I had "the talk" with my daughter yesterday. She's eight and has been asking a ton of questions over the past few months and I had a lot of catching up to do.
I have very much fallen down on the job... I have never called body parts anything. At all. I've never talked about normal functions of our bodies; especially what happens as we grow up.
I'm very uncomfortable with all of it. However, it wasn't the discomfort that I dreaded the most. I was so afraid that I would bring it up and it would reveal that something had happened to her. That was my worst fear.
If someone had sat me down at eight, I probably could have told them more than they knew as an adult. It would have been very clear that things were happening to me. Not surprising though, nothing was ever explained to me. It was demonstrated instead.
So when we started talking I was so relieved to hear that she knew virtually nothing other than a few details that she has picked up on from other kids and TV. I used a book to explain everything; books are my cure-all for anything I don't know how to do. Most of this topic, terms, body parts, etc are upsetting and can flood me with bad memories. Thankfully the book kept me on track.
Everything was fine until she started asking me how old I was when I found out about all of this. I didn't know how to answer her. It had been such good conversations until then and I didn't want to taint her own memory with my garbage bags. The best answer I knew to give was that I didn't remember. We finished the conversation and went about our day.
I put on a smile for everyone but on the inside there was a deep and burning grief in the pit of my stomach that has yet to leave. In trying to do the right things as a parent I often get blindsided by the very simple, very wrong actions of my parents. And it hurts.
I would be lying if I said that I don't get jealous of my daughter at times. I know that's a terrible thing to think let alone say but it makes me wonder what was so bad about me. I want to do the best that I can by her yet my parents couldn't muster much more than not killing me.
It's an intolerable contrast that I can't seem to wrap my mind around.
My daughter is a good kid with a kind heart. She can also be very challenging. But even at her worst I can't imagine doing what they did. And that makes me wonder just how horrible I must have been.
My parents were bad people and I loved them. I still do. So how can my daughter be such a good person coming from such a bad person for a mother?
Another intolerable contrast except this one is one that I can't wrap my heart around.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Monday, January 30, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Family
After Christmas we went to visit family. My fathers two sisters and their families.
I agonized over going or not going. I've lost so much of my family so I get a little weird about what I have left. As the time got closer I really began to worry. I didn't make the final decision until the morning we were due to leave.
I didn't spend a lot of time with them growing up. The majority of holidays were spent with my mothers family. I have fond memories of his sister just a few years younger than him. She married a very nice man and they had two daughters. I always watched in amazement at how they were with their dad. They weren't scared of him and he was nice, but not too nice, to them. And then their mom; she hugged them, spoke kindly to them, and it was obvious that she loved them. I remember secretly wishing that they could be my parents.
His youngest sister; not so many good memories. She, my father and I all look alike. I have always despised looking like him and I'm pretty sure she hates it too. She has always been a little on the crazy side. But I also know and understand what is wrong with her.
him.
We stayed with the oldest sister and stayed up late talking each night. A lot of the conversations were nice but there were others that left me with the wind knocked out of me. Her husband went to high school with my father and said that he was the meanest person he has ever known. Because of that, combined with my mother, he didn't think I had a chance in hell to turn out even halfway OK. Given that, they weren't surprised about my sister.
My aunt began the first night with an apology because they knew that things were going on but didn't say much or do anything about it.
I told her that it was fine. It's really not but what good does it do to cause her more distress over something that cannot be changed?
My uncle talked about walking in on my father with me. He wasn't sure exactly what he saw but my father quickly told him that he was putting me to bed. My uncle wondered how that was since I had been put to bed three hours before. He never said anything.
My aunt told us about one conversation with my father. She was concerned with how rough he was with my sister and me. She made the observation that it looked like he was trying to raise little soldiers. Robots would have been more accurate. He got mad and they didn't see us again for three or four years.
There were other things too... my bruises, scars, behavior, strange fears, and just odd behavior in general. I was not a typical kid.
I was also told how my father was sent to live with their grandparents because he kept hurting his sisters and their family pets. He was sick from very early on.
I had little interaction with his other sister and that is probably best. She's nice enough but she is also drunk most of the time and hasn't been the best of mothers to her own children. She is on her third marriage after marrying two abusive creeps.
On one of the nights, her daughter approached me because she needed to ask some questions. She told me some horrible things that her mother said to her about not wanting her when she was pregnant. It all sounded very familiar but all I could tell her was that I was very sorry.
Then she asked about her biological father. She wanted to know if I remembered him messing with me or my sister. The short answer was yes. The longer answer was that my father found out and almost killed him. And not for the right reasons either. We didn't see them for awhile and I never saw that uncle again. He eventually terminated his rights to my cousin and her older brother.
She told me that her biological father abused her and that she was in counseling. She said that she was making progress but she needed to hear it from someone else that he really was a monster. Her mother has never been supportive of her and always dismissed it as she was imagining things, making things up, or just crazy. That also sounded very familiar.
I also understood her need to hear the confirmation from something other than her own memory. I have always held on to that tiny bit of denial that I was just crazy or imagined it happening. I received that same confirmation on this trip.
Does it make me feel better?
Not really.
I've lost the security I had in my tiny piece of denial. In the past when I have really felt bad, I would make myself feel better by using that denial. Now I don't have that safety net and that is frightening. I am also forced to accept what happened and who they really were.
And then there is the obvious reason that none of this made me feel better.
If they knew that things were going on.
Witnessed things with their own eyes and ears.
Knew what he was capable of.
Knew that my mother was crazy too.
Why the fuck didn't they do anything?!?
I get that they were scared and maybe even intimidated but shit, they have two daughters of their own. Wouldn't they want someone to speak up if something had been happening to their girls??
It's always nice to reconnect with family over the holidays. Especially the part when they tell you they knew that their brother, your father, was fucking you all along.
Fuck them.
I agonized over going or not going. I've lost so much of my family so I get a little weird about what I have left. As the time got closer I really began to worry. I didn't make the final decision until the morning we were due to leave.
I didn't spend a lot of time with them growing up. The majority of holidays were spent with my mothers family. I have fond memories of his sister just a few years younger than him. She married a very nice man and they had two daughters. I always watched in amazement at how they were with their dad. They weren't scared of him and he was nice, but not too nice, to them. And then their mom; she hugged them, spoke kindly to them, and it was obvious that she loved them. I remember secretly wishing that they could be my parents.
His youngest sister; not so many good memories. She, my father and I all look alike. I have always despised looking like him and I'm pretty sure she hates it too. She has always been a little on the crazy side. But I also know and understand what is wrong with her.
him.
We stayed with the oldest sister and stayed up late talking each night. A lot of the conversations were nice but there were others that left me with the wind knocked out of me. Her husband went to high school with my father and said that he was the meanest person he has ever known. Because of that, combined with my mother, he didn't think I had a chance in hell to turn out even halfway OK. Given that, they weren't surprised about my sister.
My aunt began the first night with an apology because they knew that things were going on but didn't say much or do anything about it.
I told her that it was fine. It's really not but what good does it do to cause her more distress over something that cannot be changed?
My uncle talked about walking in on my father with me. He wasn't sure exactly what he saw but my father quickly told him that he was putting me to bed. My uncle wondered how that was since I had been put to bed three hours before. He never said anything.
My aunt told us about one conversation with my father. She was concerned with how rough he was with my sister and me. She made the observation that it looked like he was trying to raise little soldiers. Robots would have been more accurate. He got mad and they didn't see us again for three or four years.
There were other things too... my bruises, scars, behavior, strange fears, and just odd behavior in general. I was not a typical kid.
I was also told how my father was sent to live with their grandparents because he kept hurting his sisters and their family pets. He was sick from very early on.
I had little interaction with his other sister and that is probably best. She's nice enough but she is also drunk most of the time and hasn't been the best of mothers to her own children. She is on her third marriage after marrying two abusive creeps.
