My mom's birthday is coming up, and because I want to discuss which one it is, I'll go ahead and make this post so as not to reveal the actual day.

She's turning 50 this month. (She and I both have "landmark" birthdays - at least as I see it - this year.) For some reason, though I'm not usually one to put a lot of thought or stock in any given number/age, this birthday of hers is making me reflect on our relationship over the past twenty-some years, and what my anger cost us both.

I'm very proud of her, as I've mentioned before, for having battled mental illness for so many years and finally appearing to have gained the upper hand. She's on fewer meds now than at any time I can remember in the past, and while some people might consider her struggle to be "dirty laundry," I think her potential triumph is worth a mention. I'm not ashamed of her or of what she's gone through, just as I wouldn't be ashamed of my grandmother's battle with cancer.

That said, we haven't always gotten along. In fact, there was an ugly time when I was very close to hating her. We hurt each other like nobody should over the course of a couple of years, and I went first. I offer this as proof positive that I'm not as gentle or as good as I may seem.

She's the one who actually got the divorce process rolling for my parents, you see, and I hated everything about that miserable summer. I was thirteen; my brother was ten. I'm sure there were plenty of reasons for it, but as kids, all we saw was the splitting part. I don't think it could've come at a worse time for me. I've only been close to that angry one other time, I think, and it was ugly.

The divorce was fairly straightforward, as far as I'm aware at any rate, but the custody battle was anything but simple. My dad - maybe both of them, I'm not sure - had requested that my brother and I not be present at court during any of it, but unfortunately, that didn't end up happening.

I remember getting dressed, stupidly and fumbling, in a Sunday dress (I couldn't get one of the silver buttons quite right - isn't it odd what details we recall?) and helping my brother with his outfit when Grandma (who was keeping us while my grandfather was at court with my mom - who had removed us and most of our stuff from our house and taken us to our grandparents, over much screaming and physical blocking by me) got the call saying our presence was required. Grandma kept saying, "I hate this for you, I hate it" on the drive over there, which didn't take nearly as long as I wanted it to.

Long story short, the judge took each of us (my brother and me) into his chamber privately and asked us to choose between our parents.  That should be a capital offense. Nobody should ever be faced with a choice like that.

My brother, being young, gave a child's answer. He wanted his mother. He believed anything she ever told him and could not even begin to fathom what was happening to his world.

I'd told myself I wouldn't choose. It wasn't a fair question. But my dad's haunted face kept flashing through my mind, and I was angry, so very angry with it all. With her.

What I said - and I said it well and vehemently - played a large part in the custody decision.

I'll never forget my mother's face as she and my grandfather arrived back at my grandparents' house (Grandma took us home right after we were questioned, so we got there long before anyone else was done at the courthouse). They were both weeping, and my grandfather was holding her up instead of the other way around. I've only seen him cry openly like that one other time - the summer he lost both of his remaining brothers and his best friend within a month of each other - and his grief was almost enough to kill me on the spot. I wished I could die. My heart wrenched, and the full impact of what I'd done out of anger began to dawn on me.

The repercussions of what I did are still with all of us, and always will be. Yes, I - rightfully - blame myself for every hard time my brother experienced over the next four years, since I'd put us in that miserable situation in the first place. I blame myself for the dark spiral my mom experienced over the next several years. Those are burdens I deserve and bear, and most of the time I can still stand fairly straight. I know they've forgiven me, and I've come as close to self-forgiveness as I'll ever get, I think. And the lesson I learned about the power of words - and the danger of speaking/acting in anger - has been a major tool in forming who I am today. I am careful with my words and very wary of anger itself, because I've seen the potential damage firsthand.

She got me back good, by the way. I don't know who told her what the judge swore was private, but she knows what I said that day.

A few years later, I was at a summer program for a couple hundred kids statewide, and she called me to let me know that she had again asked my dad if he'd consider turning my brother over to her - not both of us, just him. He's the one she always wanted (and now that I know she knows what I did, I can't really blame her).

She really didn't have to tell me the rest of the conversation though - I know it to be true, and it still stings. My dad offered me in place of my brother, and my mom refused, asking again for him. Same offer - "You can have her, but not him" - and same refusal - "I don't want her" was actually the way she put it. Imagine how that came across to me. Was I really so utterly unwanted, worth so little to both of them? It's a good thing I was already pretty tough. ;-)

Anyway, adulthood and time have mended - as well as can be - the rift there. I can't hold a grudge to save my life, and apparently neither can my mom. Phew.

I've really enjoyed the past several years, getting to know her all over again and keeping her involved in my life. I think grandkids are doing even more for her than I could as far as bringing her back toward level ground. She's a very kind person, open-hearted, loves lighthouses (that's how I know so much about the ones around here ;-)) and the color green, and I believe she has always done the best she could for us. I love her fiercely and would gladly point her out in a crowd - "That's my mom!" :) I hope she knows that. I think I might remind her.

Happy early birthday, Mom.