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.

SHATTERED- CHAPTER 15: RAYMOND

A Memoir by Patricia Grace- Available on AMAZON

I had it all worked out. Raymond sat opposite me, his gaze unblinking. I felt like a bug pinned to cardboard, wriggling, but sure of my ability to intelligently represent what “life as Patricia” was. Though he smiled, exuding warmth, something else filled in the lines of the smile, something I wouldn’t run from.

With unflappable courtesy, he began our first session. “Tell me about yourself,” he said, the grey-blue eyes focused. He had no notepad.

I jumped right in, ready to describe all of me in one sentence. “I’m an Adult Child of an Alcoholic, I attend Overeater’s Anonymous, and I’m a Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse,” reducing myself to a bunch of abbreviations, ACOA, OA, and SCSA. A slight smirk lifted the edges of his smile, almost imperceptibly, yet I caught it because I had learned to study faces at an early age. He tried to put me at ease, but I looked beyond him to the door, an escape route.

Later, nearing the end of our time, he narrated a story, the first of many that captivated me. “My wife and I like to hike the Adirondacks. We backpacked into a favorite park carrying all supplies following a well-marked trail. But this time we veered off, taking one unmarked. The tangled thicket opened up to waterfalls splashing into a deep pool. We stripped off our clothes, swam, and then sunned afterwards on the rocks,” he watched me with riveting clarity.

Picturing him skinny-dipping naked reduced the godlike entity slightly. Still, the pedestal he perched upon soared through the stratosphere. But I had something to chew on. Like a cow with cud, enjoying the taste of sweet grass over and over. Take a different path.

We continued to chat till the time was up and he seemed satisfied. Then he said, “Okay, let’s get to work.”

I thought that was an odd thing to end with, but also encouraging. He took this seriously, he took me seriously.

The next week, Raymond said, “I’d like to prescribe Prozac. There aren’t any side effects,” he added quickly because my face must have registered shock. “It will help.”

I filled the prescription reluctantly, taking it for about a month, pissed off at the liar who said there weren’t side effects because changes took place in my body I couldn’t put my finger on. I wanted off and he didn’t fight me.

I tapered off, glad to be rid of it. Eventually, in nursing school, I learned that Prozac has many common side effects, like most drugs, and some that can be serious, even life-threatening. But it has been around a long time and serious side effects are rare. I didn’t know that then. I felt lied to and cheated, but couldn’t simply say, “You lied to me. There are side effects!” But my body language belied the nice, pleasing persona I attempted to put forth. It trumpeted resistance, bellowed rigidity, erect and wooden as the chair legs.

Uptight already, I became tighter, my muscles taut like coiled springs. Anger bubbled below with no way out. Why couldn’t I complain about something so minor? I had no voice, just buried feelings.

One day I arrived in a navy blue sweatshirt Mom had crafted with fabric balloons on it. He gentlemanly closed the door, noting every detail.

After we sat, exchanging a few words, he began, “Some of your parts are like balloons on your sweatshirt, larger, predominant and to the forefront. But there are other parts, like the ones in the background…”

I was quiet as usual, fascinated by his stories, soaking up every word, hope fluttering up through a crack in the darkness like a sunbeam.

We worked so fast my head spun. By fall he had me dreaming of who and what I could be, hairdresser or nurse? After explaining the pay for both, nursing won, enticed solely on the fatter paycheck, not the wish to heal the sick and wounded. I registered immediately for a few courses, one of which would complete the long lost Associates Degree dangling unfinished from almost twenty years before. There was a lengthy waiting list for entrance into the nursing program. The college looked at current curriculum to determine if one had the ability to complete its rigorous training.

I took Chemistry, a prerequisite. I had managed a final grade of forty in high school but dove in with zest this time around. One day the professor became livid; no one had answered a question correctly. He slammed the door, threw a pencil at the girl who had disgusted him, then turned towards me and through clamped teeth managed, “Patricia?”

I answered correctly. He seemed almost pleased and continued the lecture.

I discussed, or rather complained to Raymond about the incident, “He closed the door, told us we were all stupid and threw a pencil at a girl!”

Raymond inquired, “What is his name?”