On one of the nights, her daughter approached me because she needed to ask some questions. She told me some horrible things that her mother said to her about not wanting her when she was pregnant. It all sounded very familiar but all I could tell her was that I was very sorry.
Then she asked about her biological father. She wanted to know if I remembered him messing with me or my sister. The short answer was yes. The longer answer was that my father found out and almost killed him. And not for the right reasons either. We didn't see them for awhile and I never saw that uncle again. He eventually terminated his rights to my cousin and her older brother.
She told me that her biological father abused her and that she was in counseling. She said that she was making progress but she needed to hear it from someone else that he really was a monster. Her mother has never been supportive of her and always dismissed it as she was imagining things, making things up, or just crazy. That also sounded very familiar.
I also understood her need to hear the confirmation from something other than her own memory. I have always held on to that tiny bit of denial that I was just crazy or imagined it happening. I received that same confirmation on this trip.
Does it make me feel better?
Not really.
I've lost the security I had in my tiny piece of denial. In the past when I have really felt bad, I would make myself feel better by using that denial. Now I don't have that safety net and that is frightening. I am also forced to accept what happened and who they really were.
And then there is the obvious reason that none of this made me feel better.
If they knew that things were going on.
Witnessed things with their own eyes and ears.
Knew what he was capable of.
Knew that my mother was crazy too.
Why the fuck didn't they do anything?!?
I get that they were scared and maybe even intimidated but shit, they have two daughters of their own. Wouldn't they want someone to speak up if something had been happening to their girls??
It's always nice to reconnect with family over the holidays. Especially the part when they tell you they knew that their brother, your father, was fucking you all along.
Fuck them.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Surprise
Sitting on a small couch last night, I felt as if I was sitting on the corner of some cosmic world. Alone. Completely alone. And this particular world was not round; rather it was square. Square because there is no circular justice. Not unless you count being tortured and murdered as some sort of redemptive revenge.
And then I felt injustice pressing squarely behind my tired eyes. What has happened is not just. Nor is it fair because they have made their exits and I have survived.
Everyone is dead... that keeps ringing in my head. I know that is not the precise case but in my own twisted world, everyone is, in fact, dead.
So now I sit week after week, even moment after moment, left to deal with their abuse, their hatred, their woundings, and their deaths. Then there are my scars, my memories, my terrors, and all the collateral damage that comes with being a member of this disappearing family. Theirs and Mine: two separate and fancy walk-in closets full of skeletons and ghosts tucked away in every nook and custom built drawer specifically designed for keeping the best and most wrenching secrets. What an inheritance.
All this while their ashes stir peacefully in the smallest pockets of square cosmic spaces.
Death let them off the hook. And now I feel that I am on the hook for the lion's share of the damage. This hurts deeply; deeper than I ever imagined. This surprises me. I knew and yes, I fantasized, that this day would come. And here it is and I writhe alone.
But with this pain I have also discovered a considerable peace. I can sleep. Really sleep. I have never slept well, even as a married adult sleeping in a safe environment. From the day he fled I held my breath dreading his return. Checking on my daughter five times a night was nothing strange. I had to know that he was not in her room. And with that knowledge I stole another hour of sleep. So now I sleep surprised, soundly and deeply.
While I always knew this day would arrive, I never believed it would. We are no longer looking over our collective shoulder.
And that freedom is a complete, yet lost, surprise.
And then I felt injustice pressing squarely behind my tired eyes. What has happened is not just. Nor is it fair because they have made their exits and I have survived.
Everyone is dead... that keeps ringing in my head. I know that is not the precise case but in my own twisted world, everyone is, in fact, dead.
So now I sit week after week, even moment after moment, left to deal with their abuse, their hatred, their woundings, and their deaths. Then there are my scars, my memories, my terrors, and all the collateral damage that comes with being a member of this disappearing family. Theirs and Mine: two separate and fancy walk-in closets full of skeletons and ghosts tucked away in every nook and custom built drawer specifically designed for keeping the best and most wrenching secrets. What an inheritance.
All this while their ashes stir peacefully in the smallest pockets of square cosmic spaces.
Death let them off the hook. And now I feel that I am on the hook for the lion's share of the damage. This hurts deeply; deeper than I ever imagined. This surprises me. I knew and yes, I fantasized, that this day would come. And here it is and I writhe alone.
But with this pain I have also discovered a considerable peace. I can sleep. Really sleep. I have never slept well, even as a married adult sleeping in a safe environment. From the day he fled I held my breath dreading his return. Checking on my daughter five times a night was nothing strange. I had to know that he was not in her room. And with that knowledge I stole another hour of sleep. So now I sleep surprised, soundly and deeply.
While I always knew this day would arrive, I never believed it would. We are no longer looking over our collective shoulder.
And that freedom is a complete, yet lost, surprise.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Enmeshed
en·mesh (n-msh) also im·mesh (m-)
tr.v. en·meshed also in·meshed, en·mesh·ing also in·mesh·ing, en·mesh·es also in·mesh·es
To entangle, involve, or catch in or as if in a mesh.
Used in a sentence: Shattered is enmeshed in a complex web of lust, love, and abuse.
Dear Ruth commented on how deeply embedded my parents are in every aspect of my being. And possibly more so than the typical adult child. This thought caught me falling off balance it wasn't until I fell to the ground that I took a hard look at the truth of this idea.
And she was right.
My sense of normal has always been skewed. Well meaning people always insist to me that there is no "normal" and I have always smiled and accepted their offering of kindness.
However, I'm finally going to have to flatly refuse that well meant advice because what sense of normal I have always had is certainly no where close to the typical yet non-existent normal. Ruth brought this thought to the surface when I had to look at the possibility that in many ways, I was more connected to my parents than the typical adult. Just like I used to think that everyone heard voices in their heads; I also thought that this enmeshment was normal.
But it is not. Not even close.
I lived and died by my parents hands. I starved and was fed at their discretion. I was his companion and her demise. I was his lover and her deepest competition.
And all these roles were diametrically opposed to the single role that should have existed. Parent and child.
It is creepy, weird, dirty, strange and wrong but my father was my first lover. And I use the word lover very loosely but to a daughter starving and begging for affection, that is exactly what he was. A sexual bond existed between us that served him well to emit his constant control. For many who read here, one can probably equate this bond to your first love; they are someone you have moved on from but you never quite forget.
My problem is that I never really moved on from him. He was unforgettable. He cast his net wide and though I struggled I never was quite free. I was trapped in his warped lust because I carried a bond of both a child to a parent but also a bond that intimate partners share. But now he has moved on from me. And I would be lying if I said that I didn't feel a deep twinge of impure loss.
No wonder I am so very fucked up and confused. Every single day has been a struggle lately. My only solace is that this is finally over and with each step I take I am walking out on this distorted love.
I hope.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Smile
My chest is pounding quick and frantic lumps. I hear the feet crush the padding of the carpet. It is only a whisper but I feel those steps ring inside my ears. I bury further under my thin and naked sheet in hopes that I will turn invisible before the feet reach my room.
I squish my eyes until I see colors blur behind my eyelids. I love this trick because it makes the darkness not so scary. My door opens and then shuts and a shadowed figure moves towards my too small bed. If my bed was bigger I think I could get away.
A cold and metal finger presses against my tiny, trembling lips. This finger has a jagged edge and as it presses further I feel a pop from my lip and a taste of metallic blood. Shhhhh... is what this finger says without a sound or word. I simply know.
My only screams tonight will echo inside the halls of my head. Echoing because no one hears them. My screams bounce and rattle around, desperate and lonely.
His other hand roams around and past my naked sheet. There is nothing to hide behind. Up one leg and rubbing down the other he moves deliberately and with purpose. His breathing is quick and matches my own fearful panting. With one knee he pins one small leg. And with the other he has now widened my fearful body into a grown-up X.
One sweaty hand. One jagged, steely cold finger.
Don't move an muscle... don't you make a sound... you are too small... going to make you bigger, little girl.
