On a cold night in December, 1970, a barely 18-year-old girl was dropped off at an unwed mother’s clinic just over the state line from where she lived. Her father watched her get out of the car and then drove away.
She was in labor, and nobody other than her parents knew it. Nobody – even the baby’s father – so much as knew she was pregnant. She had hidden her pregnancy from even her parents for as long as possible, afraid her Baptist Deacon father would force her to have an abortion.
She had a baby girl that night, all alone, surrounded by strangers. She was allowed to hold the baby for about an hour before surrendering her to Social Services to be placed for adoption. She later said it was like giving away a piece of her heart, and she just knew the baby would grow up to hate her. But as an unwed, high school dropout in a tiny town in North Carolina… well how could she possibly raise a child?
Surely Social Services would find her daughter a better home than she could provide.
I tracked her down and spoke to her to get the above story when I was in my 20’s. At first, she said she wanted to meet me but that she had to keep it a secret from her husband. She’d never told him. We agreed that she’d call me when he left for an upcoming hunting trip.
And I never heard from her again.
For the first time, I felt rejected by her. Abandoned. Unwanted. One thing my adoptive parents had handled well was being open about my adoption. The framed it as the ultimate act of love by a mother who knew she couldn’t take care of her baby. So I’d always believed if I tracked her down as an adult, I’d get to have a relationship with her.
Wrong. Mother #1 out.
The People Who “Chose” Me
At seven weeks old, I was placed into the hands of my new adoptive parents. Yes, the ones You’ll read about so much on this blog. Were they better than an 18 year old high school dropout with no opportunities? We’ll never know.
What we do know is that they were hoping a baby would fix their marriage. But you can’t fix codependence between an alcoholic narcissist and his enabler. No matter how cute of a baby you are. And every baby’s cuteness wears off eventually.
If you’re new here, the nutshell version is that after a lifetime of verbal abuse, they finally went too far just about this time last year. I cut them out of my life.
That’s Mother #2, out of my life for good.
Morrigan as Mother
So how does the Morrigan fit into all of this? She’s not exactly known for being maternal – at least not in the hugs-and tickles, milk-and-cookies comfort way.
She’s more of a throw you into the pool on the deep end to teach you how to swim kind of maternal. But what you may not realize as you’re thrashing around, trying not to drown, is that She’s there with you, just out of sight. She knew you could handle this or She wouldn’t have tossed you in… but She’s there, just in case.
And let me tell ya… woe betide anyone who tries to harm one of Her children. Not only are most of the things she puts you through meant to make you pretty damn invincible – I’ve grown backbone in places I didn’t know it could grow over the last few years – but She has a way of making people regret fucking with you. Which is pretty darn awesome to observe.
So… while you may read a lot about how “The Morrigan is not a Mother Goddess” – and that is absolutely true – She’s the best Mother I’ve ever had.
Hail to the Great Queen!