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
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
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
"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
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
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
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
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