Juxtaposition

Mama Kat gave me juxtaposing prompts this week.

List 7 things you miss about being a kid.

Write a post inspired by the word: bitter.

It's a double whammy for me. How do I determine what I miss from a childhood of broken memories? Am I bitter (angry, hurt, or resentful because of one's bad experiences or a sense of unjust treatment) about those broken memories? Maybe I have to answer both to answer either one very well.

What do I miss about my childhood? Well I miss thinking everything was normal, just the way it was supposed to be. The thing about kids is they tend to assume whatever their world looks like is reality for everyone. There is a (false) sense of security in feeling superior to other people. 

I also miss some really key people from my childhood. My great-grandmother called Nur (nuh) and her sister, Auntie (ainty) and her husband Uncle Horace. They were my havens of safety growing up. I doubt they knew it, but I sure did. The unconditional love they showed me probably kept me going, even through all the horrors.

There are a few toys from my childhood I wish hadn't gotten lost along the way, but I still have my treasured Dahlia and the red rocking chair I got the same Christmas she came to live with me.

I miss reading all night long, because I could. It's easier when you don't have anywhere to be the next day. And I miss eating Nana rolls until I was nearly sick, and fried chicken at my daddy's mama's house. I miss feeling as if I belonged with that group of people, but they're all gone now.

Am I bitter? I don't think so. My life wasn't a bowl of cherries, but it wasn't all bad either. I went through some horrific experiences, but I did have a family. A place to live and good food to eat. I had family who loved me as best they could, I guess. No, I'm not bitter. But I am sad. There are a lot of experiences I'll never have as they were meant to be. Like sex with my husband the first time, or feeling accepted and secure right away with other people. I missed out on childhood the way it was meant to be. Innocent. 

For whatever reason, I've never felt the need to play the "why me" card. "Why not me" has always been the question for me. I wouldn't wish those experiences on anyone else. Not anyone. No, not even the abusers themselves. It's not that I'm happy or okay that it did happen to me. I think I'm just accepting that what was, was. It's not something I can change, so there's no point dwelling on it.

It's taken me years to work through a lot of the issues, and I'm sure there will always be things that crop up. Things to be addressed as time goes by, but that's true for everyone. 

I guess my life is actually just like everyone else's. There were good things and bad things. Things I miss and things I'm glad are in the past. Life goes on.

linking up with Writer's Workshop and 31 Days of Writing

Here

We're here. We're home. Not where I expected to be today. I expected to be driving back from Gulf Shores. Well actually wherever we had stayed last night on our way home from Gulf Shores.

Instead we got here yesterday afternoon, because we left early from Gulf Shores because my father-in-law took a turn for the worse, and my husband just needed to be back here.

Here is good because it's home, and comfortable, and I have everything of mine easily accessible.

But there was good too. There were fewer "have-to's" and "need to's". And there was a beach. With sand, and waves, and sun, and wind. Happy children playing. Older couples holding hands and walking through the waves together. And there was the sand castle. The one my husband and I built together. The first sand castle I'd ever built. 

I brought all those pictures and memories with me here, to help me get through what's coming here. 

So here is good because it's home, and it's good because I brought all the memories back with me.

linking up with five minute friday

Flooded

flooding -- A therapeutic technique for treating phobias in which the patient is exposed to painful memories or frightening stimuli until he or she ceases to be anxious.

I was flooded recently with a memory. A memory locked away so tightly that I've fought tooth and nail to keep it so. 

In this memory, I am brutalized by a monster, but then handed off to a fixer. For years I have pitied this woman for being trapped in a terrible situation. But this time as I rode the memory through, I realized some important distinctions. She knew what he was doing to me in the other room. She knew her role as the fixer -- the aid to the cover-up. She made excuses for his actions. She led me to believe she was compassionate and caring, but her true purpose was to clean up his mess, and she did it willingly.

Flooded. Memories rushing over me like Sandy rushing through the northeast. Pain and tears and fear and confusion. Nowhere to safely land in this plethora of emotions. 

So I land where I usually do: first on my therapist's couch, sobbing into a sodden tissue and apologizing for wasting her time while I just sit and cry. Then on my own couch as I try to recount the events of the day to my husband and apologize for everything I failed to accomplish -- dinner and laundry and errands.

But this time, this time is different somehow. I am angry. And I never get angry. I am angry that these horrific people where part of my childhood. I am angry that I wasn't protected from them. I am angry that I am still held responsible by some people for what was done TO me. I am angry, and I am not sorry that I am angry.

I am not going to stop being angry until I feel like it. Because I have been flooded long enough.

linking up at Writer's Workshop and imperfect prose on thursdays

Day 12 of 31

Facebook status update this morning:

Tough memories, a fall, costochondritis, steroids, bruising from said fall, and a thunderstorm do NOT make for a good night of sleep! There will be lots of "morning" tea today.

That's my week in a nutshell.

I shared a little yesterday about the tough memories. The fall was on Wednesday afternoon. My daughter and I went to the grocery for some dinner supplies. We were chatting and walking. I thought I was on the ramp portion of the sidewalk, but only my right foot was, so my left foot hit the edge of the sidewalk, and as my grandfather used to say, it was all over but the shouting. I fell hard on my left hip. Luckily my purse took the brunt of the aggregate sidewalk. 

Falling as an adult is just embarrassing. I know it shouldn't be. I know normal people fall all the time (they do, right?). My daughter just looked at me and said, "Oh, honey". Such a good Southern girl. There was a woman walking out with the bag boy pushing her cart of groceries. She expressed deep concern -- asking if I was hurt, putting items back in my purse, and helping me to my feet. I really appreciated her help, but I just wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. 

I'm okay except for the lovely bruise on my left hip and the few items that got broken in my purse when I landed on it.

I've had this happen before. PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) leads to clumsiness for some of us. I can chart stress by injuries from things like this. (A friend who also has PTSD reminded me of this and it made me feel better about the fall.)

Then there's the costochondritis. An inflammation of the cartilage in my ribs and sternum. A common ailment (so says my doctor) often found in teenagers. At least that part made me feel better. So now I'm on a round of steroids, which could lead to irritability or manic energy. Oh yay!

About 3 AM we got hit with an apocalyptic-sounding storm that lasted until about 6 AM. So I was awake off and on between pain, thunder, and lightening (and a few frightening memories/images thrown in for good measure).

I have had my first stiff drink of the day (i.e., English Breakfast Tea with lots of demerara sugar and a splash of milk), and my first dose of steroids. And yes, I'm cranky this morning.

But on the up side, it is Friday, and my dear hubs doesn't have a class tomorrow. I'm thinking a trip to Cheekwood to see the scarecrow display might be in order!

(Lisa-Jo reminded me to write even when I don't feel like it.)