The sharp and jagged finger is cold against my anxious skin. Skin is popping. Widening pain. And my terror is stretched further than ever before. Jasmin slips in front and I fade into James' hurting arms. He is heavy upon me and he smiles a strange and upside down smile.
I will never forget that hateful smile. And I will never see him again. He is dead.
For sure.
I squish my eyes until I see colors blur behind my eyelids. I love this trick because it makes the darkness not so scary. My door opens and then shuts and a shadowed figure moves towards my too small bed. If my bed was bigger I think I could get away.
A cold and metal finger presses against my tiny, trembling lips. This finger has a jagged edge and as it presses further I feel a pop from my lip and a taste of metallic blood. Shhhhh... is what this finger says without a sound or word. I simply know.
My only screams tonight will echo inside the halls of my head. Echoing because no one hears them. My screams bounce and rattle around, desperate and lonely.
His other hand roams around and past my naked sheet. There is nothing to hide behind. Up one leg and rubbing down the other he moves deliberately and with purpose. His breathing is quick and matches my own fearful panting. With one knee he pins one small leg. And with the other he has now widened my fearful body into a grown-up X.
One sweaty hand. One jagged, steely cold finger.
Don't move an muscle... don't you make a sound... you are too small... going to make you bigger, little girl.
The sharp and jagged finger is cold against my anxious skin. Skin is popping. Widening pain. And my terror is stretched further than ever before. Jasmin slips in front and I fade into James' hurting arms. He is heavy upon me and he smiles a strange and upside down smile.
I will never forget that hateful smile. And I will never see him again. He is dead.
For sure.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Conflicted
Life seems to be measured best in approximates currently. I have a difficult time explaining that I am fine, sad, good, grieving, angry, or relieved. Approximate values, however, can be assigned to the various feelings.
Approximating allows me to change. To fluctuate. To estimate something that may change at a later time. This works because I am nearly every conflicting feeling all rolled into one. Conflicted is perhaps the only feeling that is consistent. Conflicted is my stalwart feeling. My rock. It is always there. No matter what.
I love him. I hate him.
I need him. I do not want him.
I trust him. He hurts me.
conflict. Conflict. CONFLICT.
No matter how you shape it, spell it, or write it; it is there.
Chances are, it is him. In my gut I feel it. And from that feeling I know that death is the worst feeling a stomach can own. With each moment of decay, that rotting feeling in my own body grows. His decay is my decay. I cannot eat, drink, or sleep. I am terrified that in my sleep I will not wake up and in that time we will meet.
More alive than ever before; he is in my nightmares. His rotting flesh makes my own creep with fear. His missing fingers I have found. They are in my sleep and reaching towards me.
Once awake I am sad. And I am guilty. I survived and I fear I did not do enough to save him. I did not make him a better father. A better husband. Nor a better human. That one more chance I withheld. Buried beneath my fears, his chance died an unnatural death.
Could I have done something more?
Loved him better?
Loved him differently?
Hated him completely?
My head and my heart are conflicted. And my memories are conflicted too.
I remember the man who bought me a treasured doll. I remember the man who brought me ice cream home from the store. I remember a man that patted me on the head. I remember the man who gave me my love of reading. I remember the man who gave me my first dog.
And then...
I remember that same man who destroyed my favorite doll. Who starved me for doing wrong. Who brutally raped me. Who tore up my favorite books. Who killed my beloved dog.
And then I am conflicted. And I hurt.
Approximating allows me to change. To fluctuate. To estimate something that may change at a later time. This works because I am nearly every conflicting feeling all rolled into one. Conflicted is perhaps the only feeling that is consistent. Conflicted is my stalwart feeling. My rock. It is always there. No matter what.
I love him. I hate him.
I need him. I do not want him.
I trust him. He hurts me.
conflict. Conflict. CONFLICT.
No matter how you shape it, spell it, or write it; it is there.
Chances are, it is him. In my gut I feel it. And from that feeling I know that death is the worst feeling a stomach can own. With each moment of decay, that rotting feeling in my own body grows. His decay is my decay. I cannot eat, drink, or sleep. I am terrified that in my sleep I will not wake up and in that time we will meet.
More alive than ever before; he is in my nightmares. His rotting flesh makes my own creep with fear. His missing fingers I have found. They are in my sleep and reaching towards me.
Once awake I am sad. And I am guilty. I survived and I fear I did not do enough to save him. I did not make him a better father. A better husband. Nor a better human. That one more chance I withheld. Buried beneath my fears, his chance died an unnatural death.
Could I have done something more?
Loved him better?
Loved him differently?
Hated him completely?
My head and my heart are conflicted. And my memories are conflicted too.
I remember the man who bought me a treasured doll. I remember the man who brought me ice cream home from the store. I remember a man that patted me on the head. I remember the man who gave me my love of reading. I remember the man who gave me my first dog.
And then...
I remember that same man who destroyed my favorite doll. Who starved me for doing wrong. Who brutally raped me. Who tore up my favorite books. Who killed my beloved dog.
And then I am conflicted. And I hurt.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Orphan
It is funny how I just wrote about perfection and then I turn around and I'm getting smacked in the face with the unexpected, the uncontrollable, and a definite lack of perfection in my life. And this is the shit I couldn't control even if I wanted to.
I am back on the mental roller coaster of sorts; blindfolded and going backwards while refusing to throw my hands in the air because this is just not fun at all. I cannot write in great details right now but I will say that it appears that something has happened to my father. So sans the details, which are gory, I can write about how I feel.
I would be lying if I said that I wasn't unsettled. I am. In a big way. My head is full of screaming chatter and not one bit of that chatter agrees with the next refrain of chatter. I have always been conflicted over him and this is no different. There are those who love him and proclaim his innocence. There are those who hate him and wish this to be true. And there are plenty more who are just terrified about the situation all together.
As for me, I want it to be true. I want to be free of him and never have his thoughts cross my mind again. When I think, I feel very little. A lump of shame I suppose, because this is my father and I should not wish these things on anyone. And then a single frame of my own torture is smashed into the back of my eyes and I feel an overwhelming helplessness and pain. It appears that he finally got a taste of what he inflicted for so many years and I am at an emotional loss.
If this is true then I am an orphan. In legal terms I would be the sole survivor.
Survivor.
In the singular.
Game over.
I have watched my family fight its demons to the collective death.
I am the last one standing.
Did I win?
I am back on the mental roller coaster of sorts; blindfolded and going backwards while refusing to throw my hands in the air because this is just not fun at all. I cannot write in great details right now but I will say that it appears that something has happened to my father. So sans the details, which are gory, I can write about how I feel.
I would be lying if I said that I wasn't unsettled. I am. In a big way. My head is full of screaming chatter and not one bit of that chatter agrees with the next refrain of chatter. I have always been conflicted over him and this is no different. There are those who love him and proclaim his innocence. There are those who hate him and wish this to be true. And there are plenty more who are just terrified about the situation all together.
As for me, I want it to be true. I want to be free of him and never have his thoughts cross my mind again. When I think, I feel very little. A lump of shame I suppose, because this is my father and I should not wish these things on anyone. And then a single frame of my own torture is smashed into the back of my eyes and I feel an overwhelming helplessness and pain. It appears that he finally got a taste of what he inflicted for so many years and I am at an emotional loss.
If this is true then I am an orphan. In legal terms I would be the sole survivor.
Survivor.
In the singular.
Game over.
I have watched my family fight its demons to the collective death.
I am the last one standing.
Did I win?
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tears
Dear Tears,
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Your friend,
Shattered
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Your friend,
Shattered
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Angels
*I wrote this along with Nobody. We share this experience, with her carrying the bulk of the hurt, so it's only right to let her write and share her part as well*
Dead angels.
I have heard that screamed every day and night for years.
There are three of them. Three dead angels. I was bad; a whore to be exact. Tiny orange pills were to keep me safe. Green ones gave my body a break. I did not take the pills like I should have. They made me sick.
