Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

My voicemail can handle about three messages before it is full. I am frequently being told “Your inbox is full” or “Delete some messages” or some such advice. I try hard to stay on top of the three spam messages that inevitably fill those slots, but I’m only human.

The rest of the voicemail slots? Those are calls from my mum. She called me on my birthday and Christmas and other random times.

“Hello Susan, it’s Mum. I miss you. I’m checking on you. I want to wish you a happy birthday. Call me when you can. I love you. Okay, bye-bye. Mum.”

If I listen to all of the messages, I can her her voice weakening, her thoughts scattering mid-call, and even the voice of the staff member who was helping her make the call.

Her voice sounds much more like the voice of her mother. My grandmother fueled her raspy voice with booze and cigarettes for God knows how long. My mother did neither. She just aged.

The thing is that I didn’t call her back. I should feel shame and guilt for that, but I just feel sad. Sad for both of us. The pain of our shared trauma was not surmountable in this lifetime. That’s not either of our fault. When she died at age 79, I felt many things but the strongest emotion was relief that she was finally free of her tormentors and freed of responsibility for my recovery. My primary goal was to make sure she was not buried in the same cemetery as her abuser, my grandmonster and her father-in-law. Once that was settled, I went to a dark place.

I certainly want to preserve those messages, but I also like having them close to me via my proximity to my phone. The phone is a tangible representation that I did have a mother, that we did have good experiences, and that the noticeable softening of my voice is probably hereditary.

Sometimes when my adult friends talk about their healthy, close relationships to their parents – well, I get angry and resentful. Why them and not me? I don’t feel comfortable with those folx. Of course I am glad they had the privilege of good parents. But just as they cannot begin to imagine the dark and twisty traumas of my family connections, I cannot understand theirs.

I stop trying. Most of the time, I don’t believe them.

I don’t want to forget the sound of her voice, but I also don’t want to lose my physical connection to her voice and what see said.

I’d rather pretend to be ditsy and forgetful about my voicemail when confronted by some well-meaning neb nose who can’t possibly conceive that I might intentionally allow my voice mail to remain full.

I am 54 years old and will never hear my parents voices again. My brother only communicates with me via text. I don’t talk with most of my family and the few conversations are also via text or Direct Message. That’s a price I pay for my own recovery. Silence.

My mother called me Susan most of the time. My father called me Susie, my childhood nickname. Very few people use either one – only with my permission and consent or I will rip your tongue out – only my wife once in awhile.

So this is only Sue’s voicemail now. Leave a message if you can. Or reach out to me a million other ways. I’m in the book.

Susan and Susie can no longer be reached at this number.