“The worst thing that could happen is you could die. And, you didn’t die, so you’re fine.” Famous words of my mother.

Her badges of honor were not colors on a metal bar. Her victories in battle were not lined up and displayed on her chest. Rather, they were displayed in the subtle way the corners of her eyes turned down, in her silence, or her released huffs of regret from something too heavy in her thoughts. Can’t you see them? Can’t you hear her pain screaming into your ears? I can.

She waited for someone to see. Someone to know and understand. She waited for someone to hear what her movements, silences, tears, and glances were saying. She wanted to be saved. Wrapped in the most loving embrace a human could offer and to never be let go.

I fear she knew that not dying didn’t mean she survived. Living and breathing the pain isn’t survival. But, I get it. That was her way of making sense of a world so brutal that death was an actuality. And when she would say it I would feel less scared. Even though it was a lie it gave me a small amount of hope that she was okay.

My mother shared her stories. Stories of the life she knew. Stories of lives and innocence lost to jealousy, rage, and addiction. The simple way in which she described how her father pointed a shotgun to her mother’s face threatening to kill her in front of her eyes. A memory void of fear nor sadness. She knew that as long as it wasn’t death, it was better.

Today, my dear readers, I tell a story of my parents for your benefit. If your lives have not been threatened by the hands of a drunken or abusive family member, I would like to enlighten you with an appreciation for your sanctum of safety. I know you wear badges from your own traumas. Allow me to congratulate you on your victories.

I believe that to be a true-victor in the battles of abusive trauma from those who promised to love me, I must not inherit the behavior.

My mother and father became used to the daily trauma evoked by powers greater than their own and out of their control–mental illness. My mother began collecting moments of horror as trophies–awards for battles she and my father, whether together or apart, endured and lived to tell about.

Now, you may be able to run a mile in under seven minutes but my mother could wake up the day after finding her lover with another and make the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had. She could play jump rope with her two younger siblings while her father berated and accused her mother of having a child from another man. She could take the hand of her younger sister to pull her to safety from the fist-fight erupting in the kitchen or calmly go about her week while the father of her children was missing on an alcoholic bender. And not only that, she could take you into a made-up world of pretend to distract you from a disgusting truth.

And, let me tell you about my father–the legend of Tarzan. My father can get up so early that by the time you climb out of bed he has already burned down the house of the person who ran over his mother with a car, had a pot of coffee, and a pack of cigarettes. He would have already survived a motorcycle crash and a gunshot wound. By noon he would have already had ten women fall in love with him and broken the hearts of ten more.

Reader, I ask you, what moments in your life have you survived? Do you wear your trauma like a badge of honor? Do you wear them silently like my father or boast them for the world to hear like my mother?

Today, I honor my parents’ story of courage amidst their pain. All the while I applaud you, the reader, for your struggles and for persevering in light of them.

My mother’s stories became her battle scars. She would tell them with pride. She would tell them in such a way that you would think they did not hurt her. As if she was immune to their heartbreak. She cried in solitude but expected the world to know. Well, almost in solitude–alone with her children. She ached for love and safety but was never given the chance. Her happiest life was not lived. Not one single moment was sufficient to render her pain gone.

Her fear of being alone was strangling. And, what she endured was inevitable to recur in her future. It was the only kind of intimacy she knew. An intimacy that was laced with intoxication and intensity. Therefore, her sadness was always present. Her longing for adoration from the wrong kind of men was repetitive. She was a beautiful soul whose heart was so large that it was in constant need of being filled with love. The people around her couldn’t be trusted with the task. Soon, her heart held so many breaks that all attempts at mending it failed.

There was never a moment when she didn’t long for someone to love her above all else. Above other women, above money, friends, addiction, and lust. From the day she was born until the day she died she ached for unconditional, pure, and safe love. Her children loved her this way and still do. Our love was not the kind she was looking for. She lacked the ability to love herself so she thought the love of a man would reign what she sought.

She told my father’s stories of the worst kind–without his permission. He was and is a silent warrior. Born into a hell I cannot imagine. Too evil to repeat in words. I will respect his oath of silence and allow his bulletproof armor to protect him. He has a particular kind of strength endowed to few. One that is felt more than described. A persistent and tenacious kind of strength. One that accepts the responsibility for its actions and lacks regret. He is a rare masterpiece of a human being, and so was my mother.

I love you, Dad. I know you loved Mom, and still do. I miss her. I love her. But, now I am angry. Angry that she didn’t learn to heal. Angry that no matter how hard I tried I was never enough. Angry that I was not first for her, nor was my brother. We weren’t even second. Even though I am mad as hell, I totally understand.

I will learn your lessons, Mom. I will give your sorrow a voice. And, as I write my memoir, The Collector, I promise to tell your truths and expose mine. I love you.

Tina