I’d Give Anything for a Time Machine Right Now…

I want it so bad sometimes, it hurts

Today is my birthday. It’s always an emotional day for me; it’s a day of a lot of reflecting and contemplating.

I think about my birth mother, a terrified 15-year-old who got pregnant. I’ve heard a couple of versions of that story and am not sure which one (if either) is the truth. Both are terrible. She was sent away by herself to live in a home for naughty girls until I was born. She wanted to keep me; after my birth she looked after me. I bonded with her and was taken away a few weeks later, against her will.

She was never able to have any other children; a terrible disappointment for her.

When we met many years later, it was wonderful — soul-feeding, restorative, healing on both sides. But for her, years of bitterness had taken their toll; she clung to her many and various longstanding hurts and grievances as though they were lifelines.

Because of this, I cannot have a relationship with her and haven’t spoken to her in nearly 30 years. Such a terrible waste of precious time…

I think of my (now grown) children and the issues that have created years of silence in various relationships amongst us. Most of my children have nothing to do with each other. And my relationships with a few of them are the same. It’s a mess of silently warring factions.

Personally, I am not at war with any of the ones who are immersed in toxic and destructive behaviour. I chose to get off the merry-go-round and step away years ago. I cannot have relationships with them. I will not subject myself to that sort of insanity ever again, even if it means ongoing separation from some of my children and four of five of my grandchildren.

I will never again be an emotional punching bag, no matter who is dishing it out. Secretly, I wish for healing of these relationships, but I know the issues extend well beyond me and are not about me. The issues are reflected elsewhere in the lives of my children who choose to stay on difficult paths.

But on my birthdays, I can’t help but remember the occasional happy one, way back in the Dark Ages when my children were young and making birthday cards and giving me birthday hugs. I would ask myself how it could have all gone so horribly wrong but that’s a can of worms that does not need opening.

I did my best; spend thousands of hours with them (and alone) in therapist’s offices and hospital programs trying to pick through how my life choices impacted their little souls. At some point, it became their choice and responsibility to clean up the messes they were making for themselves.

They have their own paths to walk. Their own lessons to learn. But this is not how I envisioned my life as a mother or grandmother.

Time’s a-wastin’…and one day, I will die with all this painful, sharp silence still hanging in the ether. I wonder if they will regret not cleaning up their lives and being willing to forge some sort of relationship with their mother again. Due to the specifics of their issues, I cannot imagine it; the depth of self-awareness and acceptance of responsibility for horrific behaviour (toward many people — not just me) is likely too much for them.

It is easier to stick their heads in the sand and point fingers of blame.

I wonder if they will ever find true inner peace and self-love. I tried so hard to teach them valuable lessons but I was only the sign post. A time machine would not help; they have to find their own way.

Thank heaven for my beautiful daughter, Willow, who avoids the family drama and stays close to her Mama, even though we are on opposite sides of the world.

And despite the gnawing fear that tries to choke me on thinking of how many years I might have left — or rather, how few — and leaves me dreading birthdays, at the same time I am grateful for yet another one. I can’t help but remember those terrible years of struggling through a life-threatening illness. I remember the physical pain and suffering I endured every day. At times, I would lie in bed in agony, staring at the digital clock. I wondered if I’d live to see it flip to the next minute.

It got so bad, I couldn’t stand to be here anymore. I devised a plan to end my life. That’s a whole other story…and obviously, I’m still here.

The point is…there have been many places throughout my journey so far where I nearly died. I understand how precious and terrifyingly fragile life is.

Another birthday means I am still here. I am one of those who have been blessed to make it as far as I have. Since childhood, I’ve known many who did not.

That damned gnawing fear chews at me as I look back over the last 20 or 30 years. They went by in a blink. I cannot believe that much time has passed. And it went way, way too fast.

I swear, it goes faster and faster all the time. I feel like I’m careening down a steep slope on a bicycle with no brakes and there’s a brick wall at the bottom. There’s not a damned thing I can do to stop. To make time stand still. To catch my breath and have a reprieve, a break, please can I have a little extension, Teacher? My paper isn’t done yet.

This morning, I was reading Yana Bostongirl’s story, “How ‘Pretty’ Became Toxic Because I Was Such a People Pleaser.” It was written in response to the prompty by Simão Cunha, “If a time machine were invented today, what would you do?”

Given that the subject of “time” is very much at the forefront of my thoughts today — and in general, quite a lot recently for various reasons — it seemed appropriate to answer this question.

To be honest, I knew the answer almost before reading the question.

If today, I could give myself an experience in a time machine, I would go back to when I was so angry and frustrated in my abusive home environment. I was ripe for the choices that would send my life into a decades-long tailspin.

I would go back and talk to a guidance counsellor at school. I would talk about my home life and at least get some support for myself, even if the abuse and alcoholism were unfixable.

At 15, I had fallen in love (or in need) with a 20-year-old who adored me. Worshipped me, he said. Oh, dear. Never a healthy foundation. I was too young to know better.

After a glued-at-the-hip sweet summer romance, I went back home hundreds of miles away. We wrote thick, nauseating letters a few times a week.

