CHAPTER 18: GROCERIES

I came in breathless from carrying bags, plopping them on the little island in the kitchen. Her favorite psychologist, Dr. Laura, was on the radio telling people how to live their lives. The so-called doctor had some bizarre answers too. The little light over the stove gave a soft yellow glow to the pottery bowl hanging lopsided from a macramé hanger, filled with salt and a miniature spoon.

“Hi,” she said, moving toward the bags to inspect whether or not I’d brought what she requested. She’d reached a point where she was unable to go with me or ride the small bus with the other seniors in the complex because the electric wheelchair, along with her weight, made it too heavy for the lift. She could no longer negotiate a plain wheelchair even for the purposes of just getting on and off the bus. That loss hit her hard. She had been quite the speed demon with an electric shopping cart.

Watching Mom in one of busiest grocery stores in the area was a sight to behold. Stand back; she took no prisoners. I cannot believe she didn’t hospitalize someone with her speed cart. She focused on finding each item as if other shoppers were mere apparitions, brushing by so fast that they must have felt her tailwind on their behinds. I stood in horror, relieved when she gave me other things to find in the store, because my stomach couldn’t stand the lurching excitement of so many near-collisions.

The muumuu of the day was a silky number with gold, brown, and black stripes, like a tiger. Somehow she made a shapeless dress look stylish, adding a hand-strung necklace and chunky bracelet, her fingernails freshly polished and neatly filed. As she worked the walker sideways towards the island, a little sweaty from the effort of dragging the oxygen tube behind her, I absorbed the scent of Mom, Lair du Temps. It was distinctly her. The gift set I bought at Christmastime with perfume, powder and lotion had been a success.

“Let’s see, did you get the capers?” she asked, because unloading each item and quizzing me was especially enjoyable since she couldn’t shop anymore herself.

But I was tired and grumpy, hating the inquisition each time, and snapped at her, “Go sit down while I unload.”

She moved away, trying to act happy, but I’d hurt her and knew it. When I acted up as a child, she’d say to me, “There’s a girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. When she was good she was very, very good and when she was bad she was horrid.” I knew which girl I was being then.

Once I finished, she risked returning to the kitchen. I sat down on a high stool on the other side of the island. We chatted about things, mostly her asking the questions.

“How’s Samuel?” she asked.

“He’s fine,” I answered, not one to elaborate much.

Though exasperated by my one word answers, she kept trying. Then she added, “Can we sit down?” Her breathing became labored as she took the tube from her nose and placed the nosepiece directly over her mouth, pulling in as much oxygen as possible. Just standing for short periods became difficult; obesity and twenty years of her four-pack a day Benson & Hedges habit had taken their toll. She had emphysema. She perspired even more as she pushed the walker slowly towards the couch. I focused on her face, hoping she sucked in enough of that precious gas so her face wouldn’t tinge blue like it did at the craft store.

On one of our outings, she happily picked out stretchy necklace cord for the beads collected from her broken jewelry. She would make them into new pieces of jewelry, like the necklace she wore. It was the last time I’d take her out in the car and we argued.

“I’m all right,” she said as I opened the car door for her, wondering how I’d call 911 without a cell phone, having to ask the cashier to call, picturing an ambulance coming to the Beads & Buttons craft store.

“Mom, you can hardly breathe. You’re sweating and you’re blue!” I sniped.

Her face seemed to splinter, brokenhearted; she was at my mercy and gave up, knowing I meant it. All I felt was mean but it was the last time I took her shopping or out to lunch, though I did do dental or doctor appointments when Don couldn’t. I felt guilty, again, a common theme. Krista took her out now and then. I’m sure Krista believed me to be a lazy, thoughtless, reprehensible daughter—because I sure did.

I never said, but thought, “But do you know, Mom, how much it takes to load the walker, unload it, bring it around, open doors, then do it all over again on the way out?”

I’d done it every week for many of the ten years she lived there. It was worth it, we had fun, but that day was the last; it had become too much. I wimped out after seeing what a toll that last shopping trip took on her. I couldn’t stand to see her like that, though I could break her heart, let her down, disappoint, and ground her.

