Memoir: In Where I Talk About Child Abuse, Depression, and Recovery
Part One: In which we learn about my parents and other relevant stuff.
My parents met some time in the 1980s when mullets were cool and break-dancing was the thing. When exactly they met, I don't really know, nor did I ever really care enough to find out. My mom, at that time, was a divorced mother of two. What i was told was that she had left her previous husband, the father of my sister, Solymar, and my brother, Nestor, because he had become abusive and was having an affair. I haven't done any actual fact-checking on this, so you don't have to take my word for it. My father was also divorced and a father to my brother, David. He had been a friend of my siblings' father and had met my mother through that relationship. Now, in her marriage, my mother had conceived another child. Unfortunately, she miscarried and was unable to carry a pregnancy to term. The doctors had told her that, no matter how hard she tried, she would not be able to have any more children. She was a bit disappointed at first, but accepted her fate. She was happy with the two children she already had and, after her divorce, wasn't really planning on having any more. So when my parents were well into their relationship and I showed up, it was a bit more than just a surprise.
I was born on June 2, 1986 in Caguas, Puerto Rico, two and a half months before my actual due date. Even though I had broken my mother's water with my foot and had to be delivered by emergency c-section, I was healthy. Tiny, but healthy. To be honest, I probably would have been tiny regardless. Currently at 5 feet tall, I'm no Amazon in any way. Solymar was ecstatic to have a new baby sister, my brothers, not so much. Nestor had really wanted a baby brother and had asked my mother if she could exchange me for one at the hospital. david was only three at the time and had more toddler-important things he cared more about. Regardless of how anyone in the family felt, everyone called me a miracle baby. Aunts and uncles debated with my mother on what she should name me. They had wanted Milagro, my mother's middle name, which means "miracle" in Spanish. In the wnd, my mother named me Yvonne Marie, after herself (Ivonne) and her mother (Maria.)
My parents never married, and I'm glad they never did. Not long after my birth, my mother realized that she and my father were incompatible. Though he had asked for her hand in marriage, she had refused. My dad was, is, very mellow. He's the lenient, laid-back type who likes to have fun. My mom, on the other hand, was, is, very rule-oriented, meticulous, stubborn. She had a household to run and she liked it done a certain way. She was tired of being taken advantage of, and though I'm sure my father never really felt he did, my mother had felt she had. It wasn't that they didn't care about each other, it was just that they kept butting heads so much. She didn't see my father as a responsible adult (my father later admitted that she was right.) Enough was enough. By the time I was about a year old, my mother kicked my father out.He came home one day to find all of his things out on the sidewalk.