In Here

I currently have five chattering girls camped out in my living room, Their regular hangout, (the attic upstairs) has become too cramped for their morning activities, therefore, they must spread out. My daughter, the mistress of ceremonies, really knows how to keep a party going. I have warned them that this is my cleaning day, (isn't every day?) and that they need to vacate the premises no later than 1:00 pm. I have managed to sneak in a tender moment with my husband, and now I am ready, as much as I can, to take on the day. Cleaning, shopping, and holiday baking...perhaps an hour at the gym?


Today I feel like an ordinary citizen, with the most ordinary of lives. I take comfort within my own four walls. In here, I am impervious from the storm that is my mother; from those who wish me harm. You probably think that there is a bit of raging paranoia in that statement, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. In here, I can breathe easy, and do as I please. In here, I am my own woman.

In here, I answer to no one, am blamed for nothing.

The morning marches on, and one by one the girls make their way home, only to return much too soon. My daughter, who has really not slept, makes her way back upstairs, dragging her blanket behind her.

Such an ordinary day. How wonderful!

Andi

Bitter Harvest

Two days ago I mailed a money order to my mother. The plain white paper that I wrapped it in bore no greeting. although I believe the message was clear. Given the circumstances of our past, you may wonder why once again, ( after swearing that I wouldn't) dug deep in my pocket and rushed to her aid. Christmas is upon us, and my only real concern is to procure the awe-inspiring gift for my daughter, and have it safely nestled under the tree on Christmas Eve.

The truth of the matter is that although she is still as demented and destructive as she was fifty years ago, I have no choice but to feel sympathy for this aged, pathetic woman. Don't get me wrong, my extreme abhorrence of her is great, particularly when she calls me feigning concern for my family. I know it is only a prelude to the inevitable question. Could I possibly..... and always the promise of prompt repayment. That has never happened, as I know it won't. It's not even the point.

The point is that out of six children, the one she took delight in abusing, is the one who comes to her aid in times of need. You may think that this is an attempt on my part to gain her love and favor. I do not need, want or desire it. She is incapable of those emotions anyway. I only want to have a clear conscience. We are supposed to feed the hungry and tend the sick, even if they are severely mentally ill, as I believe she is and always was. It does not in any way excuse her behavior. Even though I was stripped of my sense of self, and joy of youth, I still have warm blood running through my veins. I have tried to do right by her even though she did not by me.

There will come a day when we will be faced with the reality of what to do with her. A lonely and bitter senior, who squandered her prime years chasing unrealistic dreams, blaming others for her dismal failures, and crushing the light of her only daughter. It is sad in so many ways.

My husband tells me always to be the bigger person. He says you have to fight evil with good. He is a wise man, and he tells me these things to help me cope. Sometimes my anger is so great, it actually makes me violently ill. I have recovered somewhat over these past few days. I must learn to hold on. There is still much to do. I have not yet found that perfect gift.

Still.

Here.

Andi

The Real Me

I have spent a large part of my life growing into the person I am. I have not always been me, but someone else, a me in the making.. Even now, I battle to remain the person I have become, and not the insignificant nobody my family believed I was.

I have found that in the interactions with my family, I am often told that I am mistaken in my memory of events, that they either never happened at all or that I am perhaps "confused" as to the outcome. Years ago I realized that this was just a cover, a ploy, a simple way to remain blameless in spite of the blinding facts of the truth. For a while I questioned myself, my sanity, my memory. Could it all have been nothing more than mere embellishments on my part, making a mountain of out a molehill?? But then it occurred to me that I was, after all, correct in my memory, because my body and soul told the truth. The soul has a memory all it's own, the body, a link to what has been heaped upon it, over and over again. Even if I chose to close my mind to the sins of what had happened, I would still remember. Like a survivor of some terrible war, the trauma is relived over and over, in dreams at night, and often over lunch during the day. It doesn't matter how many times you say you never did anything to me. Lies have no power here.

My soul remembers. And I will never forget.

Still.

Here.


Andi

Still Here

Yes. I know. It has been a while since I last shared my thoughts and insights with you. The past few months have been spent in deep gratitude and reflection. I have assisted my husband in his physical, mental and emotional recovery after this second heart attack. Each day had been another measure of the goodness of God. I have so often thought of the many different ways that this all could have gone wrong. But it didn't, and for that, I am very thankful.


As normalcy returns to my life, I can once again focus my attention back on my blog, the purpose of which was let you know that you are not alone on your journey towards healing. So often I am astonished, ( as you may be too) that I live the conventional life that I do. It is a testament to our persistent inner strength, all of us survivors; we came out on top, and not the bottom as some had hoped. Leaving the past behind is a formidable task, as much as we labor to create distance between ourselves and what was, we actually manage to hitch it behind fluttering, as we progress forward. It will forever, try as we might to shake it, be an eternal part of us.



The holidays will be upon us shortly. That means shopping, cooking, baking, and the gathering of family and friends. My daughter has insisted we make the same gingerbread cookies we made when she was three, complete with gumdrop eyes and buttons. We will do that and more. Even though her belief in Santa, elves and reindeer is long gone, I will still provide the magic that is Christmas. We are together and nothing could be better than that.



Still here.



Andi

Answered Prayers

Too, too much has happened in the month since I last shared my thoughts with you. I had been on a wonderful vacation to Florida with my husband, daughter and in-laws. We had laughed and drank, and done all those things that families do when they enjoy each other's company. Too soon it was all over and we returned home. I was rushing to get my house in order before the start of a new school year when the unthinkable happened.

