Another interminably long time since I wrote. The holidays have come and gone, and I, like many others, continue each day to profess to start my New Year's Eve resolutions. A new year, but old problems persist. Who am I and what is my real purpose here? What do I really want to be when I grow up? At times I feel my identity is so unremarkable, so neutral, that I would not know my own self if it were to bite me on the leg.
Even so, I move forward, a slow protracted crawl towards each day, and yet there is not enough time to do all that has to be done. My daughter, no longer a child, grows and changes before my very eyes. Her beauty and intelligence chill me. She speaks her mind as one who knows the ropes. Do you know what brilliance you possess?? Of course not. It is one of those things that one realizes many years later as they gaze at a picture of themselves caught in a splinter of time. Oh, if we had only known the truth; taken real advantage of a reverent moment. God, what magic we could have worked!
I keep looking, thinking, wondering when my truth will reach me. I want it now, immediately, while I am still able to recognize that dance when it comes waltzing into the room. I will seize upon it, like a tiger upon it's prey. I will be the thing,(whatever it is), that I was meant to be, and not all those vile things she said I was.
Odd, how now she sometimes will ask, "Who's this?" when she hears my voice on the phone. "Don't you know who this is?", I'll ask. Hesitantly, through the fog that now surrounds her, she'll answer , "Yes, you are my daughter", although she cannot recall my name. Even though I know I shouldn't, I remark, "Too bad you never treated me like it".
It has become evident to us all that she is now in the early stages of Alzheimer's Disease. Now as she slowly fades away, I become even less than what I was before. Now there is a mighty task at hand. With frailty of body and mind upon her, who will take her in?? I fear that after all is said and done, it will be me. I ultimately become caregiver to the thief who stole my dreams; to the brute who broke my bones.
If it comes to that, I guess I will do it. Do not think for a moment that it is a duty I wish to take on. I don't, but yet, I have to be bigger, much bigger than the sum of all my fragmented parts.
Still.
Here.
Andi
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Sunday, September 5, 2010
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
Still here.
A
Saturday, February 13, 2010
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
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
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
Friday, January 22, 2010
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
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
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Name That Psychosis
One of the most wonderful attributes of my mother and family is that they provide endless material for commentary. I always learn new things, even if they are an assault on my intelligence and reality as I know it. I have now crossed from simmering anger to conventional concern to genuine alarm. Something is quite wrong. It never fails. Then I need to take a moment and examine my deepest memories after I am firmly told the opposite of what I know to be true. It is like a noted scientist affirming that the world is flat and if we are not careful that we may actually sail off the edge.
During the course of a bizarre conversation with my mother, she claimed that she had never, in her life, ever set foot in an OTB betting parlor, and that during the 25 years that she made her way back and forth to New York on the bus, that she had actually held a job. She also made a series of other claims, but this is the one that disturbed me the most. I don't mind if she believes that people mistake her for being thirty-five years younger that she actually is, or that she is being vigorously pursued by online schools to enroll in their Ph.D program, so great is her ability and intelligence. I don't mind if she believes that she has interviews scheduled for jobs that don't exist, or that the sweepstakes officials are on their way to her to present her with a check for millions of dollars and put her picture on the front page of the newspaper. What I do mind is the constant altering of the reality that directly affected me and her belief that a blatant lie out of her mouth transforms it into the truth.
I firmly remember the soiled shopping bags that she returned home with, filled to over-flowing with racing forms that she had written her "picks" on. I remember being woken up at 2 am, along with one of my brothers, to get dressed and walk her down a stretch of dark lonely road until we reached a major intersection roaring with tractor-trailers, where a Martz-Trailways bus would pick her up and carry her off into the night. I remember having to get up a few hours later and get ready for school, after having walked several miles in the middle of the night with little sleep.
There may have been brief interludes when she may have held a job, but it didn't last long because OTB was calling. I know what I know. And now I am supposed to ignore what I know and believe in a totally fabricated history of what has happened in the past.
During the course of a bizarre conversation with my mother, she claimed that she had never, in her life, ever set foot in an OTB betting parlor, and that during the 25 years that she made her way back and forth to New York on the bus, that she had actually held a job. She also made a series of other claims, but this is the one that disturbed me the most. I don't mind if she believes that people mistake her for being thirty-five years younger that she actually is, or that she is being vigorously pursued by online schools to enroll in their Ph.D program, so great is her ability and intelligence. I don't mind if she believes that she has interviews scheduled for jobs that don't exist, or that the sweepstakes officials are on their way to her to present her with a check for millions of dollars and put her picture on the front page of the newspaper. What I do mind is the constant altering of the reality that directly affected me and her belief that a blatant lie out of her mouth transforms it into the truth.
I firmly remember the soiled shopping bags that she returned home with, filled to over-flowing with racing forms that she had written her "picks" on. I remember being woken up at 2 am, along with one of my brothers, to get dressed and walk her down a stretch of dark lonely road until we reached a major intersection roaring with tractor-trailers, where a Martz-Trailways bus would pick her up and carry her off into the night. I remember having to get up a few hours later and get ready for school, after having walked several miles in the middle of the night with little sleep.
There may have been brief interludes when she may have held a job, but it didn't last long because OTB was calling. I know what I know. And now I am supposed to ignore what I know and believe in a totally fabricated history of what has happened in the past.
I can't do that. A lie has speed, but the truth has endurance. The truth will outlast all the lies that are or ever will be. A lie is here today, but gone tomorrow. Don't allow anyone to try and alter the truth. It can't be done.
Still.
Andi
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