I try to remain calm, but over the past few days my anxiety has reached fever pitch. I do not sleep but toss and turn almost the entire night. Last night I downed several glasses of red wine. That along with the exhaustion that my body felt, I fell into a deep sleep. Although it did not last the entire night, it was enough for me to function productively throughout the day. I am used to it now. I have to learn to calm my body for sleep; once school starts, I will be on a very short leash.
I search for answers to my issues: my inability to sleep at night, my feelings of not being good enough, the scorching pain in my heart that even the powerful love of my husband has not been able to heal and now I believe that I have stumbled upon one of the answers I seek.
I have to learn to love myself. Not in an extreme selfish way, but in a way that allows me to take the time I need to nurture myself. Taking the time to rest my body and mind, taking the time to give myself what I need to eventually become a complete person, and taking the time to learn what that is. I am always on the run; many tell me that they don't know how I keep the pace I do, but I do.
As a child, it was understood that I must always give up anything that I had for the benefit of the family. But one summer when I was about sixteen, a friend of mine and I hopped into the car and spent the day in New York. We saw a Broadway show and later the show at Radio City Music Hall. We were enthralled with the bright lights of the big city, and I knew that one day I would make it my home. On my return, my mother ranted and raved that if anyone (who might that be) had anything, any money they were keeping to themselves, they had better, "get up off it." I was to regret taking some of my hard earned money and spending it on myself, rather than having it taken away as was usually the case. I felt guilty for the joy I felt that day. Guilty that I was selfish enough to think of myself. After that, it became easy to put others in front. And I have been doing it for the past thirty years.
Now I know it is crucial to my healing. Taking care of me for me. It is only the beginning in the process. Learning to love me.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
You Must Remember This........
It is odd how we each remember experiences from our youth. That is a strange word for me to use because I never felt as if I had one. "Youth" is a word associated with purity of home and spirit, and I am certain that those articles never existed in the houses where I grew up.
My memories of my "youth" center on a succession of houses, and apartments, (not homes) steeped in ceaseless turmoil. There was never enough of anything except turmoil and one could only expect more of the same. Hope was something that there was no room for because we were taught that it did not exist. It was fair to say that one could only anticipate doom for it was a sure thing. That being said, someone had to be made responsible for the serious lack that dominated our lives, and that culprit, as I was to hear repeated for my entire "youth", was my father.
In addition to the serious lack, there was a mighty foe that my mother felt that she had to battle against day and night and that was what she believed to be my nymphomaniac tendencies. Even though I was only four the first time I remember her calling me a slut, she was quite diligent in her attempts to beat it out of me. And beat she did. She did it so well and often that she actually elevated it to an art form. By the time I was ten, I knew what to expect so that when I did get my period, I didn't tell her for fear of being beaten. When she did discover it, I was told that I was to get it every month and if I didn't, it meant that I was pregnant, and then she would kill me.
I did have one bright spot in my life, and that was when my mother had safely boarded the bus to New York to gamble at the OTB. I knew that for at least one, two or possibly three weeks, she would be gone. There would be hell to pay when she returned, but the important thing was that she was not there. In her absence, my grandmother, (her mother) took charge. It was her job to hold down the fort until she returned. My grandmother was considered a saint, mainly because the monthly checks she had went to feed us and nothing was ever kept back for her. I didn't know it then, but she was abused by my mother in much the same way I was. Her life was spent doing a chore that I am sure she detested in return for a flimsy roof over her head. When she died, she was very old, and she barely got a hole in the ground.
My mother remembers life differently. She remember putting my brothers and I in the best schools. She remembers working tirelessly to teach us how to be good upright citizens. She remembers sacrificing for us, and even consulting with priests and professors to help get my brother in the right university. She remembers tolerating my father's drunken antics and keeping a home clean and full of plenty. She doesn't remember battering me almost every day of my life until I left her house for good. She does not speak of the years she spent traveling on the bus back and forth to New York, the years she spent gambling; the babysitting money, the paper route money, the Girl Scout cookie money that went missing.
