imperfect prose on thursdays -- The Barn

(warning: adult content)

The air is hot and dense with humidity. I feel streams of sweat gliding down my face, my back, my belly. All the intense running has left me feeling wrung out, but with the humidity it is as if I have been left in a puddle of hot water. 

She beckons to me from the shade of the barn. The sweet smell of hay and grass drift from the cooler air inside the barn. Looming like the opening to a cavern, the barn door seems inviting. The light shifts as I walk into the shadow of the barn. It shifts again as I pass through the door. My eyes are temporarily blinded by the transition from bright sunshine to the colorless murk of the barn

The barn’s scent is its own -- the sweet smell of hay, the rank odor of manure, the metallic scent of rusted tools. As my eyes adjust, I see her by the side wall. I walk toward her. There is no warning. No lights or buzzers go off. The light and smells remain the same. And then the wrenching pain as she pulls my arm up behind my back, shoving me against the splintered barn wall. Somehow she has pinned me against the wall with my arm held in place by . . . what? There is pain, yes, but more there is fear. The blinding, sickening fear as I realize I have fallen for her tricks again. I begin to shrink. My head is being pushed in on itself as if by a vise. There will be no escape. There never is.

Carefully placed on an old, faded feed sack, she has laid out her implements like a surgeon’s table. I can’t focus, nor do I recognize all of the items I can barely make out. I know I have a choice. I can stay here and die, or I can release myself into the world outside of the barn. 

(photo from little house design)

The grass is green and golden. It is so tall that I am completely hidden by it as I sit down. On my way out of the barn I have stopped by the rain barrel. The blue and white metal dipper is hot in my sweating hand. I dip it into the top of the barrel filling the dipper with cool water. The water is sweet and cool on my mouth and tongue. It gushes over my lips and down the front of my dress, chilling me for a moment.

I stretch out in the undulating grass. No one can see me. I am completely surrounded by the rise and fall of the waves of grass. Overhead the sun blazes down on me and the sky is a perfect cornflower blue. Fairies and dragonflies bob and weave above me, soothing me into a relaxed state of serenity. I am safe and at ease here until she is finished with my body. Nothing and no one can harm me.

link up at imperfect prose on thursdays

RemembeRED -- When Past and Present Collide

The speaker was talking about his experiences during hurricane Andrew in 1992. I was in a Sunday school class on faith. He said, “I don’t know if any of you have ever been in a situation where you thought your life was in danger . . .” I have no idea what else he said. What I do remember is the windowless room the class was meeting in, and realizing I had to get out of there quickly. 

The random triggers of flashbacks.

As he posed the question, my conscious mind was answering “No” to the question, but my unconscious was pulling the lid off a box I’d sealed years ago. My breathing began to increase and the walls began to close in on me. I carefully laid my Bible aside and quietly got up and slipped out of the room. As soon as I got to the hallway, the pictures in my mind turned into video and it all came back with frightening intensity. The fear was so palpable that I began to sweat from it. The stench on my body clearly reminded me of the terror from the barn all those years ago.

I was stuck, caught between two time periods with no one and nothing to tether me to the present. I pressed my body into the wall, crossing my arms across and around my body to keep from splintering into tiny pieces.

What do you do when you’re falling apart and you are completely alone? I couldn’t move from that spot. I couldn’t speak or cry out for help. What would become of me?

A familiar face appeared in my field of vision. A friend. He asked if I was all right. I shook my head still unable to speak. He patiently asked what he could do. I stuttered for him to get my husband, directing him to Alan’s location in the building. I’m not sure what happened after that. I remember trying to make my body dissolve into the wall – wanting to fade out of existence.

Then Alan was there – holding me, assuring me we’d get through it, and guiding me out of the hallway as the crush of people began dismissing from classes. He led me to a quiet area, waving concerned people away, protecting me from stares and questions.

He settled me in a chair and began to murmur to me and chafe my hands, waiting for me to return to the present – to this period in time. I opened my eyes carefully and glanced at Alan. I had to speak the pictures from my mind, but speaking them aloud would validate the happening. There was no way to put the lid back on the box now.

