Funny, I Thought I Knew Her

Lately, my life has felt like one of those cheesy-assed chick flicks on the Lifetime Network where the main character lives with a spouse, sibling or family member all their life, then a series of events take place and the main character finds out about all this shit they never knew. Welcome to my world.

Growing up I always knew my mother had a bit of a wild past. I’m pretty savvy and catch on quickly, so with a little math it didn’t take me long to figure out that my mom raised quite a bit of hell as a teenage, since she was only 17 when I was born. From there my young memory is a little spotty, then again, how much can one possibly retain before the age of five. We moved from a small town in Connecticut to a smaller town in Idaho, and my mom told me that the move was because my father slacked on his regular visitation and that she couldn’t stand watching me cry when he didn’t show up.

This was bullshit, but very effective, because it kept me from having a somewhat decent relationship with him during my younger years. When it came to family or our past in Connecticut, my mother was elusive at best, and didn’t really give a whole lot of detail. We never went back for a visit, and when I was finally given a blessing to venture East at age 20, my mother was nervous. I should have suspected something, but after a lifetime of hearing one side of the story, you adopt it as truth. Besides, your mom wouldn’t lie to you, right?

Fast forward to 2004. My mother has a recurrence of a brain tumor and passes away quite quickly. We buried her exactly two weeks after celebrating her 49th birthday, and three weeks before Thanksgiving. After mourning for a few months, I decide to begin the New Year by reconnecting with my father and that side of the family that I had been held back from knowing. This is where it all begins.

I found out that my mom had worked for some unscrupulous characters, like the kind you’d find in the movie Goodfellas or the show The Sopranos. There was some trouble, and she picked up and moved us one night without warning, which answered my lifelong question of “why the hell would anyone in their right mind move to Buckfuck, Idaho?”

In the past couple of years I’ve discovered that my sister’s dad, who was believed to be a nice man who owned a construction company and lost his life in a car accident, might actually be the mob guy that my mom was hooked up with. My mother’s controlling nature, particularly over me, was not due to her lifelong worry that I might turn out like my dad, but her deeper fear that I would be like her, and that this woman/stranger also suffered from eating disorders, depression, anxiety, and a plethora of other shit that happens to be hereditary.

Recently, I have battled with a suspected thyroid disorder. I’ve been through thyroid blood testing on and off since I was 19, and this time, thanks to a little internet research, I dug deeper after they told me my levels were normal, and asked for a full thyroid blood panel. In a casual conversation, I asked my stepdad if he knew whether my mother had ever had her thyroid tested, and his response was “yes, she had a severe thyroid disorder, and was on medication for about seven or eight years.” What the fuck!

A lifetime of useless information like “you always wanted your name to be Elizabeth” or “Must Avoid Unnecessary Talking was always marked on your elementary school report cards” yet she never once thought that, “by the way, you’re thyroid might be severely screwed up” would be something I might actually want to know.

At this point, I feel like I could write a screenplay for the Lifetime Network or Women’s Entertainment Television. I’m venturing out East again next year with my sister in tow. I’m determined to find out more about this woman who I lived with for most of my life and called “mother”. My husband says I should drop it, but what I’ve discovered so far about my past has been so essential to my current mental well-being that I’m not willing to throw in the towel just yet.

Besides, maybe I’ll find out more interesting things about my mother and who she really was. Maybe she ratted on the mob, and all while I was growing up we lived under assumed identities, and who knows, maybe my name really is Elizabeth.