But I remember. My soul remembers the fear, my body the searing pain. And it is because of her absolute denial that I will always remember and never forgive. In honor of my survival, I remember. In honor of my survival, I write. In honor of my survival, I try each day to love my daughter a little bit more. I must remember this.
My memories of my "youth" center on a succession of houses, and apartments, (not homes) steeped in ceaseless turmoil. There was never enough of anything except turmoil and one could only expect more of the same. Hope was something that there was no room for because we were taught that it did not exist. It was fair to say that one could only anticipate doom for it was a sure thing. That being said, someone had to be made responsible for the serious lack that dominated our lives, and that culprit, as I was to hear repeated for my entire "youth", was my father.
In addition to the serious lack, there was a mighty foe that my mother felt that she had to battle against day and night and that was what she believed to be my nymphomaniac tendencies. Even though I was only four the first time I remember her calling me a slut, she was quite diligent in her attempts to beat it out of me. And beat she did. She did it so well and often that she actually elevated it to an art form. By the time I was ten, I knew what to expect so that when I did get my period, I didn't tell her for fear of being beaten. When she did discover it, I was told that I was to get it every month and if I didn't, it meant that I was pregnant, and then she would kill me.
I did have one bright spot in my life, and that was when my mother had safely boarded the bus to New York to gamble at the OTB. I knew that for at least one, two or possibly three weeks, she would be gone. There would be hell to pay when she returned, but the important thing was that she was not there. In her absence, my grandmother, (her mother) took charge. It was her job to hold down the fort until she returned. My grandmother was considered a saint, mainly because the monthly checks she had went to feed us and nothing was ever kept back for her. I didn't know it then, but she was abused by my mother in much the same way I was. Her life was spent doing a chore that I am sure she detested in return for a flimsy roof over her head. When she died, she was very old, and she barely got a hole in the ground.
My mother remembers life differently. She remember putting my brothers and I in the best schools. She remembers working tirelessly to teach us how to be good upright citizens. She remembers sacrificing for us, and even consulting with priests and professors to help get my brother in the right university. She remembers tolerating my father's drunken antics and keeping a home clean and full of plenty. She doesn't remember battering me almost every day of my life until I left her house for good. She does not speak of the years she spent traveling on the bus back and forth to New York, the years she spent gambling; the babysitting money, the paper route money, the Girl Scout cookie money that went missing.
But I remember. My soul remembers the fear, my body the searing pain. And it is because of her absolute denial that I will always remember and never forgive. In honor of my survival, I remember. In honor of my survival, I write. In honor of my survival, I try each day to love my daughter a little bit more. I must remember this.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Stormy Weather
As I sit in my bedroom and try to find a few hours of quiet time, my daughter darts in and out, requesting fervent kisses on the cheek and hugs that relieve me of breath. She is in a good mood as friends are coming over to once again rule the night.
I, tucked away in my room, am left to grapple with ways on how to heal my body, mind, and spirit. Today has been particularly troubling. My anxiety is on full speed ahead and my emotions spring from one extreme to the other. My heart flutters and my hands shake. I'm not quite sure what to make of things. My brain is constantly ablaze with thoughts of what might be, what has happened in the past, and what is going on now; how can I fix/change/pay it. Even though I may sit, and perhaps watch a program on the television, it is hard for me to be in the moment. What is that pain, and did I ever feel it before? What does it mean and will I sleep tonight?
It is at times like this that I have learned to ride out my neurosis like a violent wave; calm will eventually come and then I cruise back to shore, rattled but still on board. My being is just another casualty in the eternal war that is me. I have no doubt that I will get through this dismal series of emotions. I have time and time and time again. As darkness falls I sigh. as I know night will be a long time coming. But come it does and perhaps tomorrow I'll be a bit better than I was today. And so will you.