After one dead angel I was supervised. I became the master of the hidden pill. A bitter taste swelling under my tongue was worth the deception of a calm stomach. I didn't really understand the mechanics of the orange and green. Had I known, perhaps the nausea would have made sense.
Sinner... whore... murderer... hell... bloody images...
Their words, their signs, their chants, their pictures; they seared my young heart. Perched on a metal chair, next to my angry mother, I really had no idea what to expect. The room was filled with other anxious women, a few boyfriends, out of date magazines, and somehow all eyes followed a crooked path to me. I did not belong. I was just a kid with a really big secret.
It was my turn as I blindly followed a nurse behind a swinging door. With a hushed and hateful whisper my mother sent me off alone.
You disgust me... I know. Me too.
In another metal chair I said that I understood what had happened and what was going to happen. My mother's hurried signature allowed them to take care of my problem. No one seemed to care how old I was and no one ever wondered how I got into this mess. They knew what I had known for years. I was a whore, no questions asked.
Two dead angels later, I knew what was going on. Tired of metal chairs, The Christians, flimsy gowns, and whispered assumptions, I hid this one. With no real plan I dressed a little bigger and prayed that something would save me. And save the angel.
His wandering eyes and hands caught me this time. She refused to take me. She refused to be humiliated again. It was his turn.
This time it was different. He was caring and concerned. He rubbed my back and I was scared. This angel was older and this was not as easy. Pain... more bleeding... heavier sedation... stay home from school... I pretended not to hear these medical suggestions.
Quietly the room began to shift. The walls began to twist and soon I did not mind the flimsy gown, the bright lamp, or the gasping machine. I was not alone this time. He stood next to me and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and another angel died.
In the car, we did not go home. I waited in the car and he checked us into a motel. Relieved that I did not have to go back to school this time, I closed my eyes again and woke up in a musty room, naked on a tortured bed.
He was sitting next to me and as my eyes focused, I could squarely see the reason we were there. He stroked my face and placed his hand upon my cramping stomach. The warmth of his hand felt good against my pain. He pressed harder and leaned in closer. The care had left his eyes and though I searched, all I could find was lust and selfishness. I wanted to go back to school.
I closed my eyes again and wished for more sedation.
*I(Nobody) open my eyes and he is fucking me. He likes the sloppy remnants of the day. In and out until his eye squint and lurch up into his head. Bastard. He fucks us up and now this. I fucking hate him. I am Nobody and I have taken her place. Enough is enough and now he gets to deal with me.
He is finished as he withdraws and with a sneer he says that he doesn't have to worry about knocking us up. What a nice day for him. I feel like shit so I close my eyes to rest.
I awake to find his stubby hands running up and down the body. I try to ignore the pain but it is not going to go away. In he is as I wince and grit my teeth with pain. He thrusts harder and I don't know how long I am going to be able to hang on. With my hands I twist the scratchy sheets to cling to something. In a quickened moment he is out as I feel the body's insides collapse into the void he left.
In one more moment his face is buried between our legs as he forces them further apart to make more room for his bastard body. He is there, at the near-center of the pain. We aren't the filthy one; he is. I am becoming more and more upset. I don't do upset but this is just fucking awful. New secrets are being born today, those that I will have to keep for myself.
My mind drifts away as he continues his play. I don't understand the point of this or what pleasure he is getting. He is a freak and I want him to stop. And now, as if he heard my thoughts, he raises up and I am horrified at the sight of what is on his lips. I raise up on my elbows and dig my heels into the lumpy bed only to escape into the headboard. He crawls forward and leans over and towards me. He forces his face upon mine, lips to my quivering lips, and he thrusts his putrid tongue into my mouth.
I feel as though we will suffocate and I begin to hope we will. I twist my head to get away and that makes him fight even harder. After minutes of eternity, he pulls away. Hot tears are streaming down my face and I have lost my cool. I have failed her. He sits back on his heels and smiles a bloody smile. I smear my tears away as he leans in again.
As his lips near mine again, he tells me what I already know.
Taste your baby...
Fuck him.
Dead angels.
I have heard that screamed every day and night for years.
There are three of them. Three dead angels. I was bad; a whore to be exact. Tiny orange pills were to keep me safe. Green ones gave my body a break. I did not take the pills like I should have. They made me sick.
After one dead angel I was supervised. I became the master of the hidden pill. A bitter taste swelling under my tongue was worth the deception of a calm stomach. I didn't really understand the mechanics of the orange and green. Had I known, perhaps the nausea would have made sense.
Sinner... whore... murderer... hell... bloody images...
Their words, their signs, their chants, their pictures; they seared my young heart. Perched on a metal chair, next to my angry mother, I really had no idea what to expect. The room was filled with other anxious women, a few boyfriends, out of date magazines, and somehow all eyes followed a crooked path to me. I did not belong. I was just a kid with a really big secret.
It was my turn as I blindly followed a nurse behind a swinging door. With a hushed and hateful whisper my mother sent me off alone.
You disgust me... I know. Me too.
In another metal chair I said that I understood what had happened and what was going to happen. My mother's hurried signature allowed them to take care of my problem. No one seemed to care how old I was and no one ever wondered how I got into this mess. They knew what I had known for years. I was a whore, no questions asked.
Two dead angels later, I knew what was going on. Tired of metal chairs, The Christians, flimsy gowns, and whispered assumptions, I hid this one. With no real plan I dressed a little bigger and prayed that something would save me. And save the angel.
His wandering eyes and hands caught me this time. She refused to take me. She refused to be humiliated again. It was his turn.
This time it was different. He was caring and concerned. He rubbed my back and I was scared. This angel was older and this was not as easy. Pain... more bleeding... heavier sedation... stay home from school... I pretended not to hear these medical suggestions.
Quietly the room began to shift. The walls began to twist and soon I did not mind the flimsy gown, the bright lamp, or the gasping machine. I was not alone this time. He stood next to me and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and another angel died.
In the car, we did not go home. I waited in the car and he checked us into a motel. Relieved that I did not have to go back to school this time, I closed my eyes again and woke up in a musty room, naked on a tortured bed.
He was sitting next to me and as my eyes focused, I could squarely see the reason we were there. He stroked my face and placed his hand upon my cramping stomach. The warmth of his hand felt good against my pain. He pressed harder and leaned in closer. The care had left his eyes and though I searched, all I could find was lust and selfishness. I wanted to go back to school.
I closed my eyes again and wished for more sedation.
*I(Nobody) open my eyes and he is fucking me. He likes the sloppy remnants of the day. In and out until his eye squint and lurch up into his head. Bastard. He fucks us up and now this. I fucking hate him. I am Nobody and I have taken her place. Enough is enough and now he gets to deal with me.
He is finished as he withdraws and with a sneer he says that he doesn't have to worry about knocking us up. What a nice day for him. I feel like shit so I close my eyes to rest.
I awake to find his stubby hands running up and down the body. I try to ignore the pain but it is not going to go away. In he is as I wince and grit my teeth with pain. He thrusts harder and I don't know how long I am going to be able to hang on. With my hands I twist the scratchy sheets to cling to something. In a quickened moment he is out as I feel the body's insides collapse into the void he left.
In one more moment his face is buried between our legs as he forces them further apart to make more room for his bastard body. He is there, at the near-center of the pain. We aren't the filthy one; he is. I am becoming more and more upset. I don't do upset but this is just fucking awful. New secrets are being born today, those that I will have to keep for myself.
My mind drifts away as he continues his play. I don't understand the point of this or what pleasure he is getting. He is a freak and I want him to stop. And now, as if he heard my thoughts, he raises up and I am horrified at the sight of what is on his lips. I raise up on my elbows and dig my heels into the lumpy bed only to escape into the headboard. He crawls forward and leans over and towards me. He forces his face upon mine, lips to my quivering lips, and he thrusts his putrid tongue into my mouth.
I feel as though we will suffocate and I begin to hope we will. I twist my head to get away and that makes him fight even harder. After minutes of eternity, he pulls away. Hot tears are streaming down my face and I have lost my cool. I have failed her. He sits back on his heels and smiles a bloody smile. I smear my tears away as he leans in again.
