Reflections in the rear-view mirror

I often wonder how different my life might have been, if my parents hadn’t divorced.

My parents had three children, all four years apart.  Then I came along, 11 years after the third.  The baby of the family.  We lived in a nice house on a nice street and had nice cars.  We weren’t wealthy by any means, but both my mom and dad worked hard to provide for their family.  My father, I’ve been told, cheated on my mom throughout their marriage.  My mom, I’ve been told, turned a blind eye to his behavior and loved him anyway.  And then, 20+ years after they married, they divorced.  I was three.

I often wonder how different my life might have been, had my dad not remarried.

He met her at the bank.  She was a teller, and she was married.  Her husband was abusive and she had a baby, not even a year old.  It’s funny, when I think back to hearing about this story, never once did they say “…and then we fell in love.”  It seemed as though she left her husband for my father out of convenience.   I was six.

I often wonder how different my life might have been, had my mother not died.

She’d been a single mom for about five years.  She worked around the clock to support her children.  We lived in an apartment.  I never went without – whether it was food or toys or clothes or love.  There was always more than enough to go around.  Suddenly, and without warning, she had cancer.  She was given a month, maybe two, to live.  She died three weeks later.  I was eight.

I often wonder how different my life might have been, had I not been subjected to horrible treatment at the hands of my stepmother.

She was manipulative, judgmental, and resentful.  She didn’t like me, and she made it perfectly clear.  One day, while cleaning the house as part of my chores, I was given the task of dusting every piece of furniture in the house.  When I made my way into their bedroom, I saw her journal sitting on the bedside table.  Curious to see what she really felt, I made the mistake of opening it up and reading a page.  I’ll never forget what I saw.  “I wish it were just me, him, and [her daughter].  I wish Stacey wasn’t here.”  I was eleven.

I often wonder how different my life might have been, had my father not died.

My dad was many things – funny, whip-smart, methodical, logical, and an alcoholic.  He battled personal demons his entire life, but he was a good dad.  He made his fair share of mistakes, and we had some head-to-head battles in our relationship.  But he was always my dad.  He was always on my side, whether I was right or wrong, and he loved me fiercely.  Perhaps more than his other children, for our relationship was different.  He looked at me more as an equal, and he sought out my opinions and thoughts on a regular basis.  When he died, he took with him every facet of what “family” meant to me.  I’d never again have a parent, a confidante, unconditional love without judgment.  I was twenty two.

I’ve often wondered how different my life might have been, had all of these things not happened to me.  But they did, and I can’t go back now.  Through all of these challenges, I grew.  With every obstacle, I put into place a piece of myself, a piece of my personality, a piece of my armor against the world.  I’m a little harsher than I’d like to be, and not half as positive as I had hoped to be by this point in my life.  However, I’m a work in progress.  When I look back on all these things, I’m reflective, quiet, angry.  Why did these things have to happen to me?  Why couldn’t I have had a “normal” upbringing?  But then I see that I’ve already faced down more troubles than most people my age, and I’m far older than my peers in life experience and wisdom.  I like to think that I’m more resilient, too.