I, tucked away in my room, am left to grapple with ways on how to heal my body, mind, and spirit. Today has been particularly troubling. My anxiety is on full speed ahead and my emotions spring from one extreme to the other. My heart flutters and my hands shake. I'm not quite sure what to make of things. My brain is constantly ablaze with thoughts of what might be, what has happened in the past, and what is going on now; how can I fix/change/pay it. Even though I may sit, and perhaps watch a program on the television, it is hard for me to be in the moment. What is that pain, and did I ever feel it before? What does it mean and will I sleep tonight?
It is at times like this that I have learned to ride out my neurosis like a violent wave; calm will eventually come and then I cruise back to shore, rattled but still on board. My being is just another casualty in the eternal war that is me. I have no doubt that I will get through this dismal series of emotions. I have time and time and time again. As darkness falls I sigh. as I know night will be a long time coming. But come it does and perhaps tomorrow I'll be a bit better than I was today. And so will you.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Andrew
As much as I deal mentally and emotionally with the tragedy that is my mother, I now and then find myself thinking about the man who was driven from his home and never got to know his children: my father. It is no secret that he drank, or even the fact that he had a girlfriend who I got to know in later years and was very kind to me. She was a simple woman and what attracted me to her was that she was soft-spoken and sweet. She never made me feel moronic, never called me names or made me feel ill at ease. I was actually glad for my father to have a companion who treated him well, washed his clothes and cooked his food. My mother never did those things for him.
My mother never had a pleasant word for my father. As far as she was concerned, he was the singular cause of all her troubles. We were taught to hate this man and so we did, to please her as children are wont to do. It was his fault, she would lament to us and my grandmother, that she had just missed winning the Exacta at the OTB because he was too cheap to give her enough money to bet with. That's where she would be camped out for weeks at a time, finally coming home with nothing to show for her time away except filthy shopping bags filled with marked up racing forms. Frustrated, she would take out her anger on me for the alleged sexual trysts she and my grandmother perceived that I had committed in her absence. It took so little.
In spite of all the animosity and all the times she drove him from the house, my father never said a unfavorable word about her. The sad fact is he truly loved this exceedingly crude woman; no matter what he did to please her, it was never enough.
In the years before he became ill, he would often stop by my apartment in the early morning hours and ring my doorbell. I would rouse myself from sleep and run down the five flights of stairs. We would sit in his cab and talk for hours. Sometimes he brought me food; chickens wrapped in rough brown paper, packages of Vienna Fingers cookies. If he could not nourish me as a child, he would do it now. He told me things that I knew my mother would vehemently deny.
One of the stories he told me made me realize all over again how fortunate I was to have survived life with her.
During what might have been called a brief period of prosperity, my father was able to take out a few loans to buy a washer and dryer ( the cord of which she used to beat me with) and a few other household items. I remember a time where there were new sheets and pillows and cases, and at least on the outside, there appeared a degree of normalcy. But it was short lived and my mother insisted that he return to the loan company and take out yet another loan. My father told her it would be too much of a burden to repay yet another loan so it was something he could not do. All she knew was that she needed the extra money for gambling so she gave him a choice. Find a way to get some money or she would disfigure me (her words) and make me swear in a court of law that he had beat and raped me. I could see how much it hurt him to know that my mother was capable of such an ungodly act. My father found the extra cash.
Three years after I was married and he knew he was dying of cancer, he wanted to leave New York and return to the mountains he always loved even though he rarely got to be there. My mother would not allow it. He paid a friend to move him to my brother's house in South Carolina and there he died. I got the news and cried for him and for the daughter that would not know him.
Although he was my father, I never called him "Daddy". That was too personal for my mother He was Andrew. And that is how I will always remember him.
My mother never had a pleasant word for my father. As far as she was concerned, he was the singular cause of all her troubles. We were taught to hate this man and so we did, to please her as children are wont to do. It was his fault, she would lament to us and my grandmother, that she had just missed winning the Exacta at the OTB because he was too cheap to give her enough money to bet with. That's where she would be camped out for weeks at a time, finally coming home with nothing to show for her time away except filthy shopping bags filled with marked up racing forms. Frustrated, she would take out her anger on me for the alleged sexual trysts she and my grandmother perceived that I had committed in her absence. It took so little.
