The Descent II

Life on the farm didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.

With my stepfather out of the picture, whatever tension had existed between my mother and me shifted completely. If I hadn’t been the focus of it before, I was now. We had this small hobby farm, and I did everything. From morning until night I worked. Mowing an acre on an old riding mower, hauling and burning branches, leaves, debris, whatever needed to be done. I learned how to use a rototiller and planted the garden while being eaten alive by ticks and mosquitoes. I did all the laundry, all the dishes, all the cleaning. It never stopped.

And no matter how much I did, it wasn’t enough.

One day she looked at me and said, “For some reason, I always knew you wouldn’t amount to much.”

That landed.

By then I didn’t argue with things like that. It just confirmed what I already suspected. My life hadn’t worked. Not in any direction. It didn’t feel like a series of bad breaks anymore, it felt like a pattern I couldn’t get out of. Other people seemed to move through life with some kind of direction, even when things went wrong. I couldn’t find that anywhere in my own experience. It was like I was present for it, but not part of it.

The only place that didn’t follow that pattern was with my children.

With them, something held. I didn’t question it. I didn’t second guess it. I didn’t measure or compare or try to get it right. I just loved them. Completely. Taking care of them gave me something solid to stand on in the middle of everything else that felt unstable. Outside of that, my life was just one state after another that I didn’t choose and couldn’t seem to change.

I even tried shearing sheep once. Four of them. My mother had found some guy who also didn’t know what he was doing, but he had sheep, so that was apparently enough. I didn’t know him at all. He was nice enough, but neither of us had any business trying to do what we were about to do.

Those animals were huge. You don’t just walk up to a sheep and start shearing it. You have to chase it, corner it, grab it, and somehow force it onto its back just to keep it still. And even then it’s a fight. One person holds while the other tries to shear, and the whole time the thing is kicking, resisting, and shitting on you. It’s chaotic and physical and exhausting, and if you don’t know what you’re doing, it shows immediately.

What we ended up with was ridiculous. Uneven patches, missed sections, wool everywhere. After hours of trying, we gave up completely spent.

My mother had been inside the whole time.

When I walked in, she told me to make dinner.

That was the arrangement. She paid for everything, so I worked. That was the deal. And even then, it wasn’t good enough. Nothing ever was.

If it hadn’t been for my children, I don’t think I would have made it through that time.

They were the only place where something in me didn’t collapse.

And still, something didn’t quite add up.