“Dr. Payne,” I answered. We both snickered. Hard to believe, but perfect. And just as hard for me to believe as the knowledge that I, who had flunked three courses in tenth grade and took summer courses to catch up, was now being singled out to answer a question no one else could.

I earned A‟s in almost every course and the Dean’s List included my name a few times. All because Raymond had dared suggest one facet of my worth: intelligence, scholastic achievement the proof.

The work over the next four years was intense. Before coming to therapy, I’d gained back much of the weight lost after surgery. 

One day he asked, “Why are you fat?” Who was so dense, rude, and insensitive enough to ask that? I didn’t have an answer, just looked back mutely while my raised hackles created a hurricane in the room.

His inquiry hurt exquisitely, enough to do something about it. Humiliated into action, I joined a gym and Weight Watchers, dropping the excess pounds again. As weight disappeared, so did some self-hatred.

The beast of resistance was attacked on every front. His next objective would clear out the negative.

“I would like you take one half hour each day and make it your time. Create on the outside what you feel inside,” he said.

It took a while for me to understand what he was asking for, but over the next few weeks and months, I worked diligently.

A hunk of clay left over from pottery class became the first sculpture. It erupted from gut to hands, as I worked the clay a serpent formed, hideous and frightening. Alone in the house at the kitchen table, the room reeled. Though unsteady, my hands kept on as the second head of the snake appeared. I trapped the unholy anomaly in a cardboard box, fearing the rattling of its tail, or the bite of its fangs. The next form that appeared under my hands in clay was an oversized, ugly, bumpy penis, which also went quickly into the box.

After lighting a candle every morning after the bus left with Shane, the ritual half hour began. I drew page after page of how my tummy felt, hellish black swirls emanating outwards like volcanic explosions, splashed with watercolors and acrylics of red, red, red, the blood splatter of rage. Black also dominated, with pictures depicting gory ghoul hands reaching up for me. Other illustrations included my stick figure separated from the group, cheeks scarlet with shame. After piling in the fury and terror, I painted the cardboard box black, hoping the fermented rot in my belly was out of me. It was a start.

In the closet nearby, I felt afraid, imagining that shit inside slithering out. I asked Raymond if he would keep it for me rather than have it sit in my closet. It was his idea to have a ceremonial fire on his property in the spring during one of our sessions, and I readily agreed. Burning that vile box would be cleansing, and I looked forward to it. The contents of the box felt so real, and so scary, that even far away at Raymond’s house, I had nightmarish snapshots of the box’s contents creeping out for him too. But the thick-coated, pendulous penis, exposed when I was just a young girl, came only for me, so I reassured myself he’d be safe from it. 

Raymond never saw what was in the box. Spring came and we carried it out back behind his barn and lit it. 

He said, “Do you want to say anything?”

I shook my head no as we watched it burn. Then thinking I ought to cough something up, I squeezed out, “It’s as good as Dulcolax.”

He chuckled. Having managed the first semester of nursing school, I knew Dulcolax to be an effective laxative. I wished he’d seen some of the pieces. Though horrible creatures, they were surprisingly well done, but once I’d put them in the box, they stayed there. I didn’t look at them again, go near them, or touch the box till our ceremonial march to the fire pit.

Maybe ridding unwelcome spirits is as easy as lighting a match. But the beast of rage in my heart was extraordinary, so writhing and undulating that it encroached on all other feelings, even the physical ability to breath. Raymond tried to help with my high anxiety right from the beginning. At one session he handed me a paper he wrote covering the subject of diaphragmatic breathing.

Instantly noting suspicion, he questioned, “You don’t believe in such a thing?”

I didn’t. How could there such be a word as “diaphragmatic”? Did he make it up? I just looked at him, again unable to vocalize disagreement.

My inability to trust was, as always, paramount, its periscope of suspicion constantly scanning for threats. Mistrust had become a fervent religion. It’s not a religion that allows freedom. Locked up tightly, I was unable to feel my own center, a place guarded as if life depended on it. Breaking into a sealed, guarded vault would be easier than finding my heart.

But eventually he found a way through.

I devoted time each day to slow down my breathing and visualize soothing nature trails, listening to the meditation tape Raymond had recorded during a session. His voice, silky smooth like Dan’s had been, led me to gentle streams and quiet falls trickling over rocks, then a barebacked horse ride along a sun-dappled forest path.

