When most people hear the word mother, it often affects warm feelings and memories of soft smiles and of gentle hugs. At least, I hope a feeling of all encompassing love goes hand in hand with memories of your mother. For me, however, I have no such memory. When I think of my mother, I am instantly transported to a time when fear, pain and embarrassment filled my days. The actions of my mother during my early childhood forced me to adapt to an environment almost war torn in nature, forced me to “grow up” well before my time, and fractured my trust in my family and adults in general. I am the person I am today because of her.

     One of my earliest full memories is from when I was two and Child Protective Services took me from my mother and our home in Vermont. My mother was an addict, addicted to coke and heroine and sex. She had many “boyfriends.” To many men to count. Men who used her and abused her and her children. The Social Workers took pictures of the damage done to me and my siblings, pictures of the welts and bruises. The cuts in our young skin, clearly showing the imprints of the Texas style belt buckles used to beat us. There were pictures of the room we were kept in, showing the floors covered in old newspapers and feces. We had been paper trained like dogs. We lived in a war zone; never knowing when the next blow would fall but always knowing it was inevitable.

     My mother's actions also caused me to act so much older then my tender age of two. There were days that my younger brother and I were locked in a room together for hours at a time. I tried to comfort him, the best that I could, but I was too young to understand everything that went along with taking care of an infant. My nights were filled with horrible nightmares that left me gasping for breath. Most children would just run to their mother and father for comfort, but I had no such luxury. My mother would only become angry with me if I went to her during the night, so I had to excise my own demons. I learned quickly that it was better not to be seen or heard. I would wait until my mother passed out before sneaking into the kitchen to find food for myself and my brother. It was a miracle that we survived the way we did, for as long as we did. Social services coming when they did, probably saved our lives.

     Because my father was still on active duty with the Marine Corps, my paternal grandparents were awarded custody of me. I was moved into their home, with my older brother, and I was even given my own room, done up in pink and cream, ruffles and lace. The perfect room for a little girl, but I was still afraid. I waited day after day, for the screaming that had been so much a part of my life before my grandparents, to begin again. I flinched when an adult came near me and I couldn't play and be loud and act like the child I was supposed to be. My mother taught me that I could never trust anyone, even my family.

     Though my time spent under my mothers care was relatively short, she managed to teach me a number of things. Living in the environment that she created, taught me how to survive. Taking care of my baby brother taught me to be more responsible then any child my age should have to be. She also taught me to choose the people I trust wisely, because even family could betray you. Finally, all her actions allowed me to develop an inner strength. Like the German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, once said, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”