them, but it is a battle. And since this is anonymous, I am afforded the luxury of being brutally raw and honest.

So, what is my life? What is my secret past?

The funny thing is, though I keep it secret in shame, it has been my normal. Though I knew it wasn’t normal, and therefore hid it, I didn’t see how horribly abnormal it was until now that I have my own children.

My parents divorced when I was seven. I don’t really have any memories of my life before that age. We lived with my grandparents for a year, and that was fine. I loved my grandparents. They lived on the 8th floor of a highrise apartment building. I loved looking out over the city lights at night. Grandma used to make me finish all the food on my plate, and would always bake cinnamon rolls and baked beans. Normal things. I loved that.

Then we moved into our own apartment, in the same high-rise. I know my mom was stressed and hurting. I know it isn’t easy being a single mom. I know what it is like to have your dreams and hopes shattered. I have always believed this was the reason she beat me. She would beat me terribly. Punching me, kicking me, pinning me to the floor, bashing my head against the wall, pushing me down the stairs (once we moved into a house a few years later), pulling me UP the stairs by my hair, biting me. In fact, I have a scar on my arm that is her teeth. The entire top row is branded into my arm. Every once in a while, somebody will notice it and say “Wow, that looks like teeth! Did somebody bite you?” And they laugh. And I laugh. It’s inconceivable that anybody actually DID bite me, and bite me so hard that I carry their teeth marks as a battle wound some twenty years later.

In elementary school, I was terribly shy. I had very few friends. I was very insecure, and would go and hide behind the school during recess so it wouldn’t be obvious that I was alone.

Somehow, when I hit my teens, that changed. I started to realize people like me. I made friends. I escaped my hell at home with my friends. Most were unaware of my life at home. I laughed a lot. I did silly things. I dated boys. Boys liked me, and I seemed to find my identity in this somehow. All of a sudden, I was pretty and fun and had lots of friends.

Then, when I was 15, my mom kicked me out. She got so angry one day, that she told me, after beating me, that I needed to leave the house or she would murder me. I believed her. I left. I went to my friends house. The next day, all my belongings were in garbage bags outside my mom’s house, which was no longer my home. I was 15 and homeless.

Over the course of the next year, I stayed with my friends. I stayed with different friends for different periods of time, but I always felt welcome. I was actually happy. Then one day I had to go back to my moms. I am not sure exactly what happened behind the scenes, but I know my friends’ mom, where I was staying, wanted me to stay. She didn’t want to bring me back. The drive back to my house, she was crying, saying how it isn’t fair, and a mom can’t treat their daughter like my mom was treating me. She brought me to my moms’ house, and told my mom a thing or two before giving me a hug, crying, and driving away.

Did my mom want me back? No. I still am not sure why she made me leave my friend’s house. It was 3 days before Christmas. She had called a taxi, and sent me to a homeless shelter one city away from where we live. She let me take one Christmas present from under the tree, from my Grandma – a tin of candied nuts.

I remember being so scared in that shelter. It was a woman’s shelter. One time a girl took me with her to meet ‘friends’. She was a prostitute. There was no hot water, and I remember this vividly because I had to wake up very early in the morning, take a freezing shower before taking three city buses to get to my high school.

The story isn’t over, but I feel scared. Even though I am writing anonymously, I fear if I share too many details, perhaps somebody will piece things together. Life went on. I got married, and separated, a whole other story in itself. I have three beautiful children, whom I adore.

My parents, though alive, don’t talk to me. My Dad never has been a part of my life. I still talk to him from time to time, but never view him as a parent. One time, about six months ago, when my life felt like it was crumbling and I needed SOMEBODY to talk to, I called him. I cried and told him my circumstances. His response? “Did I tell you I planted new rosebushes?”

My mom, well, believe it or not, I have always loved my mom. I always excused her behavior and would call her at least once a week. I never lived in my hometown again, so have our relationship has been yearly visits and phone calls. Until last summer. I was able to go home for the whole summer. It was then I realized the web of lies she had told my family members to explain my disappearance. I was rebellious. I drank. I did drugs ( I did drink as a teen, but never did drugs!) . And sometimes she shared a bed with me, to accommodate my three children sleeping in her small apartment. I don’t know why this affected me so much, but it did. Every time she slept in the same bed as me, I had nightmares. Vivid nightmares about the abuse. Near the end of the summer, I talked to her about it. It was the first time since I was 15 years old. By then, I knew she had painted another story to my family. I understood nobody knew about the abuse. I asked her about it. She didn’t deny it, as I expected. Instead, she responded “It was your fault. You deserved it.”

Though I was a quiet, straight-A, child, I may have believed her words if I didn’t have children of my own. Sometimes my children are naughty. Sometimes they have full on tantrums. And yet, there is absolutely nothing that any of my children could do to warrant my hurting them. Nothing.

I haven’t spoken to my mom since. I am a bit of a peacemaker. I hate having people upset with me. I even reconciled with the girl who had an affair with my husband (she had previously been my best friend). All these years, I had put the past behind me to have a relationship with my mom. I invited her for coffee. She refused. I am no longer in the same country, and have phoned a few times. The last time I phoned, I said “You’re my mom. I’m your daughter. It’s silly not to talk.” She said “I have moved on with my life, I hope you move on with yours.”

And so here I am. Across the ocean, as a single mom, with no family support whatsoever. Pursuing my dreams. Seeking to defy the odds. I love my children and seek to give them a happy life, I study, I work – and I don’t just work – I am pursuing a career in a field I love. I look for the best in people. I read and I look for ways to change and grow and become the person I want to be.

Though my past is like a buried graveyard, I see certain ways it has affected me. Like I mentioned about falling in love and feeling insecure. Or sometimes I take things too personally. And I feel really down on myself if a door I pursue doesn’t work out. But I have to remind myself, the doors that close were never the status quo. I aim higher, pushing towards my dreams. And some of those doors have opened. I know, if I am a persistent long enough, things will fall into place. And this season of uphill battles will be yet another story. Probably a skeleton to add to my secret graveyard.

I am a bit obsessed with success stories. I find it so motivating to read about a successful person who overcame obstacles. Once, I was relaying such a story to a friend and she said, “Yes, but these stories are all men. They are never about mothers. “ In other words, stop dreaming. Be practical.

And yet, I believe it is possible for a mother to pursue her dreams. In fact, I believe it is good for my children to see me work and sacrifice and strive for excellence. It doesn’t detract from my time with them. I chase them, tickle them, laugh with them, wipe their tears. But I believe, if I dream big, perhaps they will also dream big. Only they will always have my love and support. And I hope they never, ever have any secret skeletons or hidden graveyards.