“How’s Cory?” she asked. She needed to hear stories other than what her friends talked about, which too often centered around disease and dying. Moments of clarity cropped up like white flags of surrender amidst my chronic anger. I realized she’d made all new friends in the big city of Chester, but they were old like her, and she slowly lost them to sickness and death. My heart ached for the reality of where she really lived. Beautiful, brand new, with a pool she adored down the hallway, but her new friends became sick as she knew she would…and they died.

“Oh he’s great,” I said.

And he was. My youngest had graduated valedictorian though I don’t remember him reading one book except for pleasure. Shane had to work harder, studying late into the night, but also graduated with honors and scholarships.

She was proud of them, and me, and tried to relay it, exclaiming, “You were always like a tiger with those boys.” 

I wondered what she meant, and after hearing that description more than once, I asked her to explain—not something we usually did, go deeper.

“You mean I jumped on you if you tried to tell me anything about how to raise my kids?” I asked.

But I already knew the answer—I had, and with vehemence. I wouldn’t allow her any chance to have a voice, or any opinion at all, not about my kids. She had plenty of opinions, and in spades, especially about me, but about raising my kids? None she dared speak of. She kept them to herself, except this newly repeated theme, “You were always like a tiger.”

No way was I going to pass on to my children the neglect I felt I’d endured. I worked diligently and persistently to keep both sons safe and their feelings about themselves intact. I didn’t always succeed. During my biggest downfalls, I glimpsed how it felt living with the knowledge of not protecting one’s child, living with it for life. That’s a burden too, a terrible one. But I didn’t know this then. I knew mostly anger and I blamed her.

“No, you were a great and wonderful mother, always doing what was needed no matter who you had to fight or confront,” she said without pause or question.

And I knew she meant every word. But it surprised me. It was mostly her I fought. Things were slowly changing between us. These compliments, once rare, came more frequently. It could be out of need as her body broke down, or maybe when finality stares you in the face, you want to say the things that haven’t been spoken before it’s too late. I felt I had the upper hand and didn’t want it, or partly did, but feared abusing it. Or maybe for the first time, I felt on equal footing and didn’t know how to proceed or how to handle that feeling.

I didn’t want her to be so sick but liked this new, softer side that gave compliments.

During one visit, while unpacking groceries, before she needed oxygen and the hated electric wheelchair that no skilled driver could master, when she could still get on her scooter without the O2 canisters, she had something big to discuss. I hated it when something “big” was coming. It didn’t work out; any discussions other than the kids, the weather, or food led to trouble.

She prefaced it by saying with too much drama, “I want to talk to you about something.”

My gut curdled as if I’d guzzled a glass of milk with lemon. Oh my God, no, I thought. Keep it on topics that are safe and we are sure of. I dreaded her next words.

“Why can’t you and Tom…” she said, and kept talking, but I didn’t hear the rest.

Tom was the first son, my oldest brother. I’d been the recipient of her advocating for Tom at other times, too many of them, but every time she spoke his name, fury erupted as if a molten iron block landed in my belly.

“Why can’t you forgive Tom?” she repeated, noting my blank look and shocked, frozen mouth.

She was almost in tears and shaking with emotion, and over Tom? What about me?

“He’s fun,” she explained. I understood the much needed comic relief and his ability to make her laugh about her infirmities, but I felt furious as if my insides exploded. 

Is he some kind of baby needing his mother to make peace with me? I wondered, enraged, because speech escaped me, though I did manage to spit out something nasty. It wouldn’t be the last time she’d attempt to make peace between Tom and me.

I stormed out spewing words like daggers through lips pressed tight, but never the words that needed to be said—what her son had done.

I muttered, “I got to go” and left.

SNAKES

Tears roll down my cheeks, then continue while watching yesterday’s hearings. Shaye Moss, an election poll worker in Georgia describes her pain after Trump and his snake followers hounded her, her mother, even her grandmother.

Shaye Moss, her mother behind her.

Full testimony…

Excerpt pertaining to her grandmother…

The pain was felt deeply; her 60-pound weight gain, leaving a job she loved, not going out anymore due to it feeling unsafe, and on goes the deep pain and loss over Snake Donald’s fat lies.

And there are so many affected by this pig. And it can get worse. There are many of his snakes taking these poll worker positions because so many quit due to the harassment and deadly threats from the snake cult. And they WILL do the evil they falsely accuse her and so many others of.