As his lips near mine again, he tells me what I already know.
Taste your baby...
Fuck him.
Monday, January 4, 2010
How
As I consider the New Year, I consider the typical responses.
A fresh start... a better year... putting to bed a bad year... this year will be better.
I have never seen a new year as anything. Perhaps an excuse to get drunk and maybe not alone. That is the extent.
A fresh start is a foreign body to me. To do that would be to erase the memories, the scars, the voices in my head, the shadow people in the corners of nearly every room I enter. All are impossible. Especially when there are many, many memories below the frozen surface of my mind. Frozen in time; so cold that it hurts.
A perpetual brain freeze. I wish for just one day without this pain.
No fresh start for me. What I can do though, is obsess over the how of my life. I have pretty much given up on the why. There is just no good answer there; at least not at this point.
How doesn't have to do with other people. It has to do with me. How the fuck did I survive?
There are a lot of awful childhood verses sung; a creepy uncle, a leering step-dad, a secret priest, an angry mother, a lost and groping sibling. Each verse different yet fraught with painful similarities and fragile coping.
And then there is me. And others like myself. I am shattered and still standing yet I have no idea how I got here or how I figured out that this was a life worth surviving.
How did I not give up?
How did I put one aching foot in front of the other, day after day? Night after night?
How did I barely sit down at breakfast each morning believing that our dance in the dark was a household brand?
How did they know just how far to go? Close enough to fearful pleasure. Far enough from impersonal death.
It is a precarious how.
A fresh start... a better year... putting to bed a bad year... this year will be better.
I have never seen a new year as anything. Perhaps an excuse to get drunk and maybe not alone. That is the extent.
A fresh start is a foreign body to me. To do that would be to erase the memories, the scars, the voices in my head, the shadow people in the corners of nearly every room I enter. All are impossible. Especially when there are many, many memories below the frozen surface of my mind. Frozen in time; so cold that it hurts.
A perpetual brain freeze. I wish for just one day without this pain.
No fresh start for me. What I can do though, is obsess over the how of my life. I have pretty much given up on the why. There is just no good answer there; at least not at this point.
How doesn't have to do with other people. It has to do with me. How the fuck did I survive?
There are a lot of awful childhood verses sung; a creepy uncle, a leering step-dad, a secret priest, an angry mother, a lost and groping sibling. Each verse different yet fraught with painful similarities and fragile coping.
And then there is me. And others like myself. I am shattered and still standing yet I have no idea how I got here or how I figured out that this was a life worth surviving.
How did I not give up?
How did I put one aching foot in front of the other, day after day? Night after night?
How did I barely sit down at breakfast each morning believing that our dance in the dark was a household brand?
How did they know just how far to go? Close enough to fearful pleasure. Far enough from impersonal death.
It is a precarious how.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Stupor
Surprisingly, my parents drank a lot. Surprised?
Me neither.
Their parties were always something to behold. Free flowing liquor, wine, and none of the cheap stuff. I knew a party was upon us when the liquor store mobilized and brought their goods directly to our doorstep.
I loved the labels. The fancy colors. The carefully branded shape of each bottle. Into the corks I would dig my small fingernails. I have no recollection as to why those corks felt so fascinating.
The nights of these events were the highlights of my worn and tired years. Free to roam, just out of sight of his lustful radar, I pretended these parties were for me. A celebration of good grades, an acknowledgement of good behavior, a bash just because I was me.
So many people. Beautiful and handsome. Smiling, laughing, pouring, drinking, spilling, expounded tales, more hysterical laughter. These were the highlights. Half empty glasses cast aside to make a ring on an unsuspecting table; I would rescue such table by picking up the offending glass. My remedy: throw my head back and gulp the burning liquid. To me these glasses were half full. My eyes always sprung singular tears in response to the fire in my throat. Glass after glass; these were tears of joy.
My life grew better with each set of tears. Wobbly eyes made her look a little happier, him less intense and leering. My parents looked like the people I wanted them to be.
From a distance I could see how others saw them and it made me happy.
Ultimately, these evenings never ended well. When my tired haze could no longer hold its own I found a bed. But I wasn't the only attendee who was on the verge of bedtime. Warm from the inside out I would fall into an easy sleep. Until I found someone weighing heavily upon me. What should have been scared, instead I did not mind. It was easier. I was easier. My drunken warmth relaxed me and whomver it was slid easily inside. No mistaken tears, no overwhelming pain, no staggering fear.
Alcoholic breath breathes deeply into my being. Sloppy lips bring me out. A joyful stupor makes me fun. My smile comes easy. No faking of any sorts. I am awake and I am so alive. I dance, I flirt, I tease, one after another needs are made whole. Art and beauty are created.
I am Lively. Fun for now. A painful child deferred for later.
Me neither.
Their parties were always something to behold. Free flowing liquor, wine, and none of the cheap stuff. I knew a party was upon us when the liquor store mobilized and brought their goods directly to our doorstep.
I loved the labels. The fancy colors. The carefully branded shape of each bottle. Into the corks I would dig my small fingernails. I have no recollection as to why those corks felt so fascinating.
The nights of these events were the highlights of my worn and tired years. Free to roam, just out of sight of his lustful radar, I pretended these parties were for me. A celebration of good grades, an acknowledgement of good behavior, a bash just because I was me.
So many people. Beautiful and handsome. Smiling, laughing, pouring, drinking, spilling, expounded tales, more hysterical laughter. These were the highlights. Half empty glasses cast aside to make a ring on an unsuspecting table; I would rescue such table by picking up the offending glass. My remedy: throw my head back and gulp the burning liquid. To me these glasses were half full. My eyes always sprung singular tears in response to the fire in my throat. Glass after glass; these were tears of joy.
My life grew better with each set of tears. Wobbly eyes made her look a little happier, him less intense and leering. My parents looked like the people I wanted them to be.
From a distance I could see how others saw them and it made me happy.
Ultimately, these evenings never ended well. When my tired haze could no longer hold its own I found a bed. But I wasn't the only attendee who was on the verge of bedtime. Warm from the inside out I would fall into an easy sleep. Until I found someone weighing heavily upon me. What should have been scared, instead I did not mind. It was easier. I was easier. My drunken warmth relaxed me and whomver it was slid easily inside. No mistaken tears, no overwhelming pain, no staggering fear.
Alcoholic breath breathes deeply into my being. Sloppy lips bring me out. A joyful stupor makes me fun. My smile comes easy. No faking of any sorts. I am awake and I am so alive. I dance, I flirt, I tease, one after another needs are made whole. Art and beauty are created.
I am Lively. Fun for now. A painful child deferred for later.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Gifts
I have a secret habit. I actually have many more than just this one but I guess that is why this blog exists; to spell these quirks out in hopes that I am not as bizarre as I see myself to be.
I buy gifts for dead people. I started doing this the year my mother and sister died. First on accident; participating in the grief while still believing that they really could not be gone. Now I do it as a conscious ritual each December.
The sweater that my sister would have loved. The book that perhaps would have finally been the perfect gift for my mother. The gift card for my father to use at one of his favorite stores. These are the gifts that would have spawned "thank you"... "I love it"... "I love you". This is what I pretend in my head.
Christmas was an odd holiday in my family. More often than not, I didn't get anything. My mother would cancel my Christmas for the smallest transgression. Each time I would watch the family open their gifts and wait with anticipation for my gifts for them to be opened. These were gifts made at school. Silly, child-fashioned presents. With no present of my own to open, my waiting time was magnified.
"Well, I guess that's it" my mother would exclaim. While scooting with her foot my wrapped gift under her antique chair she would say this. Right on cue my father would begin the clean up of the paper and I would sit there dismayed as my wonky, un-wrapped gifts were whisked away as trash.
Nothing was festive. Nothing was happy. We went to my grandparents for the afternoon and evening but everything was perfect. Robotic. No kitchen disasters. No burnt food. None of the things that make each and every holiday unique. Nothing that makes a holiday memory.