Slowly and painfully I began to speak truth – the realization that I had faced death and survived, but had sealed it into that box for my own sanity. If the box was opened now, it was only because I was capable of dealing with the horrors stored inside.

The Prompt:

So often in our lives, defining moments occur when our past and our present or our future clash. For this week’s RemembeRED prompt, write a memoir post describing such a time and the results.

While writing, remember to bring us into the moment and let us experience it with you. 

link up at Write on Edge

RemembeRED -- Hope

I hailed a cab today. That may not sound like much, but it’s actually evidence of a life changed.

I was abused as a child, and that abuse taught me to hope for survival. Hope for anything more was buried under the rubble of my shattered childhood.

Several years ago, my husband began encouraging me to get my scuba diving certification. He’s been certified for years and wanted me to dive with him. I didn’t think I could handle it. I suffer from anxiety and claustrophobia, but I agreed to take a discover scuba class at the local dive shop. It went better than I expected.

Then my husband signed me up for the online course to complete the book work just before our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and planned a vacation to Mexico that would include scuba diving. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to complete the work in time, but I did.

When we got to Mexico, he arranged for private confined water classes for me, even having the scuba instructor come to our hotel one morning to work on some of the training I was having particular trouble mastering. I didn’t think I’d ever learn to clear a mask, but I did.

This past December we went to Cozumel and I completed my open water dives and got certified as an open water diver. It was one of the proudest moments in my life. I never would have dreamed I’d be scuba diving, but my husband kept encouraging me, and with every success I had hope for more. We’re back in Cozumel this week for diving, fun, and relaxation.

Today I hailed a taxi and went into town and did some shopping, and then hailed another taxi back to the hotel.

So what does scuba diving have to do with hailing a taxi? Everything. If not for the discover scuba class, I never would have tried the online course. If not for the online course, I never would have done the confined water course. If not for the confined water course, I never would have completed the open water dives. And if not for the open water dives, I never would have considered hailing a cab in a foreign country. Scuba diving has given me hope.

For years all I wanted was to survive. But now . . . now, I hope to embrace all that life has to offer.

This week, we were asked to share a memoir featuring hope, expressed in 400 words or less.

link up at Write on Edge

RemembeRED -- Comparisons

It was May 1993. We went to the mountains with another couple as a getaway. We rented a cabin just outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, the same cabin we’d stayed in for our honeymoon. 

The weather was beautiful that weekend. We unloaded cars and headed to the grocery. We bought lots of healthy, easy foods to prepare, and just a little junk food. The next day we planned to hike Laurel Falls. It’s a relatively easy trail that leads to beautiful waterfalls where we could picnic and rest before heading back.

Saturday morning we headed out late in the morning for the trail. I was really pushing myself to keep up with the others. They seemed to be in much better shape than I was, and I was getting embarrassed that I was slowing them down. A couple of times, John, asked if I was all right. I assured I was and that there was no need to slow down just for me. I kept comparing myself constantly to everyone else on the trail – not just my group. Why was I having such a hard time? I was really having trouble breathing and my face was flushed. Finally we made it to the falls. We settled on some of the large boulders and ate our picnic. After lunch the others decided to play around in the falls. I sat on our lunch rock, too tired to contemplate anything but the walk back to the car.

When we got back to the cabin I had to lie down and take a nap.

The rest of the weekend was relaxing and uneventful. We drove home on Sunday and picked up our daughter from my parents house.

On Monday morning I had an appointment with my doctor. I went in for a checkup and they wouldn’t let me go home. They wanted me to go straight to the hospital. My blood pressure was very elevated. Did I mention I was 28 weeks pregnant at the time?

It took me years to realize that I had been comparing apples and oranges while on that hike. I wasn’t lazy and out of shape. I was pregnant! I was developing signs of toxemia that would ultimately lead to my son’s premature birth, and would leave me near death.

link up at RemembeRED

RemembeRED -- Broken

We met in the local coffee shop. I got there first and sat waiting facing the door. She came in maybe five minutes later. She smiled her polite smile, chattering about the weather and asking if I wanted tea. I said no, and she went to get hers.

