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MRS. PEACOCK'S CONFESSIONS





INTRODUCTIONS

 * Photo by LARAINE DAVIS on Pexels.com
   
   Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Denice, AKA Mrs. Peacock. I’m
   34, almost 35 (next month!). I’m a mother, first & foremost, a wife, a
   writer, a gamer, and a born & raised Texan.
   
   For those that know me, I’ve joked about writing a book about my crazy life
   for years. This is my first attempt at jotting down all of my life’s antics,
   the pain & the victories, as well as the lessons learned along the way.
   
   I want to start conversations. I want to ask tough questions. I want to share
   a different perspective. MY perspective. Which this blog is the conduit. I
   will be sharing some of my deepest and most personal experiences, from MY
   point of view. No topic is off limits, and I will leave a seat at the table
   for you to ask, share, & discuss openly. Hatefulness is not welcome here. I
   will respect you as long as you do the same in return.
   
   With that, I’m diving in & the water is DEEP. You def don’t want to miss it!
   
   XOXO,
   Mrs. P
   
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 * It didn’t occur to me, until this week, that “love & support” is a relative
   term. Or that what someone considers “loving/supporting you” could actually
   be hurtful/traumatizing/enabling.
   
   A little background, my parents were drug addicts. My grandparents adopted me
   when I was 4 years old. My parent’s addiction was never hidden from me. I can
   remember when I was 5 or 6, starting a new daycare, and explaining to my
   teacher/new friends that the woman dropping me off and picking me up everyday
   wasn’t my mom; it was my Grandma. Then they would ask, “Where is your
   mom/dad?” To which I would reply without skipping a beat, “Oh, they do drugs
   & can’t take care of me right now, but they love me very much!” This was
   typically followed by a somber response or confused stare. But to me, this
   was normal. This was MY normal. I didn’t know any better.
   
   Fast forward 30 years, and my mother is expected to be released from prison
   in the next 30 days following numerous possession charges & parole
   violations. She had been previously released 2 years ago, in-between
   sentences, for what we thought would be a 30 day stay. Then COVID happened,
   and 30 days turned into 6 months. That was the first time my mother and I had
   lived together in 30 years. Needless to say, it didn’t go as expected. And my
   family was quick to say, “I told you so…”
   
   So, when she recently made parole after only serving 1.5 years of a 12 year
   sentence (which we spoke nearly every day of to help support her mentally,
   repair our relationship, and allow Maggie to have a relationship with her
   “Mimi.”), I offered to help her again. And my family thinks I’m bonkers?!?
   
   I know their concern comes from a place of love & protection of me, but I’m
   hoping they can respect that its my decision and that I truly feel that I’m
   doing the right thing by my mom. See, my family had been present for all of
   my Mother’s previous setbacks involving her addiction. My mother had already
   burned those bridges a long time ago. They had given her money, given her a
   place to stay, obviously raised ME, etc. as she promised that she’d get
   clean. To that I say, giving addicts money when they ask for it is enabling
   them, NOT helping/loving/supporting them. When was the last time you had a
   meaningful conversation with them to understand what’s wrong or how you could
   help? Instead of giving up on them or making them feel less than. I KNOW that
   you can’t help someone that doesn’t want to be helped or that doesn’t think
   they have a problem, but she asked for help. She asked ME! Something she’s
   never done before and that I’ve never been able to do before now.
   
   She is my mom. I will never give up on her. I will always have hope that she
   will get past this, have a beautiful relationship with her granddaughter, and
   be totally present in her life. I think, with true love & support, people can
   change. They can become better people. They can recover. And maybe, just
   maybe, we’ll actually get down to the root cause of her addiction/trauma and
   work through it together.
   
   To be completely honest, I am both excited & anxious. This time around, I
   feel much more prepared. We’ve set boundaries, we’ve had open/difficult
   conversations, and we’re only looking forward. I know that it is not my
   responsibility to keep my mother clean/happy/occupied, but I’m holding myself
   accountable to show her that she is loved, that its not too late for us, and
   that she’s not alone in this world.
   
   
   
   To Love & Support,
   Mrs. P
   
   
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 * DISCLAIMER: Trigger Warning! The following story contains sensitive subject
   matter.
   
   20 years ago today, my Grandma drove me to a Planned Parenthood across town
   for an abortion. I was FOURTEEN years young. A freshman in high school. I’d
   like that age to sink in for you. Do you have a child close to that age or
   younger? Or a sibling/cousin/friend that comes to mind? As you continue to
   read this story, consider it from their young perspective and imagine how
   traumatized & scared they would be going through the same thing.
   
   As we walked through the parking lot, I was yelled at by picketers that I was
   a slut, a murderer, and that I was going to hell & so was my unborn child.
   Once we were in the waiting room, we had to fill out some
   paperwork. Some of the questions I didn’t even know the answer to without my
   Grandma’s help such as my SSN. When the nurse called my name, my Grandma & I
   stood up together but the nurse stopped us and said that I had to go back
   alone. I was terrified, shaking, and my eyes began to well up with tears.
   Grandma assured me that it would all be over soon and that she’d be waiting
   for me in recovery.
   
   They took me back to a freezing cold exam room and told me to undress & put
   on a gown. The ceiling above the exam table had a poster of a beach scene,
   like the ones you bought at the scholastic book fair, stapled to it. They did
   an ultrasound to identify the age of the baby, which also resulted in hearing
   the heartbeat. The doctor confirmed that I understood what procedure she was
   performing and that I would be awake during. The nurse was kind & held my
   hand as I trembled & cried through the procedure.
   
   Just 15 mins later and I was wheeled to a recovery room where I sat in a
   recliner with a heating pad. I was given crackers & juice while I waited for
   Grandma to bring the car around back. At least I wouldn’t have to face the
   picketers again…
   
   A nurse wheelchaired me out the back exit and helped me get into the front
   seat of Grandma’s car. As soon as the car door closed, I lost it. I broke
   down in Grandma’s arms and apologized for being a fuck up. I was a shell of a
   girl. Ashamed & broken. Like any good Grandma knows, to fix any problem there
   needed to be food. She wiped my tears and asked if I wanted to get McDonald’s
   on the way home as she drove out of the parking lot.
   
   Sorry to start off so deep onthese adventures. I share this all with you to
   give a raw glimpse of an often untold perspective. The anniversary has been
   looming in my head for months, and my therapist has instructed me to find a
   productive outlet to process the trauma. This is one I’ve carried with me for
   20 years and I’m ready to let it go. In future entries, I’ll detail what
   events led to this decision and the
   aftermath that still affects me to this day.
   
   To Letting Go, 
   Mrs. P
   
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