I guess this is why I have no hidden memories. Instead I have a perfect sheet of white paper in my mind. Blank without a family signature.
I am a generous person but giving a planned and wrapped gift is terribly difficult for me. The unknown, the question of approval or worse, no approval, makes my stomach churn. I wait until the waning weeks to shop, too nervous to purchase even a few anxious gifts.
In those same few weeks, I make my dead purchases as well. No one knows that I do this although my husband will probably catch on in another year or so. I wrap these gifts like all the others and stash them away in a place that no one will look.
After 4 years of this madness, I have built up quite the pile of grieving gifts. Yesterday, in the Wii-filled frenzies of my daughter and husband; I slipped away. I loaded my secret habit into bags and announced that I was heading out to make returns. No one questioned me or begged to go; neither husband or child willing to brave these selfish crowds.
In my brand new car, alone, and my husband would string me up if he knew this, I headed to the poorer area of our inner city. This is an area I am familiar with and I was amazed to find even more familiar faces. I parked and grabbed my bags of gifts. I locked my car and off I went. I found a group gathered and without even trying, I easily garnered their attention.
Amidst the dirty faces, I found their eyes that told a hundred tales. I saw myself in their eyes; we share that same sad reflection of the world. I gave my hidden gifts. Gift cards, clothes, books, ornaments, all the gifts that most regard as small and typical.
And here I must insert and confess, I did not do this with an original, selfless purpose. I needed to clear out these wasted presents but could not justify using them for myself or throwing them away. I needed to disperse of a secret; before I was discovered and the questions would begin.
In handing these items out, no one pushed, no one cursed, no one threw out an expectant hand in my direction. Not knowing what each wrapped present contained exactly; I guessed my best.
What I did not expect was the reaction I received. The "thank you"... "I love this"... "just what I asked for"... "I have always wanted one of these"... reactions poured out of dirty and even drunken mouths. The very reactions I longed for from my own birth family were given to me, in response to the gifts I bought for them, that I gave to complete yet familiar strangers.
I did not do this in my family's memory. What I did do, though, was create a Christmas memory of my own.
I buy gifts for dead people. I started doing this the year my mother and sister died. First on accident; participating in the grief while still believing that they really could not be gone. Now I do it as a conscious ritual each December.
The sweater that my sister would have loved. The book that perhaps would have finally been the perfect gift for my mother. The gift card for my father to use at one of his favorite stores. These are the gifts that would have spawned "thank you"... "I love it"... "I love you". This is what I pretend in my head.
Christmas was an odd holiday in my family. More often than not, I didn't get anything. My mother would cancel my Christmas for the smallest transgression. Each time I would watch the family open their gifts and wait with anticipation for my gifts for them to be opened. These were gifts made at school. Silly, child-fashioned presents. With no present of my own to open, my waiting time was magnified.
"Well, I guess that's it" my mother would exclaim. While scooting with her foot my wrapped gift under her antique chair she would say this. Right on cue my father would begin the clean up of the paper and I would sit there dismayed as my wonky, un-wrapped gifts were whisked away as trash.
Nothing was festive. Nothing was happy. We went to my grandparents for the afternoon and evening but everything was perfect. Robotic. No kitchen disasters. No burnt food. None of the things that make each and every holiday unique. Nothing that makes a holiday memory.
I guess this is why I have no hidden memories. Instead I have a perfect sheet of white paper in my mind. Blank without a family signature.
I am a generous person but giving a planned and wrapped gift is terribly difficult for me. The unknown, the question of approval or worse, no approval, makes my stomach churn. I wait until the waning weeks to shop, too nervous to purchase even a few anxious gifts.
In those same few weeks, I make my dead purchases as well. No one knows that I do this although my husband will probably catch on in another year or so. I wrap these gifts like all the others and stash them away in a place that no one will look.
After 4 years of this madness, I have built up quite the pile of grieving gifts. Yesterday, in the Wii-filled frenzies of my daughter and husband; I slipped away. I loaded my secret habit into bags and announced that I was heading out to make returns. No one questioned me or begged to go; neither husband or child willing to brave these selfish crowds.
In my brand new car, alone, and my husband would string me up if he knew this, I headed to the poorer area of our inner city. This is an area I am familiar with and I was amazed to find even more familiar faces. I parked and grabbed my bags of gifts. I locked my car and off I went. I found a group gathered and without even trying, I easily garnered their attention.
Amidst the dirty faces, I found their eyes that told a hundred tales. I saw myself in their eyes; we share that same sad reflection of the world. I gave my hidden gifts. Gift cards, clothes, books, ornaments, all the gifts that most regard as small and typical.
And here I must insert and confess, I did not do this with an original, selfless purpose. I needed to clear out these wasted presents but could not justify using them for myself or throwing them away. I needed to disperse of a secret; before I was discovered and the questions would begin.
In handing these items out, no one pushed, no one cursed, no one threw out an expectant hand in my direction. Not knowing what each wrapped present contained exactly; I guessed my best.
What I did not expect was the reaction I received. The "thank you"... "I love this"... "just what I asked for"... "I have always wanted one of these"... reactions poured out of dirty and even drunken mouths. The very reactions I longed for from my own birth family were given to me, in response to the gifts I bought for them, that I gave to complete yet familiar strangers.
I did not do this in my family's memory. What I did do, though, was create a Christmas memory of my own.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Party
What is a blog in December without a cheery holiday post from a Christmas past?
My blog. Sorry.
I have spent the last several days attempting to conjure up even one sliver of a Christmas memory to smile and roll my eyes at. The bike I always wanted. The puppy in the bow-tied box. The impossible-to-find-toy found under our tree. The antics of out-laws and in-laws. Something. Anything. Nothing.
I can't remember a Christmas in my past; I just know that I have never enjoyed the holidays. The closest I come is in remembering a school party, candy canes, and trashy gifts.
I hate getting notes sent home from the teacher. Whatever is detailed, asked for, or is changing; those things will be ignored. My face red with shame, I will stand and explain to my teacher why the note was not followed and why I am unsigned, empty handed, or out of new guidelines. My parents are too busy to care or too unimpressed with me to help a kid be a productive member of a second grade class.
I am sitting in the carpool line and pinned to my shirt is a note on green paper asking for my contribution to the class Christmas party. Filled in the blank with curly teacher writing are the words candy canes. I like to eat paper and I would have been better off eating this note. I would be less hungry and my mother would have one less item to concern her hatred with.
Walking to the car, I pulled the note off the pin and crammed it in my uniform jumper pocket. I waited for the seemingly right time to ask... after my sister had presented her own classroom party request and had it approved. What better time?
I ran to my room to rescue that green note from a certain death in the washing machine. I took it to my mother and showed her my own request. Quickly she glanced and returned the note to its original creases. I received a conditional "yes".
Behave, keep your room clean, have good manners, don't talk back... these were the conditions pressed upon my behavior in order to receive my candy cane contribution.
The night before the party came and went. That morning, I asked my mother where my Christmas party requirements were and informed me that they were in my bag. Once at school, I opened my bag to find a smaller bag. Inside was one, single peppermint.
One fucking mint to share with my class.
Humiliated, I am sitting at my desk when I hear the morning announcements. The younger kids are having their parties first. There is my one chance. I twist and fret until the younger parties are finished. I ask to go to the restroom and slip into the other wing of the school. Happy kids are leaving hand in hand with their hurried parents. The classrooms are black as I step into each one to forage for my treats.
Digging through cold cups of hot chocolate, sticky red frosting, and squeezed small juice boxes, I find my treasures. Discarded candy canes. I carefully wipe each one off and will the broken ones whole again. I carefully stuff them in my pockets and repeat this process until I have twenty precious canes to share with my friends.
I race back to my own classroom but not before I peer into my sister's room. And there she is. My mother. Smiling, laughing, and enjoying my sister's Christmas party. I hate her at this specific moment.