And then there was that nut in my pocket. I paid ninety dollars for someone to tell me to rub my thumb over something smooth in my pocket when I felt stressed. I thought him loony for suggesting such a dumb, insubstantial little thing, but did it anyway. By the sidewalk in town, chestnuts had fallen. I gathered a basketful and always kept one in a pocket. Anything was better than taking that awful Prozac.

Then he said, “I’d like you try writing without stopping. Don’t stop to think, punctuate, or check spelling. Don’t stop at all, just keep going. It’s called “free association.”

I looked at him, perplexed. Another stupid idea. Journaling was one thing, but this? My disloyal head nodded agreeably though, as if attached to someone else’s body. I tried it at home, hating it even more than I thought I would. He read the letter handed over during the next visit after sitting down. I wrote out very courteously, sweetly really, how his idea of “free association” didn’t work too well.

“Ah, free ass,” he said, looking up at me, that smirk on his face again.

What the heck was he talking about, free ass? I had merely abbreviated “association.” I didn’t mean anything by it.

Or did I?

He went on unperturbed, “You didn’t find it helpful?” 

His tranquil smile both threatened and annoyed me. I squirmed in the chair, beginning to sweat as he waited for an answer. He wasn’t getting one. The struggle to disagree, or vocalize any feeling, was a lifelong endeavor. But he torpedoed past defenses others did not, doing so with precision. I was found out, with nowhere to hide or run from those gazing glittering eyes.

Through many starts and stops, I did make it through nursing school. I returned and re-bought the heavy massive books many times, once quitting for an entire year, once for three days. The lead nurse instructor showed great tolerance, allowing reentrance twice. The fear took its toll. Because of long ago trauma—untreated post- traumatic stress—any additional stress would shoot out chemicals designed to prepare the body for imminent danger. “Lions, tigers, and bears‟ were around every corner. Anyone standing nearby worried me. What were they talking about? I was sure it was me, even if I didn’t know them. Every human posed a threat. What would they do to me? How would they hurt me? What would they take from me? The more intelligent a person, the more threatening they were.

My immune system couldn’t take the constant beatings. I developed phobias of elevators and flying and had my first, and so far last, panic attack. It occurred after quitting the first time. The world crashed in. Suffocated by failure, I grasped at any lifeline. Shane, only twelve, got off the bus. My distress at the darkness drowning me pulled him into the fight for my life.

“Go outside, Mom” he said, knowing how I loved the outdoors.

I gasped for air outside too as he followed, worried.

I called Raymond, desperate for relief, crying, and tried to relay what was happening. “I feel like I can’t breathe, like I’m dying!”

He calmly replied, “Allow the feeling in.”

It wasn’t the first time I thought he didn’t understand. During our next meeting he prescribed Xanax, an anti-anxiety medication, but had to persuade me to use it. I resisted taking in foreign objects and never really took enough the way it was prescribed. But just having it with me at all times after that first panic attack was the panacea I needed to prevent another one, a kind of security blanket. That and the fact that finally I succeeded and graduated.

But by that time, Raymond had gone.

SHATTERED- Chapter 13: The Horse & Pony

A Memoir by Patricia Grace- Available on AMAZON

The little barn was finally built. Samuel had found time after working to dig countless holes and implant posts, sometimes during rainstorms, working past dusk into darkness. Then he lined the posts with two courses of wire, connecting them to the electric box in the barn, a term used loosely. It was really a shed with one large walk-in stall that could be closed by a door that rolled to the side. He managed to fit in a small area for storing hay with a loft above, and one more smaller stall with a Dutch door, the type where just the bottom half can be closed so the animal can look out. We painted it white with country blue trim to match our house. Large tuna cans tacked sideways onto the wall accommodated the bridles and a two- by-four apparatus held both saddles nicely, one for my horse, Misty, the other for Shane’s pony, Tony.

Once the hay was loaded and the stall filled with wood shavings, I leaned in through the sliding window from the tack room. I gazed at the area, immensely satisfied now that they could come home, breathing in the scent of sweet hay, dreaming of our first ride in the fields. Both animals were being boarded out till everything was ready and it was time to bring them home.

