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Last week I posted a picture of my Christmas Sugarplum Fairy. All of you seemed interested in her story, so here's what I can tell you.
Last year my sister-in-law gave me this decorative sugarplum fairy, but I didn't get to use it until this year.
That's the story. Not very exciting, I'll grant you, but that's about it.
Now why would my sister-in-law give me a fairy for Christmas? That's probably a better story.
Many years ago I developed a liking for fairies, especially those drawn by Cicely Mary Barker. I couldn't really explain it, I just knew that their images made me happy and filled me with peace. My family accepted this and periodically bought me little fairy-themed items.
Over time I've come to understand that the fairies represented safety and protection to my child-mind. I had "memories" of fairies coming to me and helping me during some of the episodes of abuse. In particular, there is an episode involving the barn where I envisioned fairies watching over and protecting me until the abuse was over.
I used to be embarrassed by this affinity for fairies. I assume what I saw at that time was dragonflies flying over the hay, perhaps even in and out of the barn as the abuse took place, but in my child-mind they became fairies. Fairies sent there to care for me. To offer comfort, peace, and joy, and perhaps, distraction.
I have a lot of fairies in my house. In my bedroom, the bathroom, randomly placed around other rooms. And I have lots of dragonflies now as well. It's a way of honoring my status as a survivor, and a way to banish that unnecessary embarrassment that hounded me for years. We all find ways to survive the bad things.
There are worse ways than fairies.
It happened again last night. We were watching an old episode of "The Mentalist". It's one of my favorite programs. I am drawn to damaged heroes, go figure.
Jane and Cho are in a sub-basement where 3 skeletons have been discovered. They are investigating and I am intrigued with where the story will go. Jane points out wire wrapped around one of the victim's wrist. And that's when it starts. He wants outside and so do I.
I look at Alan, but he hasn't noticed. I begin to slow my breathing. I'm relieved as they show Jane walk up the stairs and out into the sunlight. He inhales deeply, raising his arms to the sun. The camera pans back to show he's come out of a barn with the Red John symbol painted on it. But I am stuck on that barn. Looking out over a field. And the realization, just before Jane has it, that he only thinks he's safe there in the sunlight.
I've been in a barn with wire twisted around my wrist to hold me still. I've been desperate to escape the barn and flee into the sunlight, believing I will be safe there. It was all just a bit too familiar.
I kept breathing and reminding myself that, yes, there were lots of reminders here, but I want to watch these characters, and death was not my fate that day. I become intrigued again in the show, but I also start playing solitaire on my phone -- a basic escape, coping mechanism for me. I realize I'm following the episode, but not. And I accept that I may have to watch it again later, but I'll skip the scene in the barn, much the way my son always skips the opening scenes in "Disturbia" so he' doesn't have to see them again. To be wounded by them again.
And I realize I'm am learning to cope with this history of mine. I'm controlling it much more than it is controlling me. Maybe that's what they meant by healing all those years ago.
linking up with Just Write
The summer solstice. Each year I think about doing something to celebrate or recognize it. I read about others' rituals, parties, and remembrances, and I think it would be nice to participate in that somehow.
But then again it comes in the early summer, and early summer and I are not friends.
This year the summer solstice found me meeting up with some folks I hadn't seen in awhile. My parents. Together.
I have a difficult relationship with them. I limit my interactions with them for my own sanity. This is made even more difficult because we live close geographically (about 15 minutes apart), and most people I know, know them as well.
Emily Wierenga posted a blog the other day entitled How to write a memoir without hurting your family. I was really excited to get some input and ideas, but her situation is different from mine. I'm still trying to figure mine out.
But I digress.
Summer solstice was this past Saturday, and I found myself scheduled to cook dinner for some people and to meet my parents to celebrate my dad's birthday. I was not a happy camper, although I had made a conscious, thoughtful decision to test the waters in this way.
I made plans, but ultimately resorted to past coping skills to get through what had to be done. I threw together a casserole and salad from what I had on hand for the dinner which my husband was delivering. I showered and dressed in comfortable clothing, and planned on beating my parents to the restaurant.
I pulled into the parking lot, scanning for their car. I didn't see it, so I headed into the restaurant. I looked through the front window and saw them sitting at the center table. A table I would never have chosen.
We greeted each other warmly (as warmly as we do -- always some underlying unease on both sides). We chatted. We ordered. We ate. My head began to pound.
Why? Nothing was going wrong per se. It was just all the same. I invoked my standard coping mechanism that I use with my mother. She is a nice older woman, and I am doing this for her, or in this case for them, and I got through the rest of lunch.
I left, took 2 ibuprofen, and headed for my reward -- a mani/pedi. I hardly said a word the whole time I was there, as I was fighting the need to lay my head down on the table and sleep.
When I got home, my husband was there to pick up the food. We chatted a bit about my lunch date. He asked (again) why I do this to myself. I tried to explain, but acknowledged that clearly I'm not ready for this yet.
Once he left I collapsed on the sofa, watched TV, and slept -- typical coping mechanisms for me.
I really need to get planning on next year's summer solstice!
linking up with Writer's Workshop
