Cleaning House

Even though it has been quite some time since I have written, in many ways very little has changed. The winter into the spring into the fall finds me still bewildered that I have been unable to mentally detach myself from the ruin that is my mother.

I would love to say that I am a more contented and sunny person. I would like nothing better than to say that I have laid the heaviest of my burdens and concerns to rest and can now dance merrily away, my step and soul so light as if I had never known the weight of such personal pain. I would like to proclaim that I have made a lasting peace with her and that the forgiveness in my heart is true. But I can say none of those things. I can only say that I continue to strive to be the best person that I can be.

Still here.

A

If Only

Last night I dreamed of my father. He was alive and well, and held me in his arms before offering me a bright red apple. Although I never saw his face, his voice was unmistakable, calm, measured, and reassuring. Others had wanted to get the apple from him, but he had held onto it for me. It was mine, and he was going to make sure that I received it. How odd that it was not something of great value, but a simple piece of fruit. I held him tightly; it was so wonderful to touch him and know that he was well. I awoke to discover that it was only a dream, and that made me angry. I jerked, kicked and cried, waking my husband who shook me to dispel the torment. It took the whole day to recover.

I could spend hours and even days trying to discern the significance of the red apple. What is important is that in that time, I had a cherished moment with my father. For those of you fortunate enough to have parents that are actually parents, kind, loving, and nurturing, know that you have in your possession a great gift. Perhaps in some way from the beyond, my father was trying to tell me that I was a gift to him. I can only guess. I'll never really know.

It was insanity that kept us apart; kept him from his children. He was away from us so much, I can only imagine how it tore at his heart. He never, never said an unkind word to me. I don't think he had it in him. I only got to know him later in his life; father and daughter, but strangers really. If only!

Still here.

Andi

Could You Please Pass The Salt?

I thought that I would give her a chance to come clean, and I told her so. A chance to explain why she did what she did. It was to be on my terms; no beating around the bush, and placing blame on those no longer around to defend themselves. I kept asking her if she understood, and even though she was silent on the other end of the phone, I knew her devious mind was working to contrive an answer that would absolve her of all culpability. I told her that I did not want to hear about how she loved us all, and just wanted me to be a "good girl". Another moment passed.

"I loved you all", she began. I hung up the phone.

I was hoping that she could do better than that. I really do want to know what drove her. Drove her to unspeakable acts, and words so hard that they are forever burned into my flesh. My brothers ( the ones I actually speak to) tell me to "forget it', "let it go". If only I could! If only I could flippantly look back, and say, yes it happened. I am no worse the wear for it. Could you please pass the salt?

Oh, but I am. Worse the wear, and then some. At night sometimes my skin burns from the memory, and I see in my mind's eye the raised bloody welts on my legs and back. Pretending to be whole when I am broken pieces held together by sheer will. There are those of us who will always remember, because we can't forget.

To be honest, I still long for a mother. A real one who kisses boo-boos; whose soft hands stroke your cheek as she plants a delicate kiss on your forehead. I guess I will always want that, and not the trash that I got. Oh well.

Still here.

Andi

Panic Room

I had a very interesting experience the other day. I had attended a teacher in-service where the speaker spoke of the importance of ritual in the lives of children. These rituals included waking up in the morning with perhaps, a feeling of being wanted and cherished, sitting down to meals as a family, the ability to talk with someone if you had something on your mind, and in the evening, going to bed with, again perhaps, the feeling of being taken care of and knowing that you were safe.

He spoke with such authority, suggesting that since we all had had that in our lives, we must very well be aware of it's significance. Everyone around me nodded assuredly, for they too had had first-hand experience of these rituals: being tucked in at night with a story and a glass of warn milk, a hot nutritious breakfast to start the day with. And here they were, the living proof of stable environments.

I myself had begun to panic, for I was not one of them at all. I was the fraud in the room, masquerading as something I was not. I had had none of those things, and yet here I was. I thought maybe that it showed in some way. I waited for others to point the finger. "She's not one of us!", they would shout. And I would have to agree. I began to sweat, the room became larger. I thought of leaving, but then, I would only draw attention to myself. Everyone would know why.

They continued to nod, I continued to sweat, my eyes darting first to the left, and then the right. I waited. And then it happened.

Nothing.

Nothing happened.

I did not hear the next thirty minutes of the seminar as I was then lost in my own thoughts. Such memories flooded back that I almost felt faint. I am so very different. And then I realized how very ashamed I am of what I have endured in my life. But I also realized, that I was only a child with no control of the situations that befell me. I could only go with the flow such as it was.

By the end of the in-service, I was numb and exhausted. I wanted to tell the presenter how deeply he had touched me, how deeply I understood what he had to say. But I didn't have the energy, and what difference did it make anyway. But I knew something the others did not. I had survived the unimaginable. I truly did.



Still here.



Andi

A Stitch In Time

There are times that I reflect back on my past and suddenly remember incidents that were locked away in my memory only to now come rushing back to the front. Most of them are appalling, but lately I have tried to remember something pleasant, funny or comforting. My therapist says that my mind will only allow me to remember what I can handle. There are the times I will remember something..but only for a short while. If I don't write it down, time passes and then it is gone forever, retreating back into the closet. I don't remember much of junior high or high school, only brief flashes here and there, and I cannot tell you if the memories are from a single year or bits and pieces from several. I do know that I was for the most part always frightened, always nervous, and never sure of what would happen from one moment to the next. I lived in a state of anxiety so high as to rival a terror alert. I don't know how I learned anything or even finished high school.


People that really know me ask me why I didn't run away, or at the very least defend myself from the attacks that came fierce and often. I cannot answer that. I only knew that I wanted to live long enough to enjoy life, and to one day laugh out loud and really mean it.



I would like to say that there was someone who understood, someone who was wiliing to stand up and say what was being done to me was wrong and had to stop, that I was only a child. But there wasn't. I am sure if my father had been there more often than he was, he would have put a stop to it. Although he was kind, he was also, I am sad to say, weak. He had no stomach for conflict.

I have begun to think of him more often. It is painful because I miss him so. I would have liked for him to have really gotten to know my husband, and to have know his only granddaughter. I think they would have enjoyed each other's company, and I do believe quite earnestly, that he would have spoiled her just this side of rotten.


I have learned that a moment is more than a moment. It is life at it's fullest in little bursts of fleeting sweetness. It is what you make it. Still.



Andi