In spite of all the animosity and all the times she drove him from the house, my father never said a unfavorable word about her. The sad fact is he truly loved this exceedingly crude woman; no matter what he did to please her, it was never enough.
In the years before he became ill, he would often stop by my apartment in the early morning hours and ring my doorbell. I would rouse myself from sleep and run down the five flights of stairs. We would sit in his cab and talk for hours. Sometimes he brought me food; chickens wrapped in rough brown paper, packages of Vienna Fingers cookies. If he could not nourish me as a child, he would do it now. He told me things that I knew my mother would vehemently deny.
One of the stories he told me made me realize all over again how fortunate I was to have survived life with her.
During what might have been called a brief period of prosperity, my father was able to take out a few loans to buy a washer and dryer ( the cord of which she used to beat me with) and a few other household items. I remember a time where there were new sheets and pillows and cases, and at least on the outside, there appeared a degree of normalcy. But it was short lived and my mother insisted that he return to the loan company and take out yet another loan. My father told her it would be too much of a burden to repay yet another loan so it was something he could not do. All she knew was that she needed the extra money for gambling so she gave him a choice. Find a way to get some money or she would disfigure me (her words) and make me swear in a court of law that he had beat and raped me. I could see how much it hurt him to know that my mother was capable of such an ungodly act. My father found the extra cash.
Three years after I was married and he knew he was dying of cancer, he wanted to leave New York and return to the mountains he always loved even though he rarely got to be there. My mother would not allow it. He paid a friend to move him to my brother's house in South Carolina and there he died. I got the news and cried for him and for the daughter that would not know him.
Although he was my father, I never called him "Daddy". That was too personal for my mother He was Andrew. And that is how I will always remember him.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Brave New World
We are living in a new era. The 21st century is upon us and nothing is the way it used to be. Children grow up much faster than we did, and it is not uncommon for babies to have babies. Years ago it was shameful for a young girl to have a baby. They were often sent away to have their babies in secret, or worst yet, have an abortion. Now it is different. Our young people follow the example of the stars who have children first and wed later, only to divorce and continue a destructive cycle and we are left to wonder.
Teenagers have a say in all aspects of their own life and are often consulted for their opinion in the many choices they have to make. This is not a bad thing but I wonder where it stops.
I had always promised myself that my children ( if I was fortunate to have any) would never suffer the indignities that I did. They would never be ashamed of who and what their parents were or where they came from. I would never take out my frustration on them in a physical, mental or emotional manner. Their lives would be full of plenty and I would always stand guard, guardian at the gate.
My daughter is only 11 years old and I have remained faithful to the promises I made. There is plenty of plenty and as an only child I indulge her; it is her right and my promise. Tonight she asked, as she had many times, for a girlfriend to spend the night. If you have read my blog in the past you know that at any given time there is a small army of girls camping out in my home, basking in the glow of adolescence, lounging with indifference as only tween girls can.
But tonight I said it was not possible. I said "No". I saw her change before my very eyes, the attitude adjustment, the questioning look, and worst of all, the hand on the hip. Again, this is typical adolescence behavior. But it jolted my heart because I have always said "yes", "o.k.", and "sure". I have fed the masses and taxied them home, to the movies and the park. I have been better than good and she knows that. What happened??
We were able to work through this event and she apologized for her behavior. I went to bed a little shaken but this too shall pass. I tell of this incident because I try so hard to be the "good" mom. To fill each and every need, to go above and beyond the call of duty. What did I do wrong??
I know that parenting is not easy but our children are gifts. Our patience is tried more than often than we care to admit but the difference is we are the grownups and it is our job to take charge in a grownup way. And so I do. And so do you. Tomorrow we will pick up where we left off.
And keep on doing what we do best.
