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The oversharing apple doesn’t fall far from the over sharing tree: Unpacking Teddie Part 3

What I unpack here is the story that was told to me by my mother, as well as my own point of view from my experience with her. I continue to do this in order to understand my mom and myself and to potentially find healing within the telling. I do this without judgement or shame.

Shortly after moving to Portland, Teddie met who was to become her first husband at a party. It wasn’t long before they were engaged and then married, she was 19. My mom told me that she was hoping that her dad would rescue her again when he came to Portland to attend the wedding but instead of urging her to come home with him, he said “Make it work” before walking her down the aisle.


As I recall this story it shows me another pattern that my mom repeated over and over again throughout her life. She was always a victim looking to be rescued, not realizing that truly the only one that could save her was herself.

Not too long into the marriage Teddie became pregnant.

My mom told me when I was fairly young that I was an accident and that she “forgot” to take her birth control pills (or something along those lines, alcohol and fun was definitely a part of the equation.)


Nine months and 15 hours later, Teddie gave birth to a strapping 7 pound 15 oz baby girl and future professional Air Guitarist that she had no idea what to do with. This baby cried all of the time and Teddie became more and more depressed, she got very thin and her husband made her see a psychiatrist. This was when Teddie decided that she needed to end their marriage and so by little Picante’s first birthday they were divorced after 3 years total.


At this point I became self aware and can contribute to the story from my own actual experience. Therefore I am going to change the tense as it feels like the right time to do so.


My first memory was climbing out of my crib and looking for my mom. I was an anxious child, always worried about where my mom was and if she was okay. This was not unreasonable that I felt this way. I would learn when I was a bit older that my mom succumbed to abuses by a couple of men on separate occasions while I was in my room sleeping. The way she told me these stories I just assumed that was what dating was like in the 70’s, rape was almost inevitable and men were not to be trusted by me, though my mom had no such meter. This fact would be substantiated when she met and married her second husband a month after meeting him at a party...


I feel the need to insert a joke for levity at this moment as is my coping mechanism if you didn’t know that by now:


Parties, the Tinder of the 1970’s.


Before my mom met the biggest mistake in her life AKA “Husband #2”, her and I lived in an apartment by ourselves and she had a job. I wonder if her choosing to marry a man who she didn’t know, wasn’t part self sabotage as well as a shabby way to be “rescued”.


At the time of their meeting my mom had a stalker, we would sit in front of the door, my mom holding me in her lap as she dialed the operator and requested to be transferred to the police as we both watched the knob move slowly back and forth and could see the shadow of the intruder through the frosted glass beside the door. I think the easy choice in her mind was to marry this man that she had just met, someone who would protect and take care of her... This would unfortunately not be the case, though she would wait 18 years to end this marriage.

To be continued.


Until next time ❤️













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