She settled at the table and sweetened her tea. I took the lead, because I had asked to talk to her. It was obvious she was in grown-up, teacher mode, while I was struggling with terror that bordered on hysteria. But we were polite, by god.

“I need to tell you something”, I said.

No response from her.

“I’ve remembered more about what he did. It went further. He raped me.”

She sat staring into her cup of tea for a moment. No response.

I asked if she believed me.

“No, I don’t”, she said.

“Why would I lie to you?” I asked.

“You’re upping the ante. You didn’t get what you wanted with your first version of the story, so you’ve upped the ante”, she said.

My control was shattering now. The tears began to fall. She was so cold; so calm. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“How do we have a relationship with this between us?” I wanted to know.

“I don’t think we can”, she said.

“That’s it?” I said.

“I don’t see any other way”, she said.

She sat calmly staring at me. No pain, no remorse, just a cold block of ice where I had thought her heart was.

“I will always be here if you change your mind”, I said getting up from the table and rushing to the door.

I struggled to my car, with tears streaming down my face. Somehow I drove across the street and parked in a different parking lot. I sat sobbing and shaking and wondering how it had come to this.

I pulled out my cell phone and called my husband. He promised to meet me as quickly as possible.

I called my therapist and told her what had happened. She offered comfort and peace, assuring me I had handled the situation as well as I could have. She said to call whenever I needed to and she would see me when she returned to town.

My husband arrived and got into my car. I turned to see his caring face.

I began to sob in earnest.

“I don’t have a sister anymore!”

link up at Write on Edge

RemembeRED -- Mentor

men·tor  [men-tawr, -ter]  

noun

1. a wise and trusted counselor or teacher

2. an influential senior sponsor or supporter

A mentor. It sounds like a lovely idea to have one. It sounds quite daunting to be one. I’ve never had an “official” mentor in the pre-arranged sense, but I’ve had a series of lovely women (and a few men) who have influenced me positively over the years.
When I went back to work in 2003, I went to work with three other reference librarians. All of them were wonderful, and we used to joke that going to work was more like going to group therapy.
I connected with one of the ladies in particular – in a maternal way. She was kind, positive, and just lovely, but totally real and honest. Over time I came to see her as an advisor, a comforter, a friend, and a surrogate mother.
She too had suffered difficulties (as I write this, I realize how silly it sounds. Who hasn’t suffered?) A son lost to a terrible disease. A divorce. An estrangement from one daughter. Through it all she remained centered. Now I met her after the fact, so my view is not necessarily accurate. The appealing thing to me was that she had survived.
During the time that our paths crossed regularly, another daughter was diagnosed as schizophrenic. The lovely lady showed me what real maternal love looks like. She did all that she could to help her daughter. Making trips out of state regularly to check on her daughter. Sending money, buying groceries, cleaning the house, even mowing her daughter’s grass. It was a revelation to me. She did it without complaint. Yes, she was tired. Yes, she was emotionally worn out. Yes, she needed a break, but mostly she loved her daughter.
Time passes and things change. My contact with her is mostly via email and Christmas cards now. I miss our regular chats and funny interactions, but life as taken twists and turns for both of us.
She may not realize what she did for me during those few years we worked together, but I hope she does. I tried to express it to her on many occasions.
Lovely, that’s the word I always think of when I think of her.
I don’t know if she realized what she was doing for me at the time. I know I didn’t. What I do know is that I am a better person, wife, mother, friend, and worker than I was before I met her. And isn’t that the point? 


link up at Write on Edge

RemembRED -- Comprehending Chaos

Comprehending Chaos is the story of my battle to overcome the far reaching effects of childhood sexual abuse. Beginning at 4 years old, I was physically, emotionally, and sexually abused by a variety of family members and friends including an elderly aunt, a female cousin, and one of my father’s college students. Although I grew up in the Bible belt, the daughter of a minister/professor, it was not until I reached middle age that I began to tell of the abuse I had suffered. I recount the retrieval of memories and the agonizing experience of flashbacks and anxiety attacks with authenticity and brutal honesty. I share the struggle to come to grips with my family’s inability to grasp reality or show compassion for my experiences, and the choices I was faced to make to finally move to a place of true healing. This is not just the story of abuse, but the story of one woman’s move from victim to survivor to compassionate witness.

