Adara Bernstein

 
  City of Birth:
New York City
 
 

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It Has Been A Rough Year

I am adding this additional chapter to my introduction, because after I initially wrote the introduction, it was very difficult to come back to it and try to make sense of all that I have experienced through the various stages of my life and the trials that I have endured or overcome.  I wish ...


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The Birth of Charles Leonard Wiggins

The story has already been written for awhile on my blog "From the heart of Praise, Prayer and Perseverance. 0; Here is a link to that posting, Below are the pictures of the blessed event.   http://fromthehea rt-dotwigg.blogsp ot.com/2008/03/an other-2-prayer-re quest-answered.ht ml


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Adara's Story > Chapters > My Entire Life

"Storytelling, Mothers and Life" 

 

Date Range: 08/01/2008 To 08/01/2008   Comments: 3   Views: 10,722
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I am often asked what do I do? As if I sit at home all day drinking grape sodapop and eating gummy bears. I do do that, but only because I have children. I have the best job in the world. I am a SAHM - Stay At Home Mom. I often compare myself to my own mother, who was also a SAHM, although not by choice.

 

My mother - to begin to describe her essence into mere words already puts the writer at a disadvantage. Where I am grey, my mother was sunshine yellow. Where I am fearful, my mother was bold. Where I am shy, my mother was outspoken. Where I am cautious, she was reckless, even fearless. Growing up in our household was always an adventure.

 

I am the polar opposite of my mother. I feel often as though the universe took the worst (as defined by society) traits of my mother and my father, threw them into a test tube, added some unknown ingredients just for a fun experiment and poof, out I came.

 

I live through two things, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. My husband accepts me for who I am and our home life is terrific. I live for my children, and for my writing.

 

My writing is where my demons, my angels, my hopes sit alongside my fears. It’s where I can be anything I want to be. I can explore all the aspects of myself that I don’t always know how to share with any other living being, explore them without hurting anyone, and then put them back on a shelf with none being the wiser.

 

My mother was probably borderline manic. She died when I was 17 in a car accident. She had taken off to go to Las Vegas with a couple of friends, leaving my father and me alone to fend for ourselves while she went off on another adventure. Don’t get me wrong, she always invited us along but that wasn’t practical. She’d laugh her whimsical laugh with the pity in her eyes blazing. I would look up from my book and wonder at this dazzling creature before me. She’d look at me as though I was not HER child.

 

My father was quiet, but morose. How those two ever found their way into each other’s arms I have no idea. I suppose they loved each other in their own way but I never understood it, and I vowed that MY relationship was not going to be like that, and I that I would never be a mother like her - not that there was a snowball’s chance in h*** that it would be.

 

Mother would be high as a kite one day, and somber the next day - sometimes multiple times in the same day. If anyone were to shatter her dreams, burst her bubble, pop her balloon, as she’d say in disgust, she would deflate, almost literally. She’s shrink back into herself and suddenly the world became a dark place, a scary place, a fearful and frightening place.

 

I gave up on her when I turned into a teenager. She didn’t understand my pain and I certainly didn’t understand hers. I couldn’t understand the incessant need for drama and wanted someone to be my mother, not my friend. She wanted someone to go on wild adventures with her.

 

Often I wonder if my father ever had her checked out, but back then there was so much stigma placed on mental illness, and the places so horrible, I doubt he did. He never wanted to hurt her and only wanted to please her, although nothing he ever did was good enough.

 

I write because I have a NEED to write. To spill these words on paper. My favorite writing is taking a kaleidoscope vision of someone’s life and putting a direction to it, forming a story. Sometimes the stories take a while to percolate. Other times talking to someone I can visualize their story almost immediately. I agree with the premise “people are fascinating.”

 

This gives me a chance to slip inside someone else’s skin for a while. I check them out, dig into their lives a little bit, review their “best foot forward.” The stories make me laugh, they make me cry, but whatever they do - they make me do SOMETHING. And that’s a powerful thing inside each of us.

 

 

 



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Member Since
May 2009
Klarity Belle said:
posted on Jun 25, 2009
You write beautifully Adara

It is wonderful that you have created in your life now what you did not have growing up; that you value all the wonderful gifts your mother couldn't see before her because of her illness. It never ceases to amaze me how we can learn how to be good parents from having being parented poorly.  I guess we learn first hand what not to do!


Member Since
Feb 2009
MaryHelen Cuellar said:
posted on Jun 30, 2009
Adara

I loved "dazzling creature" as I have known people like that; larger than life, but that have it hard in life and make it even harder on those around them.  "And she would look at me as though I was not HER child," I have a feeling that was extremely painful and satisfying at the same time for you.  Most of the time, we who are in pain become creative in our outlets.  Your gift obviously is writing and motherhood.


Member Since
Aug 2008
Adara Bernstein said:
posted on Jul 06, 2009
Interesting

I never thought about it that way, Klarity & MaryHelen. I never thought she was sick, although it's so obvious today. And I never thought there was any satisfaction in her looking at me like that but you're probably right. In some ways I felt superior to her and her "whims" but most of all I really just wanted her to love me, which I am sure she did in her own way but not really the way a child needs to be loved.