I had been home engaged in my household chores. My daughter, still flying high from her vacation, was upstairs with a friend, still desperately clinging to summer vacation. As I chatted on the phone with my brother, out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband as he made his way past our house and down the alley. Moments later he appeared again. I thought it odd that he looked so disheveled. He normally went to the gym and showered after playing tennis, and here he was, standing before me , a wrinkled towel half covering his mouth, his eyes partly closed. "I feel sick," he muttered, and I saw that it was taking great effort for him to remain standing. "We're going to the hospital right now!", I said very calmly, even though my insides had begun to quiver. And so began the unreal reality that comes with unexpected events such as heart attacks and car accidents.

Then came the news of a second heart attack, the hours waiting in the critical care unit, the calling of his family and the bedside vigil that lasted seven days. During that time, we prayed the rosary and read the Bible, and on the third night as I watched the monitor record his heartbeat at thirty seven, I was almost sure that I would never take him home. It was then that I began to bargain with God, as all people who find themselves in situations where they have no control. God holds all the cards, and you pray that he will allow you a chance to win one more hand. And so in desperation, I promised that I would forgive all those who had wronged me, I would forgive myself for things I did and things I had neglected to do. Most of all, I would forgive me mother. I didn't know how I would do it, but I would, for another chance for us to be a family, for another chance to kiss his lips, for another chance to nestle close to him at night. I would do all this and then some.

Four days later, with a defibrillator implanted just above his heart, I took my husband home. I have not yet stopped thanking God, but I am still working on the forgiveness part.

Still here.

Bully

Even though I am of an age that I dare not mention, today I feel like that battered helpless child whose small voice could not be heard. My mother has thrust herself upon me. She has put herself into a rather precarious position, and I in my tights and billowing cape must rush out to save her. Although she is old, she has not changed; her propensity to disrupt and antagonize is as sharp as ever. In the days before her arrival at my house, my head ached and my body felt as if it were on fire inside. It kept me awake at night as I listened to the thunderous snoring of my sleeping husband. When I did sleep it was light, and I awoke groggy and angry. I have made it apparent that I do not want her near me, but she is in need as she always is and since no one else can or will help her, she ignores the signs and elbows her way in, like a thirsty bovine beast shoving its way to the front of the watering hole.


She believes erroneously that the room she stays in when she is here is actually "her room". She has claimed it like the unwavering bully she is, and actually seemed shocked that it was not ready and waiting for her. I will grant her two days. That's more than she ever gave me.


My husband says we will deal with it, but he does not know what I see when I close my eyes at night. She had the nerve to tell me that all she wanted from me as a child was to be a "good girl" and that I was the "greatest kid". In my entire life I had never heard those words uttered about me. I usually heard "slut", "bitch", and "whore", accompanied by a slap, kick, or punch. When did I become the "greatest kid"?


I know one cannot change the past, but the future is a different story. That's why I love my daughter so deeply and fully. When I take her shopping for her new school clothes, it will be just the two of us, and it will be a grand affair. We will shop and eat, and shop and eat till we get tired.
I hope my mother understands that she is only reaping what she has sown. I am not yet capable of forgiving, even though I know it would be healthy for me to do so. In the meantime though, my anger is alive and well. I don't see it dissipating any time soon. Still here.

Mommy Dearest

The first time I remember being snatched and viciously slapped, I was perhaps four years old. I am sure that it had happened countless times before, but this was my first conscious memory of it. I had just spent five minutes with my father who I had not seen in what must have been a long time to a little girl. As I reached up to hug him, I remember how rough the stubble on his cheek was against my face. He smelled of cigarettes and beer, but I didn't care. We lived in one of the old row homes in Philadelphia that was large and drafty. It was after all, the inner city in the sixties. I did not know where my father had been, only that he was in New York most of the time. Seeing him was rare but I knew he was my daddy. I had been told how much I looked like him; the same forehead and eyes. Our similarities did not stop there. According to my mother, we also shared the same degenerate tendencies as though the blood of mongrel dogs coursed through our veins.

I saw that he was getting ready to leave and I remember asking him to get a splinter out of my foot. I happily sat on his lap as he gently pulled the splinter out. It was only later as I made my way around a corner of the room that a violent hand reached out and grabbed me. It was my mother and even now I can still see the henious look on her face. It was twisted with fury as she crunched the bones in my little body. My sin: she was convinced that the splinter in my foot was only a ploy to get my father to look up my dress. How cunning and seductive I must have been at four years old!

This same scenario was to be played out countless times over the next twenty years and beyond. Her obsession with me as a insatiable sexual creature whose appetite knew no bounds. The sadistic beatings, the humiliation, the name-calling, the threats, and the shredding of mind, body and spirit. Throw in the abject poverty, the loss of the sense of self, of who and what you are and why, and I will tell you that sometimes I wonder how I walk upright.

I will say that there was a strength within me that I didn't know I had that kept me going, one foot in front of the other, day after day, year after year, until there came that glorious day that I was old enough to flee. And even though it took years to put myself back together, I often fall apart. I know that it wasn't all me; angels surely guided me in times of extreme chaos and kept me safe from serious danger. However, they could not save me from the horror that was my mother.

I am thankful to have done more than just survive; in some ways I have actually flourished.

Still here.