I return to my seat only to linger a few minutes behind when the recess bell rings. With everyone gone, I retrieve the rescued candies from my pockets and place them on the table with all the other green notes fulfilled.
She didn't come to my party. She never said a word to me. I never said a word to her.
My blog. Sorry.
I have spent the last several days attempting to conjure up even one sliver of a Christmas memory to smile and roll my eyes at. The bike I always wanted. The puppy in the bow-tied box. The impossible-to-find-toy found under our tree. The antics of out-laws and in-laws. Something. Anything. Nothing.
I can't remember a Christmas in my past; I just know that I have never enjoyed the holidays. The closest I come is in remembering a school party, candy canes, and trashy gifts.
I hate getting notes sent home from the teacher. Whatever is detailed, asked for, or is changing; those things will be ignored. My face red with shame, I will stand and explain to my teacher why the note was not followed and why I am unsigned, empty handed, or out of new guidelines. My parents are too busy to care or too unimpressed with me to help a kid be a productive member of a second grade class.
I am sitting in the carpool line and pinned to my shirt is a note on green paper asking for my contribution to the class Christmas party. Filled in the blank with curly teacher writing are the words candy canes. I like to eat paper and I would have been better off eating this note. I would be less hungry and my mother would have one less item to concern her hatred with.
Walking to the car, I pulled the note off the pin and crammed it in my uniform jumper pocket. I waited for the seemingly right time to ask... after my sister had presented her own classroom party request and had it approved. What better time?
I ran to my room to rescue that green note from a certain death in the washing machine. I took it to my mother and showed her my own request. Quickly she glanced and returned the note to its original creases. I received a conditional "yes".
Behave, keep your room clean, have good manners, don't talk back... these were the conditions pressed upon my behavior in order to receive my candy cane contribution.
The night before the party came and went. That morning, I asked my mother where my Christmas party requirements were and informed me that they were in my bag. Once at school, I opened my bag to find a smaller bag. Inside was one, single peppermint.
One fucking mint to share with my class.
Humiliated, I am sitting at my desk when I hear the morning announcements. The younger kids are having their parties first. There is my one chance. I twist and fret until the younger parties are finished. I ask to go to the restroom and slip into the other wing of the school. Happy kids are leaving hand in hand with their hurried parents. The classrooms are black as I step into each one to forage for my treats.
Digging through cold cups of hot chocolate, sticky red frosting, and squeezed small juice boxes, I find my treasures. Discarded candy canes. I carefully wipe each one off and will the broken ones whole again. I carefully stuff them in my pockets and repeat this process until I have twenty precious canes to share with my friends.
I race back to my own classroom but not before I peer into my sister's room. And there she is. My mother. Smiling, laughing, and enjoying my sister's Christmas party. I hate her at this specific moment.
I return to my seat only to linger a few minutes behind when the recess bell rings. With everyone gone, I retrieve the rescued candies from my pockets and place them on the table with all the other green notes fulfilled.
She didn't come to my party. She never said a word to me. I never said a word to her.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Need
From The Pliers: The question that occurs to me tonight as I follow the progress of your reclamation project is, What is the singularly most important thing that any given reader of your blog can do for you, with you, or on your behalf as s/he or reads your words?
To be an effect. To be affected...
There are remarkably unique readers here. I wrote to another reader that I want my readers to take from my words exactly what they need, not what I want them to need. That would be rather selfish of me as I have spent a lifetime being told what to feel, what not to feel, and how to feel. Here is not the place for that.
I began writing here to keep a journal. One out of ink and out of nosey hands. I love my family but one member in particular likes to read my spilled guts. I'm anonymous here and so I write freely. I have in fact shared printed pages of this site in person but that is as far as I have gotten.
In my writing you will find love. I deeply love my daughter and my husband. On paper I am not capable of love. I believed that lie for far too long. Love is what drives me to succeed in this; to excel at being whole.
My love goes beyond those who live in my home as well. This is a bold love; a love that hopes and believes for the best. This love hopes that every time my father calls that he will be calling to tell me he has changed. This love hopes that my mother found the end of her turmoil. This love envelops hate, consumes despair and braids the three into something fierce and sharp. My love for my parents cuts and and shreds but loves these imperfect people because they gave me life and they did not kill me; this is the best I got from them. Underneath the shards of pain, I love them. Not for what they did but rather for what they didn't.
In these pages the closed mind, the unscathed will find truth. There are those who hold tightly to a small little world where nothing all that bad happens. It does. To children and adults alike. An awareness can be found here as brutal words are wrapped around the perspective of a small child. It is hard to ignore.
And lastly, for the broken, for the survivor, for the lost; there is hope. What I write is only my version of hope so seek your hope out as well. But take from me what you need even if it is just the smallest understanding that you are not alone.
Because you are not.
For those who are able, take from me the awareness that there are others like me; your neighbors, your friends, the child in your own child's class who forces a smile but carries a frown that is just a little too deep for a tiny face.
What can a reader do? Please do not waste my woundings. Take what you need.
Be an effect. Be affected by love, truth, hope...
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Pink
It stings. It burns. I don't want to take a bath but my mother says that I have to. Soap makes it worse.
He is home so I need to hurry. He likes to walk in on accident. I don't understand how it is an accident when the water is running loudly or why he sits down on the toilet lid and stays to rub his pants. That is not an accident. An accident is when I spill my milk and get my face slapped. I don't get to slap him for this accident.
I wish I could.
I turn the water on. Really hot. I am a dirty girl and the hot makes my filthy skin red instead of bad. I turn the light off and peel my clothes into a pile on the floor. In the dark I can't see my bruises, my scars, or my filth.
The tub begins to fill and I jump in. I am standing and I can feel the scalding water turn my feet a mottled red. The doorknob turns and I pray it's my little sister... or even my mother.
It's him. His obligatory and surprised "OH" is exclaimed as he slides through the door an presses it shut with his back. He is not surprised and neither am I.
He flips on the light as he is sneering about me bathing in the dark... how weird it is. He smiles his toothy grin and rubs his hands together in anticipation of his pleasure. I feel my stomach drop into my privates and I loathe that all too common feeling.
The water continues to run and the tub is nearly full. I reach to turn it off as he silently shakes his head "NO". Instead he reaches down and pulls the drain stopper to drain the water simultaneously as it pours from the faucet.
He is not going to sit on the toilet lid this time as he unbuckles his belt. He motions for me to step out of the tub and silently I obey. His clothes are peeled off into a pile next to mine and I do nothing.
I do not scream.
I do not run.
I do not cry.
I slowly turn around the way he likes.
He is heavy as he works to be inside me. In disgust he mumbles about me being dry. My stomach is pressed and pounded over and over into the vanity. The drawer pull rubs me raw.
I open my smashed shut eyes and there I am. In the mirror, face to face with the dirty girl. I focus on her eyes and then I look away to avoid drowning in her dead eyes. I see her freckles and her stubby nose. I look a little closer and then I see it. I see her smile.
She is his happy girl and her name is Sara. She is five and she says she is a princess. Her eyes come alive and sparkle under her blonde eyelashes. I love her hair because it is not like my own dark and curly hair. She smiles again as he groans with pleasure.
She is not happy, I know this. But she is his happy girl.
I am lost in that mirror looking for a way out of those drowning eyes. Quickly I am rescued as I am pulled away and dropped into the still scalding water. Ribbons of burning red stream from where I am sitting. I wince with pain as he rolls his eyes in disgust.
He takes my towel, the only towel, and cleans himself. He dresses quickly. As he buckles his belt he tells me to wash good because I am filthy. I know this already. He returns the drain stopper shut and then the door opens and shuts and he is gone.
I sit there until the water is cold.
My skin is no longer red but my bathwater is pink with shame.
He is home so I need to hurry. He likes to walk in on accident. I don't understand how it is an accident when the water is running loudly or why he sits down on the toilet lid and stays to rub his pants. That is not an accident. An accident is when I spill my milk and get my face slapped. I don't get to slap him for this accident.
