O Mother, Where Art Thou?

Sunday May 13^th, 2012 – Fox Lake, IL

   Most if not all of the dented cans I have ever met can directly trace the primary sources of their pain back to their parents. That’s where it all starts. I’m sure there have been examples of people who had a loving upbringing who flip out and go to the dark side, but those are rare exceptions.

   I wonder what percentage of strippers, inmates or drug addicts have pleasant memories of their childhoods that pop into their mind immediately when asked to describe their family history? I’m betting under 1%. Life is hard enough without starting in a hole, but who has any control over it?

   I’ve heard more than a few times we all choose our circumstances before we’re born, but I find that rather hard to swallow. If I did happen to choose my particular path, I must have been drunk or high and I’d like a second chance please. I don’t know why any sane mind would choose this.

   I’m not looking for sympathy. All I ever wanted was at least some sort of a fair chance. My life started out off the beaten path, and wandered from there. Now I feel like such an outsider I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find my way back to the main road. Nobody ever answered my flares.

   Today is yet another Mother’s Day, and it’s really hitting me hard. Some have been better than others, but I thought I was over being sad. I guess not. I honestly don’t know if my mother is still among the living, even though I heard she was as of a couple of years ago. It doesn’t matter now.

   The damage is done, and she never made up for it. If she were dead it would be one thing, but I never understood how she could just walk out of the lives of three kids and not come back for us at some point. I’ve heard countless stories of fathers doing that, but rarely a mother. I don’t get it.

   I don’t know what’s worse, having bad memories of a parent or none at all. My old man was as mean spirited of a nasty bastard as I’ve ever crossed paths with anywhere, and that’s saying a lot. I’ve met some major league wank bags in my day, but he was right up there with the elite forces.

  The memories of my mother are few and fuzzy. The first time I saw her I was about 10, and she took my sister Tammy and brother Larry and me to the zoo for whatever reason. Maybe she was hoping to bring us back or trade us in for some monkeys or something. It was all very awkward.

   I remember that she was upset we wouldn’t call her ‘Mom’, but she hadn’t earned it. We didn’t feel a bond with her, even though Tammy and Larry are older and they knew her a little before it all went south. I was only five months old, so I don’t remember anything. Again, what’s worse – having one’s mother walk out as a toddler or not knowing her at all? Neither one is appealing.

   It’s easy for people to say ‘that happened long ago’ and ‘just get over it already’ and they often do. I can’t say they’re not right either, but on days like today no amount of pep talking or logic is going to take the pain away. There’s a gigantic vacuum void in my soul where a mother’s love is supposed to be, and I don’t know what else could ever fill it. Comedy hasn’t, and probably never will. I don’t think fame and fortune will either. There are things in life money can’t buy, and this is one of them. Dented cans of the world unite. Maybe we did get cheated, but it wasn’t our fault.

Posted via email from Dobie Maxwell's "Dented Can" Diary