FULLNESS

Ups and downs, but overall an underlying contentment unfounded in my life-time. The years since moving from our other home where our two boys grew up has been a time of great growth and movement towards a peaceful interior.

Rocky, chaotic, and injected with withering anxiety at times, peace comes coupled with joyous gratitude. The cat cries for her food while grinding coffee beans. Placing the plate down she nibbles gratified.

Settling down by the fire with a cup of the dark brew, a feeling of well-being permeates while gently rocking. So much to be joyful about, a home, a partner, two sons bringing a special worth to those around them, and my cat now curled up next to me playing with the string tied to the arm of the chair. 

This is life. There is no waiting for more, or the next thing. This is it, and is savored, each moment, every day as if birthed anew. The snow gently falls through the rising sun and I am complete.

 

TRIGGER

It is not the first time Samuel has set off alarm bells so deep within me they are unconscious, but electrify in the night after waking to use the bathroom. No way was sleep returning as the haunts of the pasts, the attacking siblings, have re-visited. His actions replicated theirs in a way my psyche perceives a threat.

After ten years of our bedroom carpet losing its color turning streaked, and oh so ugly, we had a new one put down. Away at my women’s monthly gathering, he took off both doors to saw off some so they would close. The new carpet is that plush! A few specks of dust on the carpet after he re-placed the doors caused him to bring out the vacuum.

It angered me but it was let it go after he said there was dust from the doors. But internally it still bothered me as if something new had been ruined, just like my past when so much was torn away. My body was not mine, nor was anything precious such as my horse or pony. Two of the four attacking siblings stole my animals trying to ride them. One was bucked off, while my mother laughed telling me about it.

The rage from those thefts was palpable. The rage from taking my body had to be repressed due to my mother’s insistence that we were all a happy family. Rage could only be expressed about other things that might seem mundane.

My belief is that rage has fizzled out. Not true. Lying there at 2 AM after walking on carpet that for two days had delighted us with the soft cloud of texture, now felt flat, crushed, and hard. Samuel had ruined it, I wanted to hurt him, to wake him, to make him suffer as I suffered at 2 AM.

Vacuuming, like the dishes, cooking, and laundry are my chores except the rare times he vacuums, once vacuuming the cord on my new vacuum only learning about it when finding it wrapped with tape the next time I used it.

Why does he always have to get in on things where he doesn’t belong? Why does he have to ruin things? Why can’t he know me after all these years, and know this bothers me? While carpet shopping we learned that vacuuming is what bleaches out carpet if done too low, something I’ve done because it seemed to pick up more.

But with the new carpet, when, and it would be a long time until I did vacuum, I would put the lever on high to vacuum just the tops. Some carpet is dyed through, others are only sprayed with color on the top which allows for color loss from vacuuming and high traffic use over time. Unfortunately this new one is the later, but it is the prettiest green and plushiest for the price so we bought it.

But vacuuming? That is the culprit not only for sucking up color, but we were told it crushes the fibers so that only professional cleaning can bring back their springiness. And Samuel runs the vacuum after only two days. Why does he take away everything precious, just like they did? It is no longer new, and no longer brings pleasure, only hurt. 

Laying there in the middle of the night I wanted to hurt him. To push him out bed making his face hit the floor right into the carpet he had ruined. To turn on the lights and have a hissy fit over the carpet in the middle of the night. What insanity.

Staying there trying hard to sleep by feeding my mind with more sane truths; he did not do this purposely to hurt me. He does so many nice things. He cut the doors down to fit, blah, blah, blah… did not work. Something internal had ignited that words could not soothe or control. I got up, took a pill, turned on the TV, drank decaf, and stewed trying to chase away bitter resentments and a smoldering, ghostly rage from the past.

The next morning in tears while talking to Cory on the phone, Samuel was next to me.  I told the ludicrous story of the carpet. Even as silly as it sounded, it also correlated to siblings and all that was taken. My body, my horse, my pony, anything precious.

Talking to Samuel wouldn’t help. He would just argue, shake his head at my lunacy, and defend himself, never learning even after all these years how much his thoughtless actions wound me. (is vacuuming thoughtless or caring?)

