I found out about them when my mom went to Georgia for a break from the circumstances that became her life. One of my dad's acquaintances revealed the truth one summer day while we were sitting in her kitchen drinking iced tea while I vented about the complexities of my 12 year old life. Jeanie was a nice but accentric red haired lady with chickens and llamas and horses and other random farm animals. I'd spent most of the summer making the mile bike ride to her house to spend time with her and her husband who was confined to a wheel chair from a stroke and her senile mother who lived on the property in a 26 foot trailer. I had always enjoyed spending time with older people but mainly she was the closest thing to a confidant that I had within the 30 mile radius of my home.
I don't remember how it came out exactly but being told that I was not my mothers first or second child came as a real surprise to me. Shocked that I had an older brother and sister somewhere in the world and that my mother was a drug addict, bordering on the edge of mental emotional distress made me question my entire life.
How did I live with this woman, this mother of mine, for 11 years and not know her? I could accept her use of coke or meth or combination of both. I never noticed anything unusual but why would I have? She kept me busy playing soccer or bowling or gymnastics or playing with friends or sleeping. But why she hadn't told me that she had another family was incomprehensible to my prepubescent mind. Did she walk out on them? Where were they? I'd always wanted more siblings- Did I look like my sister? I needed to know.
But I was young and incapable of confronting the issue so little by little, I distanced myself from her. We were 2500 miles away from each other and still that wasn't enough. When she called, I never mentioned it, I just gradually stopped taking her calls. I questioned my dad about it but he was vague saying only that he knew that they existed, that when he'd met her, she told him but didn't want to discuss it at length. When she returned a year or so later, I told her I knew. I forgave her. But I didn't understand and she wasn't ready to explain it. But then something else happened and I stopped talking to her for several years. It wasn't until I was well into my early twenties that I grew the courage to demand more from her.
She told me their names. Kenneth Jr, after his father, her first husband, and Tara. I knew their birth dates. I knew that they were born in Germany when my mother and him were living on a military base there. They had married sometime around when my mother should have graduated.
I tried using people searches on the internet and finally traced down the last known addresses and phone numbers of my brother and sisters grandparents, aunts and uncles. I couldn't call because I didn't know what to say. Besides, I didn't want to talk to just anyone, I wanted to talk to my brother or sister. I learned from my mother that she had been in contact with their stepmother, Tina, several years earlier. Tina was actually my mothers' friend when they lived in Germany. Apparently after Kenny left my mom because she claimed she hadn't loved him, he had married again. Twice actually. He was still married to Tina. She told my mother that Tara had had a child and lived in Oregon and my brother Kenny had spent some time in prison. They were adults now.
Finally, I decided that the best way to reach them would be through a large social networking database. Everyone had either a myspace or facebook page these days, I began seeking Tara. Realizing she could be married and have a different name, I broadened my search to every Tara. That's right. I copy and pasted thousands of messages reading "Were you born in Germany and now have a father and brother named Kenny? I may be your biological sister." After a couple years, I gave up. In the mean time, my mother shared more information, pictures she had of them when she'd last seen them. They were babies. 2 and 4 maybe. I got her side of the story and then my Aunt Helen's take from things as well.
Finally, one day while checking my facebook messages, I received a message from Tara. She had just checked her Myspace messages, an account she had neglected for some time and received my message. She sent a message to me but got no reply. Then she searched on facebook and found me. We conversed, me confused and angry but trying to welcome her into my life, to convince her to tell me what she knew of my mother and discover how things had ened up like this. Then our brother sent me a friend request and then Tina. Tina I talked to more freely, asking questions I was afraid to ask Tara. How had she ended up with their father? How did his relationship with my mother end?
Now I've heard all sides but my mothers' ex husbands. I don't know why I want to know what everyone else knows so badly except that maybe it's because I went so long without knowing myself. But I hope that one day, my mother who has seen their Facebook profiles and knows that I speak with them, will somehow muster up the courage to reach out to them. She told me once that she didn't contact them because she had nothing to offer them. That it had been so long she didn't know what to say. But I know she hurts because she longs to know them. I'm glad that I found them. Because at least now it's possible for my family to reunite-or in my case, unite.
I can't imagine what it would be like to be a parent and to live a life without your child. Not after you'd raised them for the first years of their life and them be divided from them suddenly and permanently. I can't imagine how hard it must have been on my brother and sister as children; Although young, I imagine being separated from her must have been confusing and painful. And I don't know how they feel towards her now, if they feel anything at all. One thing I've learned is that as we get older, life seems more fragile and you want to hang on to the things that shaped your life. That one persons choices dramatically change other people's lives. And sometimes, although we think we're doing what we think is best, for our parents, our children or ourselves, the damage we can create may be more hurtful later on down the road; Even if time heals our emotions, the scars are still left on our hearts, reminding us of what was and what will never be.
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