Christmas of 1985. This was the last photograph taken of my “family” before mom left dad for another woman. The fact that she was coming out was much less of an issue to me as was the fact that she seemed to so easily, willingly leave me and my brother in the custody of a child abuser.
24 days after this photo was taken, mom presented dad with divorce papers, on their 15th anniversary. When she told us that they were getting divorced, I was ecstatic! I’d fantasized about my parents divorcing for years. The esctacy was quickly replaced by rage, when she moved out and my brother and I stayed behind. It was only later that I found out that dad had threatened to drag mom through the courts, and the media. There weren’t a lot of Nebraska judges in 1985 that would have given custody of two children to a *gasp* lesbian over a seemingly fine, upstanding Lt. Colonel in the Air Force.
Less than weeks after the divorce was final, dad magically “got orders” to be transfered to a small air base in Blytheville, Arkansas. Mom and her “friend” (who wasn’t much nicer to mom than dad had been) stayed behind. Mom still lives in Nebraska, with a different (and exceedingly wonderful) “friend.”
It’s crazy, but in the photo, I can see her contemplating her freedom — the light at the end of the tunnel. The way she’s looking at him, I can tell that she knows what’s about to come, and can hardly wait. She’s poised on the precipace of a new life. Looking at this photo, a previously unrealized piece of my puzzle falls into place. I understand. She looks happy for the first time I can remember.
My entire life, my mother was miserable and depressed. She married young and stupid, believing that marrying a man would make her straight. Of course, I knew none of this at the time. All I knew was that mom was sad. Always.
The first time she tried to kill herself, she was home with me and my toddler brother. I believe I had the flu or somesuch childhood crud. It was shortly after we moved to North Dakota, so I think I was between four and five. Apparently she’d attempted to overdose on medication. What I remember is hearing her cry my name from the bathroom. I was in my parents’ bed, presumably so mom could keep a better eye on me. I followed her voice to find her on her hands and knees - reaching out to me as though I could help her. I remember the light in the room was hot pink, either from the curtains or my fever. The next thing I recall, my father was there. He made a telephone call and then ushered my brother and I into the dirty blue Impala. We drove and drove and drove. As I watched endless grass, trees and fenceposts rush by my window, he explained that mommy was sick and had to go to the hospital. When we came home, she was gone. An ambulance had taken her away while we were out driving.
In the 15 years that they were married, he never laid a hand on her. He said some horrible things to her, and certainly tormented her emotionally, but for some reason he never hit her. Maybe it was because she was taller than him. Maybe he only reserved his violence for us because we were small and made a lot of mistakes. Maybe we reminded him of everything he loathed in himself, and he hurt us to punish himself for when he was small and made a lot of mistakes.
48 women - murdered.
