Read Online My Son Marshall, My Son Eminem by Annette Witheridge, Debbie Nelson - Free Book Online
Authors: Annette Witheridge, Debbie Nelson
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court prosecutors refused to take any action against my attackers. My sister claimed I’d invited them all over for a barbecue, then I’d suddenly lunged at them with a big grilling fork. They had apparently fought me off.
Since childhood, I’d been accused of all sorts of things by Mom. On an earlier occasion she took off her earrings, rolled up her sleeves, and went for me. “You’re not too old for me to beat your ass,” she snarled—all because I was standing up for my brother Todd.
Marshall and I had stopped by one evening after my beauty school. My mom, stepdad, and siblings were eating supper, and Marshall, too young to understand, jumped up to the table. Mom immediately got up, saying that it figured I’d stop by while they were eating. Todd had offered his sandwich to Marshall, but Mom yelled at him not to—so Todd headed up to his room, swiftly followed by my stepdad, who demanded he come back down. I ran over to the stairs and told him not to dare touch Todd—but by this time he was trying to pull my brother down the stairs.
People who know my family are amazed at the way I turned out. By rights I should have been an alcoholic sitting on a barstool with my kids running wild outside on the streets. Instead, I fought to be the complete opposite of that.
The last person I wanted to be like was my mom. The mother in a family is supposed to be the rock—mine was more like a piece of gravel. I don’t hate my mother because I believe it is a sin to hate. Despite everything, I still love her. But back then whatever I did was never good enough for her. I called her merely my birth mother because that was the only bit of mothering I recall she ever did for me.
When I was growing up, Mom twice attempted suicide in front of me by swallowing handfuls of pills. Once, when I went to visit her in the hospital after yet another failed overdose, she punched me on the nose. There was no reason for all the craziness. But Mom thrived on it.
Music was my escape. And then, to make up for Mom, I gave Marshall too much love.
In the summer of 1985 I discovered I was pregnant. No one was more surprised than I was. A few years earlier I’d suffered an ectopic pregnancy—the baby had started to develop outside the womb in my left fallopian tube, which I then lost. The doctor warned me it was highly unlikely I’d ever conceive again. Now I was expecting—and ecstatic. Unfortunately, Fred and Marshall didn’t share my excitement.
Marshall was twelve and still crazy about all things prehistoric. When I asked him if he preferred a little brother or a little sister he joked, “Why can’t we have a baby dinosaur?”
Fred’s reaction was even stranger. He was almost forty, he loved kids, Marshall called him Dad, and this was going to be his first natural child. I was two months pregnant when his mother phoned to say she needed him back in Michigan because she was having eye surgery.
I asked Fred not to leave. But he packed his bags regardless.
“If you walk out the door, that’s it. Don’t come back,” I said.
But he just smiled sweetly, kissed me on the head, and promised to return.
Weeks went by and he didn’t come back. I phoned Samra’s Meat Market—his dad was always so lovely. He promised he’d get Fred to call. Then his mother would snatch up the phone and order me to stop calling. I heard through the grapevine that Fred was having an affair with a young girl called Tina. I phoned and phoned, but he would not return my calls. I was a total wreck. I couldn’t believe he had left me after almost seven years together.
I was selling Avon cosmetics door to door but, as my pregnancy progressed, it became harder to walk up and down the hills around Saint Joseph. I was high-risk and was not allowed to do any lifting or many household chores. I hired a friend of Theresa’s family to do the chores in exchange for room and board. It worked out well for a time, as I could not have afforded to pay for help.
Aside
Since childhood, I’d been accused of all sorts of things by Mom. On an earlier occasion she took off her earrings, rolled up her sleeves, and went for me. “You’re not too old for me to beat your ass,” she snarled—all because I was standing up for my brother Todd.
Marshall and I had stopped by one evening after my beauty school. My mom, stepdad, and siblings were eating supper, and Marshall, too young to understand, jumped up to the table. Mom immediately got up, saying that it figured I’d stop by while they were eating. Todd had offered his sandwich to Marshall, but Mom yelled at him not to—so Todd headed up to his room, swiftly followed by my stepdad, who demanded he come back down. I ran over to the stairs and told him not to dare touch Todd—but by this time he was trying to pull my brother down the stairs.
People who know my family are amazed at the way I turned out. By rights I should have been an alcoholic sitting on a barstool with my kids running wild outside on the streets. Instead, I fought to be the complete opposite of that.
The last person I wanted to be like was my mom. The mother in a family is supposed to be the rock—mine was more like a piece of gravel. I don’t hate my mother because I believe it is a sin to hate. Despite everything, I still love her. But back then whatever I did was never good enough for her. I called her merely my birth mother because that was the only bit of mothering I recall she ever did for me.
When I was growing up, Mom twice attempted suicide in front of me by swallowing handfuls of pills. Once, when I went to visit her in the hospital after yet another failed overdose, she punched me on the nose. There was no reason for all the craziness. But Mom thrived on it.
Music was my escape. And then, to make up for Mom, I gave Marshall too much love.
In the summer of 1985 I discovered I was pregnant. No one was more surprised than I was. A few years earlier I’d suffered an ectopic pregnancy—the baby had started to develop outside the womb in my left fallopian tube, which I then lost. The doctor warned me it was highly unlikely I’d ever conceive again. Now I was expecting—and ecstatic. Unfortunately, Fred and Marshall didn’t share my excitement.
Marshall was twelve and still crazy about all things prehistoric. When I asked him if he preferred a little brother or a little sister he joked, “Why can’t we have a baby dinosaur?”
Fred’s reaction was even stranger. He was almost forty, he loved kids, Marshall called him Dad, and this was going to be his first natural child. I was two months pregnant when his mother phoned to say she needed him back in Michigan because she was having eye surgery.
I asked Fred not to leave. But he packed his bags regardless.
“If you walk out the door, that’s it. Don’t come back,” I said.
But he just smiled sweetly, kissed me on the head, and promised to return.
Weeks went by and he didn’t come back. I phoned Samra’s Meat Market—his dad was always so lovely. He promised he’d get Fred to call. Then his mother would snatch up the phone and order me to stop calling. I heard through the grapevine that Fred was having an affair with a young girl called Tina. I phoned and phoned, but he would not return my calls. I was a total wreck. I couldn’t believe he had left me after almost seven years together.
I was selling Avon cosmetics door to door but, as my pregnancy progressed, it became harder to walk up and down the hills around Saint Joseph. I was high-risk and was not allowed to do any lifting or many household chores. I hired a friend of Theresa’s family to do the chores in exchange for room and board. It worked out well for a time, as I could not have afforded to pay for help.
Aside
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