Confessions of a dead beat mother

I lay in the bed thinking, reflecting back on my life and the millions of choices that I made. I consider what topic I will tackle and a resounding voice of confession comes over me. I'm surprised that my spirit wants to travel this terrain, the unspoken territory of my negligent parenting because I don't want to be judged but the truth is, I judge myself far harsher than anyone else ever could or will. I live with this angst of shame, it's dull pain from years of trying to put stuff out of my mind and I can't help but want to release the whole assorted tail of being a dead beat mother.
I've lived the bulk of my life in my head and with little regard to other people unless they were in my world on a continuous basis. This is why when people remember me and I don't remember them, it's because they weren't a steady presence in my life and oft times I feel bad that I don't recall who they are. It's that look of surprise shock, embarrassment coupled with anger that's get me every time, I want to make them feel better but it's hard for me to figure out how to make that happen once, the shrowd of disappointment covers their face. But in living in my head, I had no real outward needs form the world, I engage interactions as they developed and slid to the sidelines when things disipated. And I never had an inclining toward having children. I thought at one point that I would never have children, never felt confident in my ability to parent and I just didn't have that inner desire for children. What I did have inside of me was a desire to connect intimately with another human being, to be touched, to be listened to, to be loved, to be connected on a profound physical level. I wasn't sure what that would look like per say because my world was crowded with women who raised children alone or with women who got out of abusive relationships alive or women who hung onto men who were emotionally unavailable but physically present. None of these options seemed attractive to my young mind but I determined early on that I would have to settle for one of these options. Yet I had this feeling that perhaps I would get lucky and experience the type of love I'd seen on television or in a really good romantic movie, the kinds of movies that always make me cry at the end and I wonder if I am crying in honor of the cinematic vision of love or if I'm crying tears of defeat, knowing good and well, I'll never have that in this life.
The long and short of my adolescent love was that of a teacher, Mrs. Evans, she was gorgeous, smelled like a floral arrangement, gentle with her hands that provided daily hugs and a voice gentle as a breeze. I wouldn't discover the unnaturalness of loving a woman until I was in fourth grade and at girl scouts. That's when a friend fell in love with me, she educated me about the preverseness of girl on girl love. She tortured herself although I never understood why and she pushed through her inner voice to provoke a physical relationship with me. I wasn't really all that excited about what we did, it felt more obligatory and I surrendered because she touched me gently, she listened to me, she was consistent and she protected me. Looking back I can see how she honored something in me, in a way that I hadn't experienced from another human being. But as fate would have it, I would move away from that neighborhood and I would never see her again but I think of her often.
The move brought about lots of change and a new love interest. I feel in deep love (which was only deep like) with my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Monash. He had a flair that excited me, he had a pep in his step while teaching and he treated me as if I was just as important as everyone else in the classroom. He pushed me to be better, he made me feel special and the expressiveness fo his manhood presented to me first hand something different. For the first time I felt as if I was in the company of a man who was open to life, open to engaging people with a genuine desire to connect beyond the superficial, he was a man who patted my back (not in a sexual way), a man who spoke of having feelings and a man who was in tune to what was unique in every child. Why I remember this I'll never know btu there were some days when he had razor stuble, he would run it and I could the faint sound of facial hair springing back from the motion of his hands. I liked the way he walked, proud like, erect with a slight attitude and energize. I appreciated his man voice, lowered to express disappointment in such a way that I did not feel degraded but inspired to do better. And nothing brought me more joy that to be a leader in his class, to garner extra attention and to be in the category of higher expectation, this catapulted my self esteem and I grew to know myself in ways I never thought possible. I think back on the way I affectionately thought of Mr. Monash but it wasn't sexual it was purely adoration because I really didn't know too much or at least I had no first hand knowledge about girl-boy intimacy, I only had my girl on girl intimate experience.
To be continued
I am perfect and I am whole and I am complete. I LOVE ME!