Remember Hitler?

FOREVER BETRAYED

Tears couldn’t be stopped. All over a ten dollar purchase on Amazon. That’s all it takes sometimes, a manipulation, a break in trust, doing something different than what’s promised, and it all falls down. Suddenly before you is an 8 year old child.

Head in hands weeping, “It feels like when Chet threw the gum down the hall,” I said to Samuel, adding, “I don’t trust anyone, no one. Everything was taken.”

And the wound bleeds every time someone picks at the scab by lying even if it was an honest mistake. If you don’t do what you say, if you take my money for one thing then do something else with it leaving me without what was promised… whether it’s ten dollars or ten thousand, the feeling is the same.

Betrayed. Betrayal shattering me into a million pieces as a child and throughout life as each incidence of dishonesty forces the original trauma to the forefront.

Samuel says, “Of course. I can see how it reminds you of the past. No one likes being scammed.”

And he may finally understand. When my rage at him ended, which really was almost always rage at the abusers, a new beginning began. A relationship more peaceful, tolerant, and knowledgeable of each other’s pain. It has taken a life-time to get here.

Instead of the journey being somber as it always has been in order to survive, it can be joyful and more peaceful. The tsunami of betrayal hits without warning disturbing sleep causing the need for a sleep aid. The day after feels wasted and unproductive because recovery requires stillness. A wasted day? Illness needs care, quiet, and rest.

Chronic PTSD remains because at the time of the original traumas no help was provided for processing it. Accepting that these days happen and allowing for recovery by supplying the love and care I would devote to another isn’t a waste of time, it is courage. Roaring waves roll in uninvited engulfing me by surprise every time. Wanting control but having none. Waves threatening to drown, yet there lies hope.

In the hurting lay the bastion once protective but now interfering with healing, the inability to trust. The most important person to trust is myself, from there it will flow. A new day, a new start, a jockeying of parts settling back to where they belong.  

PIGS OF DESTRUCTION

Unease builds as we approach what should be a joyous event at the capitol. But due to one with evil intent, the occasion is already marked with blood, desecration, and unbridled hatred towards America by Americans. Traitors, eviler than any other terrorists around the world, these white losers, these hate mongers, make me sick to my stomach.

Violence invades my dreams, tossing and turning throughout the night, concerned for courageous leaders I’ve grown to love and respect. The leaders of good and worth who will lead us out of this hell into the light. I pray for their safety as these pigs cause death and mayhem.

All that is good now threatened by white men who have not found a life of decency. So they find prominence by killing their fellow Americans. Pigs of destruction, that is your obituary.

EVIL BE GONE

Keep the light. Usually the day after Christmas the decorations and tree come down having had enough of them, and anxious to begin anew fresh. But this year the light and gaiety is so needed. So up it stays until Inauguration Day.

Gentle Christmas guitar music plays quietly while writing by the fire. That is still enjoyed which is unusual too. The spirit of the season is held onto for a while longer; the magic, giving, and love, all so desperately clung to. What’s happening all around is locked away, not to touch my interior in order to remain sane.

The death count rising, the vaccine process at a snail’s pace, while the supposed leader of the country golf’s and tweets. He acts like he cares that Americans get more in the stimulus checks. But he’s dastardly scheming how to line his pockets in every way possible, for as long as possible…. probably for the next 4 years as long as suckers and losers keep sending money.

Because as soon as he asked for more money in the stimulus checks, a letter went out to his supporters; skinheads, bigots, the mafia rich, low-life’s, and those lacking depth, character, and intelligence. And they stupidly send money. Millions. And more millions.

He is smiling all the way to the bank, and doesn’t care if you receive more money that would allow you to feed your children. GO HOME, and take all your swindling criminal associates with you. They are everywhere, in the Post-Office, Pentagon, Justice Department, just everywhere. People followed Hitler too.

There is no institution that animal hasn’t dirtied. His claim to notoriety is doing damage, destruction, wreaking havoc, and creating hate. That is what he excels at, doing evil masked with sneering totally false goodness that others are blind to.

We don’t realize the depth of his manipulative vindictiveness, because as much as you think you know how low he can go, he goes lower. No person with an iota of honesty can comprehend the pits of nasty evil he is so good at.