And there it is, a wound that has not yet healed. Will it ever?

 

The Loneliness of Shame

Temperatures dip into the teens and still dropping as snow swirls in mini-tornados off the roof. The fire emits a burst of heat after the fan is tuned on. Even the house temperature dropped overnight.

After the cat ‘hunt’s on the screen porch during my first sips of hot black brew, she comes in to curl up next to me on Samuel’s stuffed rocker complacently watching me write.

The comfort of home cannot be overstated. Home where my depleted nervous system can be pampered, protected, and cared for. Home where creativity can blossom, and working on freeing myself from the internal too harsh critic can be accomplished over time and with much dedication.

There is no freedom being locked in with critical voices of the past yammering in my head ever since age 8 and the first violent attack. When no one comes to help, a child feels to blame. The family unconsciously understands how well this silenced me, and willingly added to it along the way.

Their shame of doing such deeds, or standing by doing nothing, caused an even bigger shame, the shame of silence, dumped on tiny shoulders willing to take it on. Taking the blame was far better than feeling powerless, not a conscious decision, but self-preservation. I’ll take the blame because otherwise the people I depend on are not dependable, then where would I be?

Guilt and blame are easier boulders to carry than powerlessness. So the family’s shame became my shame. I didn’t just do bad, I am bad. 

It took a life to unburden, rock by rock, right down to the empty wheelbarrow where loneliness clawed like finger-nails on a chalk-board, scraping my insides scratching outwards on tender, raw flesh. Only in going there could I be saved, facing the self-hate, staying, exploring, challenging the voices…

Go to my center, be there, hold me, love me, settle in for the ride, because all others will come and go. I am the only one who will stay. My mother once said, “Be your own best friend,” giving me a book with that title. It has taken a life-time to begin that process. Thank you mother, but it would have been better had you kept them off me. 

 

EATING ANXIETY

photo by Patricia- SUN DOG in the early morn Jan. 29, 2020

Eat away pain, eat away anxiety. It is a tool to handle unwanted emotions that overwhelm. Tracking my intake goes well for a few days, then the disconnect of my psyche to my body takes place, more common than connecting.

Though the food eaten was plotted in my journal, it was too much causing pain all afternoon into the evening. This familiar physical pain began after the bizarre stomach stapling I just had to have in 1985.

The pain of my psych began long before that, at age eight, after the first attack. Further attacks by other siblings made the fissure complete. Wholeness is a gift from birth but being connected to my body became impossible after that. The split was not a conscious decision. Regaining title to my own property remains elusive. 

It takes a spaceship launching deep into the many layers of resistance before landing in my core, to what is really there. Much of life was lived zipping around it like busy electrons, not nestled inside attached to my soul in wholeness.

Writing each morning helps to swim deeper below the surface, diving down unafraid, or afraid yet taking the plunge anyway. Staying there is harder, using the breath to slow down the pace to remain present. Each moment present takes work and is tiring, and sometimes so difficult it is impossible. But when achieved so worthwhile.   

Cause pain that’s familiar, or dare to feel what is there? Listen to your body, but first you must be connected to it. This great divide occurred long ago, living that way because it is how it was and I knew no different. One day out of three going awry doesn’t mean giving up, and the count is in my favor. Keep at it. Keep working on connection to my body. 

It is only in my ‘golden years’ that another way of being is discovered that others unshattered have lived all their lives— with wholeness, and connection to their core. That takes moment to moment work, being whole, feeling whole, and welcoming what is really there. The fissures are painted and glued back together whole with warmth, softness, acceptance, kindness, and courage. 

Holding my Own Key to Happiness

Forever at the root of my core resided the belief of being bad, wrong, and always the one at fault. That is the feeling turned fact at age eight, growing every year becoming rock solid.

And that belief did solidify. How could it not with no one to tell me differently? No one to hold me, rock me, tell me that what they did was wrong, that they would be punished, that it wouldn’t happen again.

Because it did keep happening, and happening, and happening.

This is a time of peace, a time when that belief has been chipped at, questioned, and challenged. A crack has evolved where warmth seeps in, or oozes outward. Ever so slowly, bits of comfort float up where once only animosity to self had been. It is a change that could have occurred fifty years ago.

