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What I Remember
Topic Started: Sep 11 2016, 02:21 AM (155 Views)
SaviourSelf
Seasoned Professional
Mother,

It's 6 days until I make the walk again, 3 days after another birthday you've forgotten, and the anniversary of the death of the Brother-In-Law you and your sister have tried to erase from your memory these past 15 years at the expense of Elizabeth and the rest of the people who loved and tried to honor John the most.

I read your letter. I read your letter and I didn't weep. I didn't sob and I didn't break down in one of your aforementioned "moments of weakness". Instead, I shook my head because I was instantly reminded of why we don't talk and why our relationship is strained, and why the word "mother" to me is hollow and void of any significance.

You spoke of shortcomings, of fatal flaws and of inabilities gained throughout the course of my life, but many, if not all of those inabilities can be traced to you. It becomes difficult to relate to people when your earliest memories of your mother are of a lighter, a spoon and a cellophane baggie. It becomes difficult to relate to people when you become a connoisseur of makeup and concealer at a young age, a necessary evil to conceal bruises and beatings, but a target for hormonal teenagers at hockey camps and practices who label you a homosexual when it smudges on a t-shirt or a jersey.

It becomes difficult to have any semblance of personal relationships with members of the opposite sex when the person who is supposed to foster that is often gone til the wee hours of the net, painting Montreal red as her two sons are in a home, latch-key children if there ever were any.

I look at your letter and I laugh. I laugh because in your vitriol and your takedown of me, the story is one-sided, as it usually is with you. The self-victimization of an abuser, the manipulation and the selective memory should be your trademark, but I remember things differently.

I remember my lip quivering and the tears when you would leave to turn your tricks in good Ole Montreal, trying to score rent money or the next take so you could score more blow or booze. I remember being left for days at a time, left alone without food or water or money.

But you know what else I remember?

Surviving.

I remember scrapping and clawing, hustling and busting my ass to survive. Ultimately, I pulled myself from the hell you bestowed on me, and ultimately you loathe me for it because I didn't become another statistic like you did. You resent me because I didn't become like you. You call me "Hollywood" because I didn't wilt under your poisonous bullshit.

You call me "Allycakes" derogatorily as a way to call me soft, but your poison, your abuse and your lack of nurture battle-hardened me to the point where anything life throws at me, be it a divorce or some damn near 7 foot tall giant with a mean streak; neither one is going to break me or destroy me.

So thank you.

Thank you because years of your abuse, your hateful rhetoric, your demeaning nature and your abhorrent way of being prepared me for anything that could be tossed my way. Thank you, because after dealing with you for 31 years, nothing anybody can do to me, including Alexander Owens, is going to be nearly as bad as they try to give lip service to.

Your lack of maternal instinct made me a survivor and for damn near a decade within this profession, and 3 decades outside of it, I've survived every blow, every hardship and every difficulty.

I keep moving, I keep marching and I keep defeating all the obstacles launched in my path.

I'm the lone clipper out to sea in the middle of a storm, battling the waves and lurching over the top of them, bow breaking the waves as the hull of the ship continues to get pounded, resilient and resistant to the oncoming tide.

You won't break me and if you can't? Alexander Owens sure fuck won't.

He had his chance and failed. You had 30 fucking years and I'm still fucking beating you at your game.

So, in response to your comment about the Old Man? He told me something days before he died. He was weak then, maybe you would have called him "Robbycakes" as is your custom, but in his weakness, frail and knowing he was dying he said:

"Your mother is the best and worst thing that will ever happen to you. She'll forge you in the flames of hell that she brings when she walks into a room, but she'll try to destroy anything you build up for yourself because she's a miserable bitch. You'll come out of it stronger, but she'll try to fucking ruin you in the process. And eventually? She'll die and you'll still be here, better for it, stronger for it, and greater than the sum of your parts."

And you know what?

He was right.

Turns out a "Dead Man" tells no lies...

Take care of yourself, Marie & don't ever sign my grandfather's last name before yours again. You lost that right. You don't deserve the honor or the privilege.


- Alex Noiseux

- 4x PRW Undisputed Champion
- 2x World Tag Team Champion
- 8x Cyanide Champion
- PRW Intercontinental Champion
- PRW Triple Crown Champion
- PRW Grand Slam Champion
- PRW Hall of Famer
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