Teenagers have a say in all aspects of their own life and are often consulted for their opinion in the many choices they have to make. This is not a bad thing but I wonder where it stops.
I had always promised myself that my children ( if I was fortunate to have any) would never suffer the indignities that I did. They would never be ashamed of who and what their parents were or where they came from. I would never take out my frustration on them in a physical, mental or emotional manner. Their lives would be full of plenty and I would always stand guard, guardian at the gate.
My daughter is only 11 years old and I have remained faithful to the promises I made. There is plenty of plenty and as an only child I indulge her; it is her right and my promise. Tonight she asked, as she had many times, for a girlfriend to spend the night. If you have read my blog in the past you know that at any given time there is a small army of girls camping out in my home, basking in the glow of adolescence, lounging with indifference as only tween girls can.
But tonight I said it was not possible. I said "No". I saw her change before my very eyes, the attitude adjustment, the questioning look, and worst of all, the hand on the hip. Again, this is typical adolescence behavior. But it jolted my heart because I have always said "yes", "o.k.", and "sure". I have fed the masses and taxied them home, to the movies and the park. I have been better than good and she knows that. What happened??
We were able to work through this event and she apologized for her behavior. I went to bed a little shaken but this too shall pass. I tell of this incident because I try so hard to be the "good" mom. To fill each and every need, to go above and beyond the call of duty. What did I do wrong??
I know that parenting is not easy but our children are gifts. Our patience is tried more than often than we care to admit but the difference is we are the grownups and it is our job to take charge in a grownup way. And so I do. And so do you. Tomorrow we will pick up where we left off.
And keep on doing what we do best.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Busting Out All Over
I want to take this time to thank all of you who have been reading my blog and have taken the time and energy to post a comment. It is just the beginnings of something which I hope to be absolute and to help us all heal on our journey towards wholeness. It is a journey that at times I am somewhat hesitant to embark upon due to the dangers encountered on the way. One must examine the hand they have been dealt in this life and find a way to make the best of it. At the end of the day we find a peacefulness of body and spirit that has been a long time coming. Each day we battle for our right to walk among those who have never fought for air in the manner we have. In a way, I feel as though perhaps we have been enlightened and my heart is more open and gentle because of it. It allows me to take a moment and stand back and consider my actions before I commit an unforgivable sin.
There is no easy way to talk about the past but with each other's support and knowledge that we are not alone, we can at least begin the conversation that reaches out and pulls us in. Please continue to read, post a comment and heal. You are not alone.
Ever.
There is no easy way to talk about the past but with each other's support and knowledge that we are not alone, we can at least begin the conversation that reaches out and pulls us in. Please continue to read, post a comment and heal. You are not alone.
Ever.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Final Curtain
I do not usually respond to the news of the day, but today is different. Michael Jackson died today. I believe that Michael and I were very much alike. Longing for a childhood of his own, he surrounded himself with small children and a place where he never had to grow up. Longing for a childhood of my own and safety from the monsters under the bed, I created a world for my daughter where animals talked and reasoned, and became a part of an ever growing loving family.
My heart is so broken because Michael was a gentle soul who looked for love in all the wrong places. He meant so very well but was used by those who saw the answer to their prayers in the simple expectations of a man clinging to a childhood he never had. Michael lived through the children he helped to enjoy a time that is quick and fleeting. Only once are all things so wonderful, pure and filled with joy.
Growing up is easy. It is remaining a child filled with wonder, and a belief in magic that is difficult.
Good-bye Michael. We will miss you for all that you are and have been. My love to you!!
My heart is so broken because Michael was a gentle soul who looked for love in all the wrong places. He meant so very well but was used by those who saw the answer to their prayers in the simple expectations of a man clinging to a childhood he never had. Michael lived through the children he helped to enjoy a time that is quick and fleeting. Only once are all things so wonderful, pure and filled with joy.
Growing up is easy. It is remaining a child filled with wonder, and a belief in magic that is difficult.
Good-bye Michael. We will miss you for all that you are and have been. My love to you!!
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