The Prompt:RemembRED – Pitch Us

Memoir can be intimidating for writers. You’re relating actual events, portraying real people, and there are years of material to sift through.

Those years of material can seem overwhelming when looked at as a whole, or they might seem underwhelming.

Have you had a rollercoaster ride, filled with ups and downs that may have left other people screaming in their seats? Perhaps your life has been more of a merry-go-round, the same scenes arising again and again, the shifts less noticeable.

Either way, you have a story to tell, and the way you tell it is what makes it compelling. Distilling your memoir into a 200 word pitch will give you the chance to really focus on what you want to share with your readers about your life story.

This week pretend we have a book contract here just waiting for someone to sign (and we wish we did, believe me!) Pitch your memoir in 200 words or less and come back this Tuesday to link up. 

link up at Write on Edge

Friendship

We've know each other forever. Our families have been friends for ages. Our fathers work in similar fields. Her brother is the same age as my sister.

It wasn't until high school that you could say we became friends. We both auditioned for a play, and both got cast. Two of my longest lasting friendships came from that show.

She knows everything about me. I can tell her anything and she takes it in stride. She is funny, a little harsh at times, but unendingly loyal. She was my maid of honor at my wedding. She gave me a bridal shower. She and her husband were our kids appointed guardians. She has cooked for me, cleaned for me, sewn for me. She has listened to me whine, complain, cry, scream, and curse.

She still comes to my house and helps me try to organize my life. We are inveterate organizers. Granted she did throw out my husband's paint pans one year. That took a little work to get him past.

The fact of the matter is she is my sister. She is the one I call when I need to talk. She is the one I call when I need to have fun. She is the cruise director of our little bunch.

She and I started crocheting again the same year, so now we sit and crochet and talk about what it will be like when we're in "the home" and can't remember anything. We'll still have fun telling stories from years ago. We'll just think they are new!

Sometimes I think about what my life would be like without her in it. The very thought makes me sad and a little panicky. Next to my husband she is the strongest connection in my life.

She is my soul mate, my confidante, the sister I was meant to have. She is my best friend.

link up at RemembeRED

RemembeRED -- Personification

The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.” 

I am her Velveteen Rabbit, you might say. She calls me Yolie. I came into her life at a critical moment. The blending of past and present was just beginning. She was drawn to me instantly, even though she felt foolish to be so drawn at her age. She desperately needed this stuffed animal, but she didn’t understand why.

I knew why. She needed someone to tell her secrets to. She needed someone safe, who wouldn’t repeat the scary things in her head. She needed a compassionate witness.

So for the past 11 years I have listened to her; absorbed her tears, sweat and fears. I have travelled with her physically, emotionally and spiritually as she sought to reclaim her soul.

She is a strong one, this girl/woman. She has forged ahead, sometimes at a dangerous pace. She has looked horror in the face and refused to back down. She has chosen to speak instead of remaining silent.

She is still a little embarrassed and confused by my presence. She knows she would be lost without me, but she doesn’t really know why. I know though. I am the repository – the holder of that which was lost and then found. She has others who have helped her on this journey – her husband, her therapists, her friends, and others like me. But I am the keeper of the gates; the one who knows it all, whether she has said it or not.