I wish I could.
I turn the water on. Really hot. I am a dirty girl and the hot makes my filthy skin red instead of bad. I turn the light off and peel my clothes into a pile on the floor. In the dark I can't see my bruises, my scars, or my filth.
The tub begins to fill and I jump in. I am standing and I can feel the scalding water turn my feet a mottled red. The doorknob turns and I pray it's my little sister... or even my mother.
It's him. His obligatory and surprised "OH" is exclaimed as he slides through the door an presses it shut with his back. He is not surprised and neither am I.
He flips on the light as he is sneering about me bathing in the dark... how weird it is. He smiles his toothy grin and rubs his hands together in anticipation of his pleasure. I feel my stomach drop into my privates and I loathe that all too common feeling.
The water continues to run and the tub is nearly full. I reach to turn it off as he silently shakes his head "NO". Instead he reaches down and pulls the drain stopper to drain the water simultaneously as it pours from the faucet.
He is not going to sit on the toilet lid this time as he unbuckles his belt. He motions for me to step out of the tub and silently I obey. His clothes are peeled off into a pile next to mine and I do nothing.
I do not scream.
I do not run.
I do not cry.
I slowly turn around the way he likes.
He is heavy as he works to be inside me. In disgust he mumbles about me being dry. My stomach is pressed and pounded over and over into the vanity. The drawer pull rubs me raw.
I open my smashed shut eyes and there I am. In the mirror, face to face with the dirty girl. I focus on her eyes and then I look away to avoid drowning in her dead eyes. I see her freckles and her stubby nose. I look a little closer and then I see it. I see her smile.
She is his happy girl and her name is Sara. She is five and she says she is a princess. Her eyes come alive and sparkle under her blonde eyelashes. I love her hair because it is not like my own dark and curly hair. She smiles again as he groans with pleasure.
She is not happy, I know this. But she is his happy girl.
I am lost in that mirror looking for a way out of those drowning eyes. Quickly I am rescued as I am pulled away and dropped into the still scalding water. Ribbons of burning red stream from where I am sitting. I wince with pain as he rolls his eyes in disgust.
He takes my towel, the only towel, and cleans himself. He dresses quickly. As he buckles his belt he tells me to wash good because I am filthy. I know this already. He returns the drain stopper shut and then the door opens and shuts and he is gone.
I sit there until the water is cold.
My skin is no longer red but my bathwater is pink with shame.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Baggage
I know we all have baggage. Some more than others. Some less than others.
I have closets crammed deep and to the top, a storage unit full, and an 18-wheeler truck full of my baggage that follows me wherever I go.
Last night my husband did something that triggered me beyond reasoning. He was in the wrong and of course he apologized but this was after nearly an hour of my screaming and even tears.
Yes, I cried.
I got a hold of myself only when he matched my pitch and told me,
I am not your parents... I am not him... breathe and look me in the eyes...
Pressed into a corner of the room, it was then that I came back to reality. Suddenly he didn't look like my father anymore and his words didn't sound like my mother's searing rage.
He told me late last night, after we went to bed, in the dark so that he didn't have to see the hurt on my face, that he hadn't fully realized just how damaged I was until this episode. His words cut me to the bone because they were true.
I am damaged and on the off chance that a closet door is opened just a little too far, that baggage tumbles out crushing whomever is standing in the way. It is times like these that I feel so badly for my family. They did nothing wrong yet they are getting trampled by my past. Although not as bad, this is my mother all over again. Her past knocked me over flattened me. Damaged me and smothered me under her own musty baggage.
I can't be her. I just can't. It is not fair to my family and it is times like last night that I wonder what the fuck I was thinking when I started playing house.
I have closets crammed deep and to the top, a storage unit full, and an 18-wheeler truck full of my baggage that follows me wherever I go.
Last night my husband did something that triggered me beyond reasoning. He was in the wrong and of course he apologized but this was after nearly an hour of my screaming and even tears.
Yes, I cried.
I got a hold of myself only when he matched my pitch and told me,
I am not your parents... I am not him... breathe and look me in the eyes...
Pressed into a corner of the room, it was then that I came back to reality. Suddenly he didn't look like my father anymore and his words didn't sound like my mother's searing rage.
He told me late last night, after we went to bed, in the dark so that he didn't have to see the hurt on my face, that he hadn't fully realized just how damaged I was until this episode. His words cut me to the bone because they were true.
I am damaged and on the off chance that a closet door is opened just a little too far, that baggage tumbles out crushing whomever is standing in the way. It is times like these that I feel so badly for my family. They did nothing wrong yet they are getting trampled by my past. Although not as bad, this is my mother all over again. Her past knocked me over flattened me. Damaged me and smothered me under her own musty baggage.
I can't be her. I just can't. It is not fair to my family and it is times like last night that I wonder what the fuck I was thinking when I started playing house.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Always
Ten Things I Will Always Tell my Daughter:
- You make my life complete.
- I have learned more from you than I will ever teach you.
- It's not where you come from but rather the person that you become.
- Some of my fondest memories are those from when it was just you and me.
- "I love you"
- How beautiful you are. Inside and out.
- You can accomplish anything you set your mind to.
- The truth of who you are... kind, loving, smart, funny... even when you can't see it or believe it.
- Don't be too serious. Enjoy being a kid and always reserve a tiny corner of your heart that never grows old.
- Happy Birthday. I am so glad you were born!
Today is my daughter's 6th birthday. She loves her birthday and she loves Christmas. She says that December is the best month of her life.
This year she asked for "a private birthday party with her parents".
And a Nintendo DS.
She got both and then some...
Happy Birthday, sweet girl!
P.S. I know that you won't always want a private party with us and that is OK. Thank you for letting us be cool for however long that it lasts...
Monday, December 7, 2009
What
How far does one venture into the black hole of a childhood?
The more I think, the more I write, the more I feel, the more I allow myself to remember, the more horror I unwrap. One of my biggest fears is drawing near.
What if I cannot stop?
Stop feeling, stop remembering, stop hurting, stop crying, stop traveling at light speed face-first into the fist of my past...
I have been this close to facing this fear before. And then I found convenient excuses to stop. Or run. I'm pretty much out of excuses these days. I am stable; my medications are doing their job. I have good support. I am not being abused. I am not in the midst of any sort of crisis. All of these positives are stepping stones in the right direction. Great.
I enjoy writing; I think that is probably pretty obvious. I enjoy the control. I share what I wish and I conceal what I do not wish to share. It works out perfectly. Or at least I like to think it does...
My husband tells me to just start talking. I think he's being ridiculous. No one just opens their mouth and starts spilling their secrets. When you spill something it is hard to control the mess. I like control. What if I lose the little control that I have?
I keep telling myself that I have already been through the worst of this. But what happens when feeling and remembering leaves a mark? What if who I find is maimed, ruined, and disfigured?
Then what?
The more I think, the more I write, the more I feel, the more I allow myself to remember, the more horror I unwrap. One of my biggest fears is drawing near.
What if I cannot stop?
Stop feeling, stop remembering, stop hurting, stop crying, stop traveling at light speed face-first into the fist of my past...
I have been this close to facing this fear before. And then I found convenient excuses to stop. Or run. I'm pretty much out of excuses these days. I am stable; my medications are doing their job. I have good support. I am not being abused. I am not in the midst of any sort of crisis. All of these positives are stepping stones in the right direction. Great.
I enjoy writing; I think that is probably pretty obvious. I enjoy the control. I share what I wish and I conceal what I do not wish to share. It works out perfectly. Or at least I like to think it does...
My husband tells me to just start talking. I think he's being ridiculous. No one just opens their mouth and starts spilling their secrets. When you spill something it is hard to control the mess. I like control. What if I lose the little control that I have?
I keep telling myself that I have already been through the worst of this. But what happens when feeling and remembering leaves a mark? What if who I find is maimed, ruined, and disfigured?
Then what?
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