Baby Picture?
I'm paging through someone's blog, Suburban Bliss I think, and I see that she's got some pictures of her as a child posted, and more in her flickr acct.
I flip through them like the mascohist that I am.
I currently have perhaps 5 pictures showing me as a child, 2 of which when I was a baby. the photo album with all my baby shots has gone missing long ago, and my father claims to not know where it is.
It's actually painful to look through the photos of someone approximately the same age as me, and see all the same clothes, came cars, same wallpapers and time, and to not have the casual memories that she mentions. I don't have my mother to give me the stories behind the pictures, and my father couldn't if he tried. I don't have the story of my childhood, except in my own head, which as we all know, is notoriously unreliable. I see picture of this cute little girl and think that my parents must have been that enamoured of me at some point. I can only guess because I have nothing to show me, no shared history or memory.
It's so bloody lonely and isolating only having your past in your head. The rare times that my brother will actually talk about when I was younger are usually spent with him refuting my memories. All I really have are impressions, feelings. I have a sense of warmth when I remember my mother, I can remember how melancoly winter nights always felt in the backyard lit only by the rear porch light. I can remember how loved, how absolutely loved and wanted I felt.
But I have no pictures or discernible memories to laugh over, to cry with, to speak of. I don't think I could really prove I existed for the first 15 years of my life.
I think of this when I visit MotherLess, and when I wonder if it would have been better to hate my mother, than to love her and lose her. I have barely anything left of her, and I lose more everyday. But worse, I lose pieces of me along with her. Sometimes I figure, if I hated her, I wouldn't care anyway.
The worst part is I can't prove to everyone how damn CUTE I was as a baby.
I flip through them like the mascohist that I am.
I currently have perhaps 5 pictures showing me as a child, 2 of which when I was a baby. the photo album with all my baby shots has gone missing long ago, and my father claims to not know where it is.
It's actually painful to look through the photos of someone approximately the same age as me, and see all the same clothes, came cars, same wallpapers and time, and to not have the casual memories that she mentions. I don't have my mother to give me the stories behind the pictures, and my father couldn't if he tried. I don't have the story of my childhood, except in my own head, which as we all know, is notoriously unreliable. I see picture of this cute little girl and think that my parents must have been that enamoured of me at some point. I can only guess because I have nothing to show me, no shared history or memory.
It's so bloody lonely and isolating only having your past in your head. The rare times that my brother will actually talk about when I was younger are usually spent with him refuting my memories. All I really have are impressions, feelings. I have a sense of warmth when I remember my mother, I can remember how melancoly winter nights always felt in the backyard lit only by the rear porch light. I can remember how loved, how absolutely loved and wanted I felt.
But I have no pictures or discernible memories to laugh over, to cry with, to speak of. I don't think I could really prove I existed for the first 15 years of my life.
I think of this when I visit MotherLess, and when I wonder if it would have been better to hate my mother, than to love her and lose her. I have barely anything left of her, and I lose more everyday. But worse, I lose pieces of me along with her. Sometimes I figure, if I hated her, I wouldn't care anyway.
The worst part is I can't prove to everyone how damn CUTE I was as a baby.
Wow you just made me realize something about me husband. My husband has a small shoe box of pictures. Most taken in the last 10 years. That's all he has. After my daughter was born he bought a digatal camera and then a video camera right away. I was really upset with him blowing all that money at once. Now I think I understand why. He, like you donesn't have pictures of growing up. My husband doesn't know what happened to his father. He was told that he was dead and that is all. I know that he remembers him but he never talks about it.
Thanks for giving me a clue on somethings. Duh me...
Be safe...
Posted by
Lora_3 |
10:22 p.m.
Keep writing. I think you will find some memories you would like to hang on to and it would be nice to try and visualize them in written form. You are a great writer.
Hugs,
Karen
Posted by
Karen Bodkin |
11:02 a.m.
I think any way you slice it, the absence of a mother is felt through to the heart. I hated my mother at one time, it didn't stop the hurt, it made it worse. Now, I just mourn what can never be.
Its weird you mention pictures, I have ONE picture of me as a child. She has the rest, I will probably never get them (she may have destroyed them by now). With her, you can never know if it is really her talking or the illness, truth and fiction are always intermingling.
Posted by
Anonymous |
2:17 a.m.
But then you'd be left with the hate to contend with and I'm sure that would make the loss no easier than it is now. It would probably make it harder, actually.
Of course, I'm not speaking from experience so there's a good chance that I have NO idea what I'm talking about.
Posted by
Anonymous |
12:00 a.m.
Lora Glad to help! :P I'm in many ways the same-I didn't go buy all that stuff b/c well, I'm cheap, but I saved every little piece of paper from the births. I make sure we have pictures of important moments, and the not so "important" times that you actually remember.
Your husband is doing what I do, preparing for "what if"-that way, if something happens, they'll know how much he loved and cared for them, and their childhood. He means only good things by it.
Karen Thanks! I do try
Jennifer You're right. It really doesn't matter what happens does it. It just sucks balls.
Nicole You are also right. I had a friend in school whose parents split, and her Mom left. Her Mom fucked with her,said she'd take her to life with her, never did,bought her stuff but wasn't there when my friend NEEDED her. I actually told her I was glad my mother was dead, because at least that pain has an end point. Her mother just kept pouring salt in the wound.
Posted by
thordora |
11:22 a.m.