During the last several days since my most recent posting, a few apparently insignificant happenings have happened. For example, the gentleman guiding my work through PTSD has gone on vacation and I won’t see him again for three weeks. Also, I finally mailed a “fan” letter I’ve been rewriting for four years. Oh, and I believe I’ve worked out the basics for a short story I’m writing for my daughter (and others, if interest exists; I could use an illustrator…).
The gentleman warned me that a few things were likely to happen while he was gone. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a big girl and I’ve seen worse. How bad can it be?’ I thought as I was leaving. Well, to someone recovering from child abuse and with terrors of abandonment, the fact that this kind sir has the nerve to go somewhere where I cannot reach him for three weeks is — terrifying and oh so expected. Just like almost everyone else I have ever known, he has left me here to somehow cope with these damn feelings and other associated shit for which I am completely unprepared and unprotected. See, this was part of the deal: I go off all protective devices and into an unlit cave, and he holds the rope to pull me back out if I get lost. But now the rope is slack and I’m in here by myself with all these damn feelings and memories and no place to put them. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I can’t even sit still long enough to read, and I almost yelled at my daughter yesterday when all she wanted to do was play with me. God, I’m a monster. (Current song playing in background – mentioned because I find this interesting and the associations are wild in my mind – is “Witchhunt” by Rush.)
Okay, so the song associations are interesting to me because, in my family, I was the witch. I was different, and therefore, needed to be destroyed. I was too literate, too curious, too pretty (in an anorexic fashion), too well-heeled (in the Pink Floyd “Animals” sense), and far too tolerant. In short, I was everything that my parents wished they could be but never had the capacity to become. Without understanding why their money couldn’t buy them what I had, they settled for a systematic destruction of everything that even slightly smelled like me. And they never forgave the fact that the people they wanted to befriend had no interest in them, but were rather interested in talking to me. These things are not to be tolerated.
And, so, blah blah blah. I’m sure many others have similar stories to mine. I do not claim to be original here. Yet, to each of us, our feelings are unique and new and need deciphering. To further complicate matters, those “coping mechanisms” which work so well for some aren’t worth a bag of Carmel sand to others. We’re blind, tripping over rocks in this cave, dodging bats, and feeling for crevices in the walls or for boulders on which we can rest. Yet there is no rest. There is constant movement, much like running, but everything is always faster, or there is sitting still and allowing it to just pummel you clean. Savage you until you’re stripped bare, and hopefully there is enough left of you that you can rebuild, without all that nasty garbage and heavy lies making you fat and weighty.
I am trying the sitting still policy just now. I will run no more. I will take the beatings thrown at me, and with this mind and heart and soul given me by Someone not them, I will turn this all into something not just bearable, wearable, but beautiful, lovely, and fragrant. I will devote the passion I have previously invested in dodging and diving into living fully and fertilely. (Current songs in background: Malignant Narcissism, then Peart’s infamous drum solo, then Alex’s Hope. Yes, “Snakes and Arrows” Live.)
Sounds straightforward and therefore easy to tackle, right? But, God, the horror. The Darkness inside us all.
My “fan” letter? To a Canadian band whose music dragged, lifted, and sat beside me through several years of
hell. They gave me hope. I wanted to tell them this, and say thank you. We usually don’t tell people when they have done something good for us, or how we feel about them, nor do we apologize when there has been a wrong. I believe we should tell people. Without waiting. Because you may not get a second chance. And most importantly, because they – we – need to know.
And now for something happy birthing from this increasingly clear head: my story is best described as a Velveteen Rabbit Part II. I would love some test readers… if you are interested, would you be so kind as to leave a note in the comments section with a brief description of your editorial experience? (I’m facebook free until after Easter, so please do use the comments section below.) I never thought of myself as writing a children’s story, but it’s rather appropriate, isn’t it? “And now I will cause a tiger.”
Dear Reader, thank you for your company. While this is a lofty hope, perhaps someday some of my words might help you find yours. I do hope this is true. I know that I am not the only one living this crazy confusing contradictory and baffling life. Gotta admit, though, when it isn’t too painful, it is so damn beautiful. (Current song: Tom Sawyer. Ladies and Gents, it is time to go.)