Well, I have been thinking about another Alaska post but something else has interrupted those plans. I have never written about my stepmother but, I had one and she had a huge, mostly negative, impact on my life. She died recently, and, if there was ever anyone to write about, it would be Bev.   

Which aspect of her craziness should I start with? To set the stage, let me point to her role in enabling my alcoholic father. Without her buying his beer, feeding, and tending to him, he would never have been able to drink as long as he did. She was the classic enabler. This was always so strange to me because my dad was phenomenally abusive to her.  Verbally abusive. He was a rageaholic, and I have a mountain of memories of him screaming at her, belittling her. “Beeve (a version of her name Bev), you are an idiot, I can’t believe it, don’t you do anything right. Get me my shoes. No, those shoes, can’t you do anything right….” My older brother (another 5-hankie story for another day) and I spent summers and holidays with our dad and stepmom. I remember Dad getting ready for work and screaming at her every single morning. Of course, it woke me up and I hid under the blankets in bed, terrified. He called her several times a day, every day, and screamed some more. When he returned home, he quickly delved into drinking and more verbal abuse. 

I always wondered, why would she put up with that? Why would she let it continue until the day he died, long after he was physically dependent on her for everything? He was sick for decades and could not have fended for himself and certainly could never leave her. After his stroke about 12 years ago, she was complaining to me on the phone (possibly our last phone conversation) about Dad’s behavior. I told her to tell him to “F— Off”. “You don’t understand,” she said. “It is more complicated than that.” More accurately, it was like living with a mass of 100 beehives filled with angry bees ready to sting all at once. That is what I grew up in, at least during holidays and summer vacations. Not that the other alcoholic home was any better. 

It is hard not to feel sorry for Bev. She was the classic abused woman who stayed in a volatile situation because it is what she needed. Sad. But that is only the tip of the iceberg. She coped with life by inventing imaginary friends, even as an adult. When I was growing up (and probably until she died), she had an imaginary turtle friend. It would “talk” through her. All the time. Every day, she had conversations with the turtle and it talked to her. She made us talk to her imaginary turtle as if it were real. It talked in a baby voice and, when Dad was drunk (all the time), only the turtle talked to him. Towards the end of my dad’s life, Bev would serve him his meals in bed, placing a wadded up napkin on her head to simulate an old-fashioned waitress’ cap. She would tie on an old apron and dance/shuffle into his room carrying his meal tray while singing in the turtle voice. On and on. She collected turtles and had maybe 1000s. To this day I cringe when I see a turtle nick-nack at a yard sale or even a nature show about saving the turtles. My damaged inner child always screams, “Let the fucking turtles die!” Sigh. I have endless turtle stories, but you get the idea. 

There is more. When my stepmom was not talking in the turtle voice she was just talking. Talking, talking, talking, talking. She never stopped. She had to be the center of attention at all times.  No one in the room could get in a word. If you said something, she used the comment to turn the conversation back to herself. And, she told the same stories over and over and over. She tried to drag you into an old argument she had with someone 50 years earlier. “What do you think, Jane. Don’t you agree? Wasn’t I right?” And in the middle of all this constant yammering, my dad would be raging at her, “Beeve, shut up.”

And what was I doing when all the rage flew from my drunken Dad and Bev walked around the house talking in her turtle voice or otherwise yakking nonstop? I knew things were bad. But, Dad had custody holidays and all summer. When we were too young to fly by ourselves ( 7 or 8 ish), my dad would fly from NYC and pick us up right at school. He would take us directly to the airport and we would be forced to fly to that cauldron of dysfunction all summer or over Christmas. I had to cope somehow.  I learned early on to disengage, even dissociate to a certain degree. It was like I was sitting on a branch looking down on the situation, wide-eyed and silent like an owl. Huh, what? I was never sure what was safe to say or do so I mostly froze. My brother, who was so desperate for affection (we did not get any mothering in the other household either), bonded with her. He humored all of her craziness as long as he got admiration and love in return. It was like the TV show Survivor. You had to form alliances to survive, and their alliance (I learned in therapy) involved marginalizing and belittling me. Because I never emotionally joined the tribe, they scapegoated me. They also showed amazing contempt and jealousy if my dad paid attention to me. Eventually, my brother went to live with them, cementing his place as king of Dysfunction Island and cloning himself in my dad’s image. He was/is just as sick as my dad. Sociopath? He certainly has shown the signs throughout his life. How could he not be? He never really had a chance to be anything else. 

After I grew up, I had an on-again, off-again relationship with all of them. I was quite capable of telling them to “Fuck Off!” when being around them was more hurtful than helpful. The relationship permanently went off after my dad died in 2009 and the Alliance managed to divert a good part of my inheritance to their own ends. Therapy around that time helped me to accept the full extent of the family madness and mental abuse and my brother’s physical abuse. I was happy to cut ties and begin healing. The impact of that household on my inner well-being was significant, much more than I realized when I was younger. So many of my mistakes in life and my relationship issues stem from my childhood trauma. Even now, it wells up and threatens to overwhelm me sometimes, and I worry that it gets worse as I age.  Last fall I had a tangle with my Adult Children of Alcoholics stuff, which I wrote about. Last night, I felt immense fear, pain, and nausea when my brother’s name popped up in my messenger app. He told me of Bev’s passing and wanted my address so he could send me information about my inheritance, rather, what might be left after his mismanagement. He started right off playing games. “What is your address,” he asked. “What do you want,” I responded. “To send you something.” “What?” “A letter.” “Why.” “Bev passed.”  Games games games. 

Of the four parents-who-never-parented, only my stepdad remains, but I have the least amount of anguish around him, another alcoholic who managed to just stay absent from my life. That, of course, caused some harm but nothing like mom’s emotional distance, the imaginary turtle, or my dad’s rage. As they die off, old stuff returns but, on some level, their passing means it is really over. They can do no more harm, except to the extent that the madness lives on in their offspring. 

Bye Mom, Dad, and Bev. You can no longer hurt me except in my memories, and those are fading fast. I will find peace and at least some sense of wholeness in spite of you all.