The Number Seven

Go-Go Mom liked to remind me that I was the seventh child of the seventh child. She would have a few beers and start talking, “you know, Diane, you’re the seventh child of the seventh child.” I knew things were important to her if she talked about them when she was drinking. Like her dead brother Bobby whom I rarely heard about unless she'd had a few drinks.

My mom's middle name is her mother's first name and my middle name is my mother's first name. This bit of name sharing was woven into her fascination with the seventh child of the seventh child story. If she had been consciously trying to form my young mind, she might have told me "you are powerful, you can do anything at all, seven is a magical number." Instead she showed me that lying, drinking, drugging, cheating, neglecting your responsibilities (i.e. your children), were acceptable rules for life.

I'm pretty sure this was an absurdly unsafe environment to grow up in, but it does make for good stories. Now that my mother is dead, I am feeling surprisingly motivated, and liberated, to tell some of those stories.

Since her death, I have been flooded with horrendous memories of growing up with her. I tried to get a therapist who accepts my health insurance but haven't been able to find someone qualified. I did see a nice older lady who when I tried to explain I had three parents, she said "what, that is so confusing, what?" I also saw a man who complained about the economy and how poorly his practice was doing and could I pay him more than my allotted co-payment?

Rather than continue down the therapy path I've decided to work out my grief by telling stories. Stay tuned and as my pal Judy says, for one whole year I'm not responsible for my behavior, because after all, my mom just died.