Family
By Ashley M. Walton
Family: a specific group of people that may be made up of partners, children, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents.
There are many stories I could share. I’m actually working on a collection of biographical short stories and poems. But the story that resonates at the moment is about my family. Growing up, I dreamed of being a doctor, a choreographer, a Boss - you name it. I pursued a career in medicine, even spent 10 years as a lab technologist in Blood Banking. As a kid, I took Ballet, Tap and Jazz, performed in some dance recitals, have a dance certification, now teach Pilates and Barre-style exercise and incorporate dance into training programs upon client request. And in 2019, after several years of training for other gyms, I officially became the owner of my Personal Training company, AWAL Fitness. At different stages of my life, my individual career goals felt like everything to me. But when I had a quiet moment to myself, I knew what I truly longed-for was security. It wasn’t so much that I needed to be told I was attractive. In almost 40 years, my body has had several different forms. Though some forms were criticized, all were admirable in their own ways. No, I needed to know I could be unconditionally loved for what I had to offer on the inside. More than anything, I wanted the kind of love you can only find in a real family.
My first examples of “unconditional love” - my parents - left much to be desired. My dad is 14 years older than my mom. I am his youngest child of five, and my mother’s first of two. My dad, who now holds family as his greatest love and me as his “favorite person in the whole world”, was not always the best at sticking around for anyone. He would leave for days without a word and show up with stories about how he gambled his paycheck away and was trying to earn it all back. My dad also loved the company of women. My mom eventually got fed up with him and decided, the next time he finally stumbled home, she would not be there.
So began her quest to find a suitable “New Dad” for me. This quest took us many places. We even packed up and moved to Mobile, Alabama with one “New Dad”. He eventually fathered my baby sister and very best friend, Charity. Side bar on Charity: she was born June 14, 1990, on my seventh birthday. Charity is the only good thing her father brought to our family. He left some of the darkest bruises, internal scars which are still in the healing process some 30 years later. He was troubled but was the closest thing I had to a step-dad. He called me his daughter. The whole atmosphere was so puzzling for a 5-8 year-old little me. He and my mother would fight constantly. But then he would profess his undying love to my mom, leaving her beautifully written love notes and poems all over the house. Then he would flip again. He was a lot meaner when he couldn’t get to his drugs. There were just as many trips to the hospital for her stitches as there were trips to rehab for him. When my mother was pregnant with Charity, my step-dad pushed my mother down our front steps. I was told to go next door, where our landlord and his family lived, and get help. I watched from the neighbors’ yard as the police arrived, telling my mom she could have my stepdad removed from the house. I slept at the neighbor’s house that night. The next morning, when my mom brought me home, my step-dad was there. One night, less than a year later, I woke up to them fighting… again. As my step-dad continuously punched my mother in the face, she called out to me, handed me my swaddled baby sister and told me to run to next door again. This time, when the police arrived, my step-dad had bruises on his face, too. This time, when the police asked if my mother wanted my step-dad removed, she said “Yes”. The next morning, upon hearing this news, a little ray of hope beamed inside of me. I now felt responsible for keeping my sister safe, and I knew, at seven years old, it would be a lot easier without my step-dad around. Weeks went by without him in our home, and I thought my mom had finally stuck to her guns. Then one day, I came home from school to find him in the house again. I would ask my mom, “why do you keep bringing him back after he beats you?” She would say, “He needs help, but he really loves me.” Was this love? When she finally got tired of dropping my step-dad off to rehab, my mom decided to move my sister and I back to Philly.
In Philly, my grandmother had a cozy rowhouse in West Philly that I knew as home. My grandmother was very traditional, a southern belle, loved doing her hair every night in curlers before bed, then styling it really pretty every morning. My mother was the opposite, loved wearing blue jeans and big t-shirts. My mom would only style her hair for church on Sundays, keeping it slicked down under a classic ‘90s baseball cap or bonnet for work otherwise. My mom was very proud to have supported herself through college to become an OR nurse. My grandmother resented my mom’s success, used my mom’s “tomboyish” style to taunt and tease. My grandmother viewed my mother’s continued quest to find a “New Dad” as an excuse to “run the streets with new men”. So, they fought constantly. They sometimes came to blows... also. My mother also fought constantly with her four brothers - my uncles. Once my mom could afford to move out on her own, we moved to the suburbs of Northeast Philly. At that distance, my mom could easily decide to cut-off my grandmother, as well as our uncles, aunts and cousins - any time there was a disagreement. And in my mother’s words, “If one of us has a problem with someone, we all do.” So much of my childhood and early adulthood was spent keeping distance from the rest of my very large family, for loyalty’s sake.
