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My first full memory of my mother and father is a scary one. It was late at night, and I was 3 at the oldest. My parents were separated, but had come to meet at a stable about a horse. We stayed late into the evening, having dinner with some friends. I played with the other little kids my age and fell asleep before it was time to go home.

The next thing I remember is waking up while being carried to the truck. My mom was in the driver’s seat, my dad the passenger’s and I was in the middle, between the stick shift. We were driving down a gravel road, and my parents began to argue violently, although I have no recollection as to what about. After several minutes of screaming at each other, my dad threatened to jump out of the truck, and my mother said go ahead. So he did. I began to cry, and my mom stopped the truck. She instructed me to stay inside the cab, and she would go find my dad. I sat and listened to the AM country music station for what felt like an eternity, whimpering and wondering what was going on. Finally, my parents friends arrived, and together they all hoisted my dad into the back of the truck. He had hit the ground and rolled down the into a ditch. I thought I heard him speaking, so I was relieved that my daddy was ok. I was told that my daddy wasn’t speaking, and he needed a doctor. I began to cry. The rest is all a blur. I have no other memories of that night and what happened.

I’ve asked my parents, who have been divorced 26 years what really happened, and I get two different versions of the story. My mother claims my dad was drunk, and wanted to rekindle, if you will, a little romance. She maintains she was taking him home. My dad says my mom was drunk, and they were fighting over who should be driving. He says that she was the one who instigated it. For the two years they were married, my parents had a volatile, violent relationship. They tell the story of their marriage very differently, and growing up it caused a lot of problems for me. Not knowing that the truth always lies somewhere in the middle, I would go back and forth between them trading stories, trying to find out what their marriage was really like. Now that I can look back, I can see why things went so sour. My mother has serious anger problems, and is really hard to live with. My dad used to have one hell of a temper. He’s mellowed out now, and she’s still the same.

Just as an example; the first people to call us on our anniversary were my dad and step mother. My gran sent a letter and a card, and everyone here has been so generous. My mom didn’t even call me. This is the same woman who felt slighted because SHE didn’t walk me down the isle. Um, excuse me? I have a step dad and a biological father who I both love, and it’s TRADTION to have your father give you away. My mother’s reasoning? She gave me more financially growing up, and she should have stood alongside me and my stepfather. (Actually, they’ve been split for like, 6 years but he was awesome to me growing up) She didn’t pay for my wedding- it was me and my husband’s family who paid for it. And I didn’t say a word; why would I? But she first had my little sister ask me that question before the wedding- and I knew where it came from. I tried to answer her as best I could, as tactfully as possible, but my sister was very upset. After the wedding, she and I got in a fight because she felt I was taking sides in a dispute that was none of my fucking business in the first place. She asked me to talk to Tay, my sister about a battle between mom and my stepfather, and got mad when I told Tay that it’s hard being a child of divorced parents because the truth is usually somewhere in the middle, and you don’t know who to believe. My mom hit the roof, and a nasty email fight went on for 2 months. We speak now, but walk on egg shells. The last time we talked she made it a point to tell me how drugged up I sounded. I was insulted, to say the least. She caught me waking up from a nap and not very talkative. That was the last time we spoke.

I wish I didn’t let my mother get to me the way she does. We’ve addressed that in therapy, and it’s not something with an easy solution. I hate when I catch myself doing something she would do, I want to be nothing like her. And I feel guilty for not looking at her as my role model, though I really don't need to. It's a battle I fight every day. Old habits die hard, I guess.