My Grandmother was My Mother

by Lauren
(California)

When I was 8 months old, my mother dropped me off at my father's mother's house to relinquish custody because my mother had a nervous breakdown. She wanted to take my half sister and me out of this world for fear that we would be consumed by its "evil".

Since that moment on, I took to Grandma as a daughter to her mother. My aunts and uncles reminded me constantly about how I burdened Grandma. To this day, I feel so guilty and worthless as a person, because of my aunts and uncles sharp tongues.

One of my uncles went as far as to tell me on my ninth birthday that my mother was a whore and I was not in fact a rightful member of the family. I would have paid little mind, since my family had been informed that my father was murdered that same week, but then my uncle told me, "My mom is not your grandma", which brought me to tears.

The only person who loved me unconditionally was my grandma. Unfortunately, she was diabetic and had three open heart surgeries. I would wake up often in the middle of the night, sweating after having a dream that my grandmother had died at my hands. I would sneak into my grandparents room to make sure she was breathing. The sight of the positive oxygen ventilator she had to wear at night always made me feel panicked. I knew that mask was a precursor to what was coming in her last days.

I wish I could have done something to save her. She was morbidly obese, but she was a 4 foot 9 inch irish immigrant woman who lived from 21 years onward in United States (I am 5'9 and can hardly keep at a healthy weight!). I tried to get her to walk with me, and those walks would entail her taking three steps and resting for a minute. As for my grandfather, he was the biggest jerk I had ever known. My grandma did everything for him. My grandpa almost burned down the house when he tried to make toast for the first time.

A long story short, I am 26 years old and Grandma died when I was 12 years old. I spent the rest of my youth in foster homes. To this day, I still cry. Over time the pain has been more manageable. Right after my grandma died, I stopped eating. That went on for close to a year and I was severely underweight (Now, I binge-eat). When I finally started eating again, I started having suicidal thoughts. I wanted to see Grandma again. I did not like all of the strange people I had to live with; some the homes were real nightmares.

That is all in the past now...

I want so much for my grandma to be in a good place right now. I want to be able to see her again. People throw that crap out there about relishing memories. I can't hug a memory. I can't tell a memory that I am sorry. I can't hear a memory tell me they forgive me. Instead, I have to settle for blogging about my screwed up emotions.

I hope there is a happy ending.