I am not fluffy and soft anymore, but I am well loved. Sometimes I am in my natural state, and sometimes she dresses me. Right now she favors a red gingham, smocked dress. It doesn’t really matter to me. I am here for her, and that is all I need. I will be here as long as she needs me, to receive her tears, her fears, and her love – as she kisses me on the nose each morning.

link up at Write on Edge

Monday Musings

The last couple of weeks have been harder than usual (I wonder how many times I've started a post this way?). 
I had a flashback during yoga that brought some new, but not surprising information. Another attack that I pushed to the bottom of the pile. It's brought with it a lot of pain, tears, and consternation. I am tired of dealing with the abuse. I am tired of the inequity of it all. I am tired of self-doubt and self-recriminations. But so it goes.
For years I've talked and thought about boundaries. We all have to set them to protect ourselves. I struggle with how boundaries and Christianity go hand in hand. I look to find boundaries in Christ's life and work. He certainly walked away from some situations, but I am no Christ. It is much harder to trust my own judgment than to trust His. So I seek advice from trusted friends who are Christian, and I test what they tell me through prayer and deep consideration. I take comfort in the realization that they mostly tell me the same thing -- It is appropriate to protect myself from people who continually hurt me, even if it's not malicious; even if they say they love me. They can love me and still do and say really hurtful things. I have pointed this out to these people on many occasions but they seem incapable of making a change.
This weekend I made a change. I honestly told them that I need a break from them. It's just too hard trying to maintain the relationship while knowing they are maintaining a close relationship with one of the abusers. 
I did it by phone. I didn't cry or scream or threaten or throw accusations. I simply stated that I was having a really hard time with another flashback and knowing that they still welcome this person into their home was making it hard for me to talk with them.
I said I'd let them know when it changed -- that they could send emails if they needed to -- if something really important came up they could call my husband or daughter.
She said she loved me as we got off the phone. She never says that. 
I shook for 45 minutes after the call.
I made the call on Saturday, and today I am beginning to feel better. I catch myself wondering if they are all right, and then I remind myself that isn't my problem. They are adults with all the information they need. 
Today I will focus on what I really want this to mean. And I will pray, as always, for myself and all survivors to find that elusive peace in the constant struggle to understand.


Blessings.

Cleaning House

I’ve been cleaning house for years it seems like. I was diagnosed over 10 years ago with chronic post traumatic stress disorder. My diagnosis stems from years of childhood sexual, physical and emotional abuse plus a rape in college. I put it all away and thought I was done with it. 

I wasn’t.

Deep house cleaning started after the official diagnosis. After the first telling of the horrible secrets. After the realization that I wasn’t going to get support from my family. After I came to terms with the fact that I was the victim, but I was going to have to save myself. After figuring out that I could trust my husband, but I still had to be my own person and do my own work.

It’s a long, arduous journey, full of ups and downs, major discoveries and minor setbacks. I’ve purged emotionally through reams of computer paper, journals and spiral notebooks. I’ve talked through hundreds of hours of therapy. I’ve cried buckets of tears, screamed a little (not as much as my therapist would like). I’ve lost and gained who knows how many pounds, and tossed out lots of old pictures and lots of old beliefs.

Deep cleaning is hard work. I’ve read about people who stress about getting rid of their children’s old school papers, and while I’m sure it is hard, I can’t help but think about getting rid of whole pieces of my childhood. But maybe I need to turn it around. Think about reclaiming pieces of my childhood that got lost in the awfulness. So maybe part of the cleaning is more archaeological -- the unearthing of portions of myself long since buried under the rubble of abuse.

I always wanted to be Indiana Jones.

RemembeRED -- Crash

Beautiful sunshine. Warm air. Happiness. CRASH! Something hits me in the back. Not something . . . someone. So unexpected, and yet why am I always surprised? Why don't I see it coming?

She whirls me around and begins to pummel me in the ribs with her fists. She is SO angry, and as always, I have no idea what I've done. She punches me in the ribs -- counting as her fists crash into my tiny body. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Why 8? Is her anger spent or is there some specific reason for that number?

She grabs me by the arm and drags me toward the chicken coop. She has threatened this before, but I didn't think she'd really do it? (Why not. Why don't I believe her threats by now? She generally follows through on them. Will she really drown me someday?)