As much as I know what others are capable of, learning it at 8 years old continuing on throughout my childhood, he is far beyond even those manipulations and cruelty.

He is the epitome of evil brilliance as he has fooled us all. And so I block it out, looking away from the TV when his ugly face comes on. (ugly from what’s inside him) Blocking out the thousands dying each day in order not to cry.

Blocking out the rage, because my heart can’t take it. Blocking out the evil until Biden takes the stage praying for his health and strength. Goodness shall prevail, but the damage done is severe.

Be ME

Oddly, this past summer was perhaps the best summer of my life, even while the pandemic raged on. Maybe its coincidence, or maybe it’s knowing that most folks feel as restricted as much of my life was. That comforted in that now there was a link between me and other people.

Though unsure what the reason, it just might be that over the decades I’ve worked my ass off trying to heal and recover what’s mine. It’s not possible to gain back all that was lost. The little girl I was is no longer, and that happened early on.

But it is possible to feel happy, be at peace, and welcome joy. But it has taken a lifetime and the courage of a lion, or a pride of them. To go against family? Because that is the tension and kickback that occurs when speaking truths.

When breaking the silence in any way? Because society doesn’t want to know either. But for me it took repeated telling of a story no one wanted to hear. Over and over again the details rang out that as a child were held in. Once the dam burst no one could quiet me, no one ever should have.

Freedom to be just me.

Back to Basics

It was a terrible mistake that took days to recover from, both from the loud banging critic inside me as to why do such a thing, and a body that lived life with too many cortisol bursts over and over every day for decades.

Draining, life before the scourge was exhausting. Going out among people threatening. So why, when the threat of life or death is real, go out among others?

Thinking it would be different, that the trails would offer space. That the natural swimming area would be safe. No, that was my first mistake. Others walked by without masks. Kids came onto the little bridge only a few feet wide going right by us with no adult making them wait until we got off.

The sirens inside me took off and only now, days later, has the world felt safe again. All those people at the swimming glen area, where the beauty usually relaxes to my core, this time heightened my already taxed system into extreme alert.

The campground itself lied, that sets my body off too. Lying and manipulation causes great fear and rage even now, though the traumas of youth were 60 years ago. In trying to keep the population down, they weren’t letting campers onto sites until the end of the day. Never in 30 years has that happened. Just be honest.

But no, they lie saying no one had left the sites yet. Since Samuel didn’t want to leave, and my fear of angering him made me stay, he suggested we go look at our site. It was all cleaned and ready. We set up feeling like rebels but all the while my internal cravings were wishing for home.

Most of my retaliation has been against myself. Why can’t my life be like others who seem to breeze through this more easily? My voices need taming. While walking, energy is given to allow more compassion for myself. You didn’t know. Of course it’s hard. People on a good day threaten my safety. You didn’t realize that being so close to others would set you off. 

The next breath- that hateful voice, You should have known.

Meditation, which seemed last on my ‘to do list’ needs center-stage. That brings me back ‘home.’ All the daily work that usually is done needs to be returned to; paying attention to each moment without running from it, going slow at my own pace, just be present. Notice the minute happenings that excite. Yet they become lost in the shuffle of doing, then soaring PTSD symptoms that resist being calmed.

Home is more than a place of safety. It is also a place inside oneself that welcomes with as much safety as the exterior home accepting my being with love, compassion, and open arms… my daily work. 

 

Bestow Love not Hate

photo by Patricia

An unease invades the morning reverie. Perhaps it is the lack of sunshine hiding behind thick clouds on a balmy morning still warm from yesterday’s heat. Perhaps it is a change in me. Day after day of an upset stomach the realization surfaces that my body is telling me something. But what, so disconnected from it that I really don’t know. 

Connect. That doesn’t come naturally, though it must have in my first 8 years before the attacks began. A skinny kid with long blonde hair, happy on a beach before my father died, Then all went tragic and crazy.

Boom, like lightening, weight came on and stayed on for the next fifty years keeping me safe, hiding me, making me someone other than who I was meant to be.

Trust is the most grievous loss, gone forever. What kinds of relationships sustain without trust? None. The daily feat is picking up pieces of shattered me trying to trust enough to get close… husband, son, or friend. 