If only someone had the courage to hold my hand and take a stand. No one did. But I do now… tentatively, fearfully as if I’m doing something wrong in liking myself, for showing acceptance towards my own being, like the axe will fall for doing so.

No axe falls. Taking that step towards kindness and self-love after so long is freeing. The origin family collectively used subtle tactics to sustain low esteem to keep me silent. But my true nature includes persistence.

Baby- steps, tiny fissures are pried open wider using words of encouragement and uplift rather than harsh criticism. Treasures are found never enjoyed before: peace, openness, self-acceptance, joy.

Freedom is savored, the freedom to choose to (learn) to love myself. And each day a reminder to embrace gratefulness for making it through the hazards and treachery of all the years past. Where self-hate ruled in a mixing bowl of adrenaline pumped anxiety, confusion, self-doubt, and a total inability to connect with my own soul. 

To come to a place others never lost, is now found for me. A delectable experience not to be contaminated by bitterness towards what was. My choice is to enjoy the miraculous now.   

 

Prepare the Soil

Turning, wondering where to go, feeling confused as to my purpose… this room, that chore, back to the first one. With Cory’s presence my meditation practice stopped, and most of my exercise regime. Keeping present, and preparing food for each party exhausted me enough with little energy left for anything else.

Getting back to my usual routines feels odd. The out of sync, disjointed fracture left in his wake fades with each day. Work was done to tame the beast of anxiety while they were here and beforehand, but no attention was focused on how to handle his leaving.

So the ragged hole of emptiness visited, less intense than the days after his departure for college, then the move to another state, then marriage. With his marriage came more settled feelings of satisfaction in place of need.

The feeling of loss coupled with anxiety re-visits from time to time, the nostalgia of boys at home to care for, of family life. But times were hard then too, scorched with PTSD issues, entwinements with the family of origin, and my mother not allowing the truth be told which blocked true healing from what her sons had done.

Family now is Samuel and me. My close friend who chatted with me via email, phone, and by visiting on a frequent and regular basis died several years ago; a friendship later in life that was the closest ever experienced.

Other friends are not inclined to call or email perhaps because we don’t share a history of childhood trauma as Sue and I did. Though we didn’t talk much about it, we felt it, and how it touched our lives in the present. This bonded us in ways lacking with others. Ours was a once in a lifetime friendship, a friend so close, words were not needed.

Cory is close like that. Maybe that isn’t healthy between mother and son, but it is so. Samuel is a kind and sweet man, and the thought of living without him is terrifying. He is also lonely to be with at times. When Cory leaves it is hard to return to my quiet life. Acceptance is not my forte. I am a cat on a hot tin roof landing with the burn of anxiousness.

The separation separates me from myself. Feeling lost. Gather the parts. Bring them home. Paste them on, yet away they flutter to be harnessed again, stuck back on; waiting for wholeness, to be heard, understood, to feel close to one other human.

Meditation grounds me to my center with relief. Walks in the meadow on a sunny day almost 50 degrees helps blood flow. A fresh approach to the studio where work has gone stale is in process wondering what’s to come as its cleaned down to the bones to begin again new.

 

The SCHISM

There is a fear of being in my body and staying there. Others seem to check in with their body unconsciously knowing when there is hunger, fullness, cold, pain, and the list goes. Often I’ve checked out.

My fear is internal, also unconscious, yet the terror is there laying wait. Perhaps the rape, repressed, causes this schism between body and mind. Perhaps it is the next couple of years after that when the others took what they wanted.

Coming ‘home’ and staying is fleeting. Zoning in a place other than the here and now still is comforting at times. It takes energy to breath, notice my hand as it washes the dishes, and be among the living.

After time, it becomes easier to be present, yet that far off place still calls, still offers comfort, and still owns me some of the time. And the disconnect, the fissure from the body that others don’t have to deal with yet take for granted, it still a force to be reckoned with.

Wholeness is fleeting, but necessary to take good care of body, mind, spirit, and soul. I may be different, alone in many ways, but still shine. We all offer a specialness no one else can; the tree in the forest set apart from others but still beautiful.