Yellow Submarine #3

I was named after my Father. My father's family has always been a constant source of love and guidance. I grew up visiting my aunt, my grandparents and my cousins. I love my family deeply and have nothing but the utmost pride in my family name.

It's easy for me to fixate on my father's side when I consider my family. In truth though, I take much more after my mother and hers is the shadier side of my family tree.

My mom's family has a history of depressive illness, alcoholism, violence, and generally anti-social behavior.

My Grandmother is unipolar depressed and has never so much as hugged my mother.

I have an uncle who committed suicide by drowning his sorrows and swimming out to sea. (Poetic, but still, no.)

I have another uncle who is a Vietnam Vet and severely Manic Depressive. He once led several Michigan State troopers on a drunken high speed chase until he ran out of gas. He then assaulted six of them when he finally came to a stop. If it wasn't for the temporary insanity plea...

I have an aunt who used to put beer in my cousin's bottles to keep them quiet when they were babies.

I have another aunt who is developmentally retarded at a four year old level.(a la fetal alcohol syndrome)

I have a cousin who died just under two years ago of a speed overdose.

Then there's my mom.

When my mom was two years old her father died. Desperate and destitute my grandmother took in with a man named Carlton. Carlton wasn't satisfied with just my grandmother. So he raped my aunt. Then my mom.

When my grandmother heard this she became jealous that Carlton aparently favored her daughters over her. She exacted her revenge on both Carlton and her progeny by spending all his money. This in turn ensured their poverty and irked Carlton, who in turn beat my mother and her siblings. Eventually, my aunt escaped when she was 13 by getting married. My mom had no such recourse. She had to wait until college before she could break the cycle and when she did, she still could not shake her relationship with Carlton.

Every guy she's dated afterwards has been just another variant of Carlton. Paternal. Providers. Emotionally aloof. He was the abuser, she was the abused.

-skip ahead twenty-five years-

My dad was not Carlton. He was a good provider, devoted if a bit distant, and as a devout pacifist and an honorable man he never raised a hand to her. This was a courtesy she neglected to repay. Eventually my parents divorced.

During her next succession of boyfriends she bounced from one unhealthy relationship to another, always reenacting her painful childhood relationship with her abuser.

Three years ago she took up with and then married a guy named Larry who, aside from having abysmal taste in cigars, was a recovering drug, alcohol, gambling, and rage addict. He was also a convicted felon, incredibly violent, and of course none of it was his fault. In many ways he was the perfect second husband for my mother.

Tales of my mother and the dragon kept coming, so two years ago I move in with them to play St. George. Shortly after we met I could tell Larry was sizing me up to see whether he could take me. He was obviously convinced he could and it wasn't long before I got the chance to prove him wrong. Larry was soon a thing of the past, though not without some doing and that left me to face the reality of my mother. You see, the thing about mental illness is that you create the reality you live in.

When Larry got his walking papers, mom lost her villain. Without a villain she wasn't a victim. Her victimhood provided the moral high ground which she used to cope with the trauma of her Without victimhood she not only had no identity, she had no coping mechanism. Without her identity she had no concept of self. Without her self she had no self esteem. Therefore without victimhood she had no self-esteem and no coping mechanism. She was once again that scared little girl, defenseless and alone. This logic, though hopelessly flawed, makes sense to me.

My mother's reality was forever the reality of that unloved little girl and the fortress she had once built to sheild herself from the world became her prison.

It took me a long time to realize this simple truth for myself and to come to grips my mom and our common weakness. I have spent the last two years of my life trying to help my mom overcome the limiting influence of her past and understand what's real and what's not so that she can finally develop healthy relationships with other people, and hopefully find peace with herself.


A few months ago Carlton died.


His bed became his pyre when the ash from his cigarette caught on the sheets and quickly spread throughout the rest of his trailer. He died old, alone, and in gruesome fashion by his own hand. Frankly I don't think it could've happened to a nicer guy.

Still, my mom cried.

Perhaps she did it only for missing the opportunity as resolution, but I'll never know for sure. I think some part of her will always associate him with male love and acceptance. I think that's part of the reason I try so hard to show her a better way.

In the end I am not my family, but I am beholden to their influence. I carry my father's name and all that it stands for. Our motto bids every action to be guided by honor and my forbearers have set a high standard to live up to.

However, I am my mother as well as my father. I will inevitably come to embody the determined faith of my Father's family or the unrelenting pain of my mom's. For now I choose the way of my Father, but if I overlook certain parts my heritage because its painful then I will never realize who I am and what I am capable of.

For every height there must be depth and that is me.