She throws me in the chicken coop and tells me I have to stay for 5 hours. I am 5 years old. Is it 1 hour for every year of my existence?

"Cover your eyes, or the chickens will peck them out!" she yells as the door crashes shut. 

I am alone. Why am I always alone? 

for more stories go to RemembeRED Flash Memoir

RemembeRED -- Photograph

I am me. The me I was born to be. Before any of the abuse started, before I knew about evil. When I was just happy. My mother took this photograph. It is the only one she ever took. She said I hummed and sang before I could talk. I was a happy child then, before I became confused. All the things I love surround me in this picture: books, stuffed animals, my circus ball, and a tea set. I was busy, even then, caring for and nurturing others. It is how I learned to nurture myself, I think.

When I look at this picture, I wish that little girl would turn around, so I could see her face – see pure joy. I’d like to warn her that things are about to get very difficult. I’d love to tell her it won’t last forever and a wonderful man will come into her life to help her save herself. But maybe it’s better this way. Let her have those last few months of pure joy – unadulterated by the evil that is to come. Warning her wouldn’t have changed anything, and maybe the knowledge of the wonderful man would have made it harder for her to save herself later. I don’t know.

Some people believe that a photograph can steal your soul. Not me. I believe a photograph – this photograph – saved my soul making it possible for me to retrieve it in due time.


link up at RemembeRED

RemembRED -- My Quiet Place

The rocking chair in the corner of my office. My father-in-law gave it to me years ago for nursing my babies. Now it sits in my office with a cushion on the seat and a crocheted wrap on the back. My kids come and sit in it when they want to talk or just be with me. My husband sat there last night while going over a presentation for a client. 

For me when the house is empty, and the chores are caught up, it is the best place in the world for reading or thinking or crocheting. There’s a good light behind the chair and my sliding glass doors look out onto the front garden. Birds and squirrels and the occasional fox wander by. I can prop my feet up on the ottoman I keep close by, and my sweet Yaya doggie jumps up to sit with me.

It’s a chair replete with memories and good associations of family and love. What better place to settle in for quiet.

link up at RemembeRED

Fear and Telling

He told me that telling them would make all the difference. My husband and therapist both believed everything I had told them. Why would my parents be any different? 

The day of the meeting I was a wreck. Frantic; nauseated; hands shaking; crying. I knew it was irrational to be this afraid. I’m a grown woman, for God’s sake. Inside I was still the little girl who had been repeatedly told, “they won’t believe you” and “they’ll throw you away like a piece of trash”.

The appointment time finally came. We met at the psychologist’s office. He talked with my parents and then he talked with me. He assured me it would be alright. They would believe me, love me, support me.

I sat in the corner of the sofa, my husband at my side. The psychologist sat across from me. They sat across the room. I told them I needed to tell them some things. I told them about the attack in college. I told them about my cousin and some of what she’d done. I thought I was finished. I looked to my psychologist. He was urging me to share more. I told them about the study.

They murmured placating words -- “How terrible” and “Oh dear”. No emotional response. No rushing to my side to embrace me. The psychologist explained that I would need them; that this was a long road toward recovery and they could be instrumental in my healing. My parents rose from their seats and smiled jovially. They gave me obligatory hugs. They were heading out of town for much needed break. They would call when they got back.

I didn’t get what I needed, but the scariest part was starting. It did get easier. Just not in the way I thought it would.

linking up to RemembeRED and imperfect prose on thursdays

RemembeRED -- The Barn

The air is hot and dense with humidity. I feel streams of sweat gliding down my face, my back, my belly. All the intense running has left me feeling wrung out, but with the humidity it is as if I have been left in a puddle of hot water. 