The timidity to speak up about likes, dislikes, to put forth anything looking like a boundary, gone. Boundaries obliterated when even my body was not my own. When unmarked boundaries are crossed and my mouth stays mute, then grudges, resentments, and hate howl. 

Oh that anger, not allowed either. It takes a lot of food to suppress anger. Over the years anger began to  erupt naturally on rare occasions expressed in the moment, naturally, freeing and normal. Taught to stay quiet this was miraculous even in its rarity. 

And with a quiet muted mouth, my body grew large screaming unhappiness, terror and pain. Nobody listened. It was one more thing to hate about myself.

But what if I listened to its cues? What if love was bestowed not hate? With no map, no direction, no permission, could I do it? Over and over I try, and fail. But what if?

 

Rage and Dissociation

Making brittle knowing an overweight body should not be consuming a cup of sugar, I made it anyway. This morning the rest was thrown out. The day begins with a super moon setting in the west, unable to capture it on the camera without electric lines through the shot. What a beautiful orb to wake to.

Going to sleep with the birds, means waking with them too. Sleep wondrously came despite consuming the toxic sugar. These blips off the path of health are not positive ones, but one must keep trying, and today is a new day.

Keeping connected is another anomaly searched for, tried for, and not at all 100%, but much more than years ago when coming to the present was a goal to have. It began with a therapist saying, “Just show up!”

My take on his words were that pulling myself out of the dissociative mist was enough. I was enough. At the time dissociation wasn’t a familiar word, but I spent a lot of time there, off in Patricia la la land.

It wasn’t until blogging when other survivors talked about it that I learned my disconnection from the present had a name. When learning how to meditate 20 years ago, staying present and feeling safe began to occur. From there it began.

It is in the present that Mother Nature heals me, daily walks in the meadow topped off with meditative time spent creek-side. The respite brightens my mood which on some days of late falls into a depressive state where anger flares into rage over political persons who have become something else besides human. Tamping down feelings adds to the sadness. Expressing feelings brings equanimity back once again.

“Samuel, for decades I lived with rage. It fizzled out during the years lived here. But I feel it again punching at the television with rage,” I said as he bent over the gardens pulling weeds.

“Mike said that too,” Samuel said, adding, “He wishes Trump would get the virus.”

“I do too,” I answered emphatically. “I wish he would get it and drop dead this minute!” Samuel nods his head accepting how his wife and friend feels, but a man too gentle to wish that.

There, it was said. Wishing a person dead doesn’t cause them to die. It is a place for rage to go. Not a real wish, but a fire to burn it in, the smoke trailing up taking my rage with it. I may need more of these fires…

 

BREAKING THE PEACE

Creek side

“What, you took my trees and shoved them in the hedgerow?” storming out, I slammed the door. 

A friend dropped off three tulip trees by the shed where they sat till Samuel could plant them. As usual there was divisiveness about where to put them. He went out to do the chore never asking me where I wanted them. 

In the house doing dishes making dinner, the thought occurred repeatedly that I should go out to stand my ground knowing he would choose awful places. 

“You put them in the hedgerow with no room to grow?” I asked, the unwanted anger bubbling up.

“I can cut back the bushes,” he said.

Then I really exploded, not wanting to, the usual camaraderie a more pleasant choice. Yet my body and some other part took hold. This was from my past. All that was taken from me… not yours to take, the rage burning internally for most of my life.

“I’m changing them,” I retort.

“You can,” he said, unperturbed.

Clearing after the morning rains, it was a sunny crisp afternoon. My upheaval in mood was not the Buddha-like behavior I’d hoped to achieve. But realizing where it came from brought forth compassion, rather than self-loathing for breaking the peace.

Pondering my blow-up which had been unplanned, one thing was different. There was no rage as in decades past. Rage that curdled my insides with hate and vengeance believing the slights and hurt were done intentionally. Being my partner, Samuel has survived many bouts of volcanic blow-up that weren’t really about him.

He is just bull-headed with his own stuff. Yes, he should have asked. Plant them for me if you like, but ask where I want them.

I dug them out and put them in a place where they will stand proud, growing with air, light, and space. Much like what I have needed.

No we didn’t talk the rest of the night. But I wasn’t enraged, just offended. There’s a spark of life left in me after all. Yes, I could have handled it much more gracefully, but I understand why I didn’t –allowing space for my flaws.