And over time, I began to lose interest. He was in another province and I was finally having a bit of a social life at school. He felt the growing distance…quit his job and moved hundreds of miles to be with me — without asking me. I wasn’t impressed.

But I felt obligated. In my eyes, it had been “my fault” that he’d quit and moved to be with me. He proposed as soon as he arrived. Snagged me, quick before I could get away. I became engaged at 15 bloody years old.

I would ask my time machine to take me back to that frigid January. I would ask, “Why the hell didn’t you leave me alone if you felt the growing distance? Why did you force your way into the life of a schoolgirl? Oh, wait. I know. You were ‘in love,’ right? No, you were selfish. You should have left me alone.”

I would hop in my time machine today and go back to several months later when I was so fed up with my home life, I moved out at 16. Again, I would be talking to a guidance counsellor at school and asking for support in dealing with the toxicity.

I would give myself the blessing and gift of thinking about what I might “like to be when I grew up.” No one ever asked. I didn’t know it was “a thing.” My parents never even asked about my school work. I had no idea about things like self-awareness or doing things I love or being encouraged to do more of what I was good at.

Looking back, there was an obvious gift for writing. And for art. And clearly, a gift for music. I was glad to have lessons but I should have been encouraged to do more with it and to pursue my other talents, too.

I should have been told about college or university. It should have been an option.

But it wasn’t.

So I left home at 16. I lived in a terrible little room in the basement of a divorcée who entertained men who had got out of jail on weekend passes. Scary biker men who drank.

I worked part-time to support myself while going to school. Until the night I got held up.

Terrified beyond description, I quit my job and wasn’t very good at holding down a couple of others; I was emotionally immature and messed up and got fired a few times for calling in “sick” (read: “can’t be bothered”) too often.

I ended up quitting school, too. Biggest. Mistake. Ever. But it was more than that.

As mentioned above, there was no encouragement about it. I saw no point in it. I thought I would marry my boyfriend and we would live happily ever after. I couldn’t have known then that he’d be Number One of six husbands, thanks to the toxic foundation of my childhood.

I would hop in that time machine and find a way to stay at home, to stay in school. I would find a way to discover my purpose or my passion or something I wanted to pursue for higher education.

I would stay in school and at least get a Master’s. Perhaps a Ph.D. But back then, on top of the other issues working against me, I thought I was stupid, after hearing it for enough years at home. Turns out I’m pretty damned intelligent. I learn insanely quickly — well, except in affairs of the heart. Apparently, that took a lot longer to figure out. Thank heaven for a lot of healing since that last one years ago.

I was frequently told I would never amount to anything. I believed it. Beliefs like that will completely shut down the concept of possibility.

I would have time my time machine send me back to that period so I could get the help and guidance I needed. Someone who could help me discover my potential. I would stand up for myself and my financial future and stability. I would see to it that I would have a solid education and would always be able to look after myself, no matter what other miseries I managed to find in unhealthy relationships.

I would discover my value. I would not hate myself, as I did for so many of my early years, due to my home environment — and the resulting disasters in which I put myself for a long time because of it.

I would learn about self-love and self-care.

But there is no time machine. I got engaged — reluctantly — at 15. Left home at 16. Got married at 17. Had a baby ten months later at 18. And another ten months after that, got divorced at 19.

And I was a complete and utter mess.

Between the self-loathing and first crack at suicidal depression, there were anxiety disorders — anorexia, OCD, agoraphobia, panic attacks — and then an addiction to deal with all of that. I would struggle with these for several years before I found a life-changing way to heal them — without drugs. But other insanity would continue for some time…

I stumbled through life having more marriages and babies and divorces, a chaotic mess of pain and instability, scrambling to support myself between marriages. And somehow, chipping away, ever so slowly, at trying to figure out how to create a better life for myself and my children.

I clung to the belief that it was possible and that I could be happy.

At 30, in the midst of another divorce and with my first three children, I began studying social work. It was the first step toward creating a life and financial future for myself…

…which I managed to derail again — many times — but I’ll stop here.

The point is…If I could climb into a time machine, I would go back to those terrible teen years. I would find my voice. I would ask for help. I would value my gifts and abilities. I would find a dream and make damned sure I made it come true.

I would honour myself and make sure I would have a solid, stable financial life, because with that comes freedom — a word that now means everything to me.

If only I had understood back then. I know money doesn’t buy happiness; that’s not what I’m saying. But it gives us choices. It allows us to find and pursue opportunities.

My time machine would give me freedom I’ve fought a lifetime to find.

Tonight, there is no time machine, but there is the internet. There is FaceTime that will allow Willow and me to spend a few hours chatting while we enjoy a “teleparty” on Netflix. We will watch a film or two together to celebrate my making it around the sun another time.

We never know when it will be the last time we make that annual journey. I just hope I’m blessed to have many more before I am called home.

I was so inspired by Donnette Anglin’s response to a “sort of similar” beginning in life…she handled herself far better than I did. A fascinating and empowering read:

Thank you so much to Winston and the team at Coffee Times for publishing this. I appreciate all you do! 🙏🏻 💜

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