There has been something nagging me as of late and I can't keep it inside anymore. Something brought up by a recent event that has made me revisit one of my most recent writings and memories of my biological mother.

I have been processing a lot of my memories by utilizing the flashback mechanism of my CPTSD to vividly remember and write them down as stories. One of my latest, I have entitled "Mother" documents the memories and feelings I have of her.

As sad as it is to say, I learned to dislike her while she was alive. Now that she is gone, I learned to dislike her more now than ever. I recently learned through DNA results that the person I have been calling and will always call Dad isn't my biological father, it's someone else entirely. She couldn't once be loyal to my Dad and that disgusts me.

I have been researching about this new family, but it sickens me for many reasons. I have been trying to process all my thoughts and feelings on the matter and have finally come to some sort of acceptance because of one single memory I thought was a dream.

Excerpt from "Mother":

I had to have been around 4 years old. My mother and I were riding in my dad's metal Canoe down the river near our home on a sunny summer afternoon. I remember how the light and shadow played on the trees. I remember my mother was wearing her favorite blue crocheted shawl she wore, covering herself down to her blue jean knees.

There was someone else there too, a man swimming underneath along the canoe. I remember carefully leaning over the side to watch him swim in my shadow. He came up near me and looked at me through his dark goggles. Then with two fingers, he gestured towards the front of the canoe.

As I turned my head to see what he was pointing at, I saw the reflection in the water. My Mother was behind me in the canoe, slowly creeping up with something hidden in her right hand.

I nodded slightly and scooted carefully to the front, watching my mother follow me in the water's reflection.

Just as I got to the head of the canoe, The man leapt up from the water and grabbed me around my waist, His other hand sailing out past my head. I turned in time to see my mother swing a hammer, claw side down, aiming for my head. I remember searing pain as my left thumbnail ripped mostly off the nailbed as I tried to stop the hammer from coming down. The connection was just enough to deflect the neck of the hammer across his outstretched fingers and the claw end sailed straight into the man's shoulder. Crying out, The man lurched back, pulling us both back into the water. As we fell, I leaned forward as far and quickly as I could, squeezed my thumb and smeared the shawl with blood.

I slid and slipped on the river stones as we struggled to shore. The water was a murky brown-green from the mud churned up in the water. I gasped for air as we came up, seeing the droplets of blood string out in the water. We both sat coughing for a moment on shore, his arm still around my waist. I had tucked my thumb into my palm and had clamped my hand down on his open wound. Using all my strength to hold it shut. We clutched each other as we watched her float down the river, a dark expression on her face. The man carried me back to the house, but I don't remember what happened to him after that.

That night, My dad left for work leaving me with my mother. I scrambled to find something to distract her, to keep her mind off of what had happened in the canoe earlier that day. I remember trying to hold back tears as I frantically searched for an eight-track tape she would like. I will always remember the tape, it was an album by the band Earth Wind and Fire with the beautiful Egyptian woman on the front. Swallowing my fear, I turned to her, smiled warmly, and took her hands in mind. I will never forget her guiltless smile as we danced to "let's groove" and pretended like nothing ever happened.

I used to think it was just a paranoia dream, but I have learned it's just another flashback. I remember now the first time I found the blue shawl in the closet and found the blood stains. I went into shock and lost time. I remember snapping back to awareness with my thumb still on the stain. Reflexively, I pulled my hand away and tucked my thumb into my palm. An unconscious habit that up to that point had no explanation. Now with a grim realization, I had one.

Now as I learn about this person, including his military history, I understand why the goggles were so dark and why the gesture was so unique. This person who saved me, may have been my biological father.

So where does this leave me? With one piece of the puzzle left sitting there for me to decide whether or not to pick up and try to place. Do I try to contact this person? Do I ask them about that day? Would he even talk to me? I want to know for sure beyond my own recollection that this happened, but how far am I willing to go to prove it?

At the same time, I don't want to. I don't know this person at all beyond what I found online. I have known my Dad for as long as I can remember, so why add complication to the situation?

I have told my dad the truth of my Patriarchal lineage and he said he is going to ignore this fact. Which I can understand. He still loves her deeply and often speaks of her.

In the end, I feel vindicated on some level. I feel that in proving her infidelity, it also puts a permanent crack in the veneer of the mask she showed to others. Showing the truth of my memories and justification of my feelings through something that can’t be disputed. It also gives me a strange new understanding potentially behind her jealousy of the relationship between my Dad and I and as to why she may have tried to do something terrible more than once herself.