She beckons to me from the shade of the barn. The sweet smell of hay and grass drift from the cooler air inside the barn. Looming like the opening to a cavern, the barn door seems inviting. The light shifts as I walk into the shadow of the barn. It shifts again as I pass through the door. My eyes are temporarily blinded by the transition from bright sunshine to the colorless murk of the barn

The barn’s scent is its own -- the sweet smell of hay, the rank odor of manure, the metallic scent of rusted tools. As my eyes adjust, I see her by the side wall. I walk toward her. There is no warning. No lights or buzzers go off. The light and smells remain the same. And then the wrenching pain as she pulls my arm up behind my back, shoving me against the splintered barn wall. Somehow she has pinned me against the wall with my arm held in place by . . . what? There is pain, yes, but more there is fear. The blinding, sickening fear as I realize I have fallen for her tricks again. I begin to shrink. My head is being pushed in on itself as if by a vise. There will be no escape. There never is.

Carefully placed on an old, faded feed sack, she has laid out her implements like a surgeon’s table. I can’t focus, nor do I recognize all of the items I can barely make out. I know I have a choice. I can stay here and die, or I can release myself into the world outside of the barn. 

(photo from little house design)

The grass is green and golden. It is so tall that I am completely hidden by it as I sit down. On my way out of the barn I have stopped by the rain barrel. The blue and white metal dipper is hot in my sweating hand. I dip it into the top of the barrel filling the dipper with cool water. The water is sweet and cool on my mouth and tongue. It gushes over my lips and down the front of my dress, chilling me for a moment.

I stretch out in the undulating grass. No one can see me. I am completely surrounded by the rise and fall of the waves of grass. Overhead the sun blazes down on me and the sky is a perfect cornflower blue. Fairies and dragonflies bob and weave above me, soothing me into a relaxed state of serenity. I am safe and at ease here until she is finished with my body. Nothing and no one can harm me.

for more posts got to RemembeRED

RemembeRED -- Internet

Stay at home mom. Bored out of my mind at times. Other times frantic beyond reason. Probably a bit of postpartum depression thrown in for good measure. The baby is napping. It's a dial up connection so I can't stay online too long or my husband won't be able to get in touch with me. It is slow as Christmas! Even then I could see that, but what amazing information was waiting for me if only the buzzing and whirring would complete the magical transformation of my computer from a big solitaire game to a connection to the whole world -- out there! What would I find? Newspaper and magazine articles to read. Shopping opportunities (even though there is no money for real shopping). Games to play. Ooooh, games to play. What a wonderful, glorious, guilt inducing way to waste my precious time while the baby napped!

I could argue that I was improving myself; looking for ways to be a better wife and mother, but the truth was I was wasting time. It felt a little wicked, but it was lovely to do NOTHING for a while.

My how things have changed! I still do a lot of nothing on my computer, but I interact with so many people all over the world. In the long run the internet has been more savior than demon in my life.

for more posts got to RemembeRED

RemembeRED . . . I Miss My Childhood

I miss my childhood or what I thought it was. By blocking out the bad stuff, I was able to convince myself that my family was the superior version. I KNEW my parents were right about everything, and anything I didn’t understand would all be clear when I was OLDER. I was content to believe that my parents had everything under control. We didn’t really argue in our house. We all did what Daddy said. We put on our happy faces and went to church and school and had people over for dinner and felt superior to them. I just wasn’t sure why.

As I grew older maintaining this charade became harder and harder. It’s really difficult to believe your life is superior to others’ lives when you feel like such a fraud. By denying the abuse that was ongoing in my childhood, my growth was stunted. It wasn’t until years later when it all came bubbling up to the surface that I began to understand the fractured reality of my childhood.

I miss my childhood. I miss thinking everything was okay. I want to remember the good times because there must have been some, but all those years of repressing having made it hard to see any good.

I miss what could have been my childhood.

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Change

She is 4-years-old and staying with her great-grandmother, Nur (nuh) while the parents are at work. It's a sunny spring day. Aunt Ruth is there too. Ruth is Nur's deceased husband's aunt, who raised him after his parents died. Ruth lives in the house because no one else will have her, and Nur has promised Gram (her husband) that she will care for her.