Years went by, and my mother gave up her pursuit of a “New Dad” for my sister and me. So, dating stopped for her. Everything centered around the three of us and our “unbreakable bond”. We took amazing family trips together. We had very festive holiday celebrations together. We spent all of our free time as a trio. And it all made perfect sense. Then I started to seriously date. Whenever I would get close to someone, my mother would become quite possessive, over both me and my current boyfriend. One big, happy family, right? A couple of months before my wedding to my college fiancé, my mother kicked me out of the house for a week. It was the second time she had kicked me out. This time, she felt unappreciated when her suggestion for my honeymoon song was met with disgust. That engagement ended for various reasons. A couple of years later, six weeks before my wedding to my son’s father, my mother physically attacked me and threw me out for the third and last time. The whole situation left me very confused. I was scheduled to go to settlement in a few weeks for my own house with my soon-to-be husband. I had been such a good girl, just like she wanted. I was serving on several ministries at our church. I had earned my Bachelor’s in Biology. I had been working as a Lab Technologist for the American Red Cross for a year and a half. We were buying the house with my hard-earned money. I had even kept my virginity, just like she wanted. I was the subject of much of her proud bragging to friends, coworkers and even her estranged extended family. Why was she so angry with me?
Despite the drama, I still got married. My mother and I patched things up for the wedding but couldn’t seem to get along afterwards. My mom actually yelled at me the day after the wedding because I couldn’t find a CD-ROM game for her before leaving for my honeymoon. I moved into my new house with my new husband, ready to start my own happy family. Now everything would be perfect, right? . . . Well, it turns out my new husband and I were not really that compatible after all. At 23, we hadn’t figured out what we wanted out of life. We were best friends, loved watching movies and shows together, then discussing the plots and characters in detail. But our views couldn’t be more different - even down to our spiritual beliefs. He was still trying to find the right career for himself, which often affected our finances and security. But we were both raised in broken homes, had promised to never divorce. We thought maybe things would get better once we could put all our focus on a new baby. So, we got pregnant. It was a big deal. I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, which can make it difficult to get pregnant. So, my pregnancy felt like this miraculous sign that we could make it work. Becoming parents definitely brought us closer together. Jaden, our son, was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to either of us. For a time, we were very happy and driven to make things work. But we were still working to find ourselves, causing lots of rifts about investing our savings in ideas, my going back to school to study fitness, and our emotional disconnect. In 2012, I decided to separate. I had been diagnosed with anxiety and depression that year, but my then husband was not fully grasping the severity. Jaden was only two years old and had been having trouble communicating his needs. I felt completely overwhelmed. My then husband was also trying to recover from a bad investment, so we agreed to cohabitate while we both figured things out. In 2013, we divorced, but continued to live under the same roof. In 2014, after a few failed attempts to rekindle our old relationship, we finally split households.
As much as I wanted to start fresh and have a peaceful home, I was pretty broken. My ex-husband and his family had become my family. With all our issues and clear differences, we had been through so much together. After nine years of knowing each other, our dysfunction created a sense of security. The shared custody was hard at first. Suddenly, I had to get used to coming home to an empty house with no “roommate” and no kid. Depression seeped in again. It was during this dark time that I reached out to my uncles and cousins. To my surprise, they were really happy to receive me. The years of being estranged did not shake their genuine love for me. We started inviting each other to birthday parties and talking during the holiday seasons. When we see each other, our hugs are some of the best moments. Ever.
Also, during that dark time, I met my now boyfriend, Jason. He was also recovering from divorce. Despite our wounds, we spent as much time together as possible. We love music, competing in anything from trivia to air hockey, traveling, eating great food and finding new ways to entertain each other. When we first met, I knew he was special. His eyes pierced right through me with honesty and a genuine interest to learn more. Just the sound of his voice made my heart flutter. It still does. His presence made me feel like home. But life has had an influence on our steps forward. A few weeks after we started dating, Jason’s best friend passed away. This tragedy really shook Jason. They had grown up together and were more like brothers. Loss is not something we “get over”. It’s something we can possibly learn to endure. It is through endurance that, if we are surrounded by support and love, we can grow. So, Jason has had to learn how to endure, growing more and more open in the process. In addition, I did not want to make the same mistakes as my mother. Jason has been the only man Jaden has ever seen with me other than his father. Jaden has Autism Spectrum Disorder, so the last thing I wanted was to have Jaden grow up the way I did, being forced to bond with potential new dads and having to say goodbye to all of them. I wanted a real family, remember? So for five and a half years, we have all been working - Jason, Jaden, myself, and even Jaden’s father - to build a real family. Our family works together, talks through disagreements, never resorts to violence, is committed to seeing things through, values respect above all. And our family includes my baby sister, Charity, Jason’s parents, my aunts and uncles, Jason’s brothers, my older brothers and sister, Jason’s aunts and uncles, my cousins, Jason’s cousins, and even my long-lost dad. I have spent years of therapy and meditation to process and file all my skeletons. I’m no longer weighed down by pain, unsure of my place in the world, wondering if I deserve to be loved. After so many years of shifting from place to place, group to group, I finally feel secure.
If you grew up in a dysfunctional household, I hope this story brings you light. I hope you know it’s not your fault you have scars. I hope you know you deserve to be loved unconditionally. Never stop believing that truth. And when you finally find yourself connected to kind, loving people; I hope their warmth surrounds you like those beautiful family hugs I so enjoy.