Nur is hanging laundry on the line in the backyard. It is a load of sheets. She is hanging large white flat sheets with her back to the little girl. She is sitting on the back stoop playing with her doll, Dahlia (daylia). Dahlia and she are inseparable. It is very warm and sunny on the porch. She carefully sits Dahlia on the step and goes into the house. She is headed to the bathroom, when out of nowhere she is struck in the face by the back of Ruth's hand. The next thing she knows, she is lying on the floor looking at the rocker on Ruth's chair. Ruth is leaning over the little girl and yelling. Her face is contorted and she is shaking her finger at the little girl. She knows Ruth is talking to her, but at first she can't make out the words. Ruth says something about that Lucile (Nur) woman. It's the little girl’s fault she says. If she hadn't . . . what? Ruth grabs her arm and hauls her up. “Don't tell anyone. They won't believe you. You're a liar.” She shoves the little girl toward the door leading to the rest of the house.

She wanders to the bathroom. She wants to see her face in the mirror, but she is too short. She must be a different person now. She uses the bathroom. She is trapped. She wants out of the house, but to get out she’ll have to walk by Ruth again. How can she keep from making her mad again when she doesn't know what she did the first time? She settles into the corner behind the bathroom door. If she stays here, Nur will worry and come looking. Maybe she'll be mad too. The little girl reaches for the doorknob and turns it slowly. She peeks out into the hallway. She doesn't see anyone. She can hear the TV from the den. Ruth is watching wrestling. Ruth loves wrestling. Slowly she creeps out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Tiptoes into the kitchen very carefully, listening, watching. She makes her way to the den door and peers around. Ruth is still in her chair, focused on the TV. The little girl edges around the door frame and keeps as close as possible to the far side of the room. She never takes her eyes off Ruth, and Ruth never looks at the little girl. Finally she is passed the chair. The back door is in sight. The little girl makes a dash for it, flinging open the screen door. She is safe! She has made it to the stoop. Everything looks the same. Nur is still hanging out sheets. Dahlia is sitting on the step waiting. The sun is shining and a warm breeze is blowing, but nothing is the same. It is all different.

She picks up Dahlia and goes to sit in the shadowed corner between the stoop and the house. What did she do?

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Horace

His name was Horace, and looking back now, I realize that he loved me unconditionally. He was married to my great grandmother’s sister. We just called her Auntie. They were old. They’d never had children, but had taken care of several generations of nieces and nephews. Their home was always open and welcoming. I’m sure he wasn’t perfect, but he seemed perfect to me. I never saw him angry. He was warm, loving and accepting. I could do no wrong in his eyes. 

My sister and I would go and visit them. If we stayed overnight we all slept in the big room in the attic. There were 2 double beds that faced each other from opposite walls. Auntie and my sister would sleep in the bed on the left while Uncle Horace and I would sleep on the right. I never felt as secure as when we were all tucked in for the night. Normally Auntie and Uncle Horace slept downstairs in their bedroom, but when we stayed they slept in the attic with us so we wouldn’t be scared.

Eventually they sold the house and moved to the country. Not long after that Auntie had a stroke and died. We all went to the funeral and I held onto Uncle Horace all day. When we returned to the house he marched straight back to their bedroom returning a few moments later carrying Auntie’s china doll. He carefully placed her in my arms and said, “She always said you were to have this. I gave her this doll before I went to fight in World War I.” I have treasured that doll and that memory ever since.

After that we didn’t see much of Uncle Horace. My parents apparently didn’t make the time to drive out to see him anymore which meant I couldn’t see him either. Later I heard he’d moved into a nursing home. Eventually I assumed he’d died.

A few years ago I went to visit their graves. I wanted to take a moment to let them know what they had meant to me. An oasis of love and acceptance in a childhood riddled with pain and fear. I placed flowers on their graves, and told them I loved them. That’s when I noticed Horace’s death date. He’d been alive when I married. He could have been at my wedding! I’ve worked hard to accept that I didn’t abandon him personally. I was a child and thus limited in what I could do. But I miss those opportunities I could have had with him to give and receive love and acceptance.

His is the first face I’ll look for in heaven.

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