We thought they would be happy together going in and out of the large stall at will without a door. The pony immediately changed that, bossing out the horse in the first few minutes by a nasty bite to her rump that the vet had to dress and treat with antibiotics. We needed a new plan. Samuel wired up a smaller pasture for Tony outside the little stall. Now they were side by side but not together. It worked beautifully—that little bugger pony.

Though Tony demanded dominance with his horse-mate, he didn’t bite humans or have other bad habits that ponies often do. And my horse was fairly docile though jittery when first starting out, trotting rather than walking. With no place on our property to ride, I scouted out a place one road over, through the gravel pit, past the housing development, and across the next road into the farmer’s fields and forests. Ruby was retired and oddly had the same first name as my beloved Grandmother Ruby, and eventually he became a good friend and grandparent replacement. Grandma had died many years before.

His land went on and on, all cleared of rocks and cut down for hay every spring as if welcoming us, “Come and run, I’m ready!” And we did, happily loping along, the biggest threat, woodchuck holes. We found one, tripping the pony onto his knees with Shane flying over the top of his head because of the sudden stop, but neither Shane nor Tony suffered any damage.

Walking together, the saddles creaked, foamy sweat seeped out from the leather, the pungent odor radiating soothingly as the hot sun warmed our bodies and souls. We talked and laughed, then ran. Up the hill, then the next and into the woods, to where the path ended at a cliff-like point where we could look out and see for miles. We called it “The Top of the World.”

We rode those paths in every season but winter, and each season brought new sights, sounds, and smells. After moving steadily through the lower woods, we discovered another path that opened up to light and found a second gravel pit beyond. Turning back into the woods, the cool shade of trees blocked sunshine with a roof of vegetation; hooves clomped on soft wet earth, crunching leaves and twigs, making satisfying sounds. Sunbeams escaped leafy hands, and little pools of brightness appeared on the earthy floor where circular patterns of greenery and forest bits glowed.

Since we rode as a pair, the animals were less tense, comforted by the other’s presence. They rarely became spooked, though occasionally a squirrel or other creature would make a snapping sound in the distance, and one of the animals would startle and hop sideways. But both were mainly calm, and enjoyed the fresh air and exercise as much as we did. Little did I know that I needed to grab onto those few years as snapshots and memories to hold dear, because they didn’t last; but luckily the pleasures were so great they stuck to me. Once Shane turned thirteen, only things with motors interested him: a go-cart, motorcycle, even the riding lawnmower became more attractive than little Tony. The pony was left to chew grass, roll in dirt, and lay in the sun, contented.

I continued the pursuit as a solitary rider. On hot summer days, Misty nickered as I approached the barn. Her sorrel coat received a good brush down, the russet hair glossy, lighting up red and shiny in the sun, almost aglow. She loved it, stretching her neck in ecstasy as I curried, bumping her bony, hard head and soft nose against me with such strength that she pushed me off balance. Once tacked up, we headed out, but Misty screamed out for her trail-mate, sending shivers of shock through me with her shrill neigh. Tony neighed back with little effort, seemingly more interested in eating the sweet grass beneath him.

Once we were far enough away, in the fields loping circles, she quieted, but she became much harder to manage without a traveling partner, especially in spring after a long winter without being ridden. “Whoa, whoa,” I would plead repeatedly in a firm voice, trying to temper her tendency to trot instead of walking calmly.

On cool days her friskiness included bucking while running up hills. One time her joyful buck tossed me over her head where I hit the hill with such force, I wondered if anything had broken. She watched me get up slowly, and stood still as I sorely climbed back on. But I wouldn’t reprimand her joyful abandon, her emanation of pure happiness. I flew with her as she galloped, her muscles coursing as she thundered up to the top of the hill, her tail flying. Both out of breath, we turned and continued upwards as I reined her in to a soft lope.

On the hilltop, stillness. Only the rustling of leaves could be heard in the breeze. A dog barked, the echo drifting upwards. Misty seemed to know and tolerate my need to sit quietly, absorbing the view and beauty surrounding us. She nibbled on grass while I drank in the rolling hills stretching all the way to the city.

We trotted gaily along with adventures to come, past the thicket of berries and a meadow tall with swaying grass. We investigated a gangly tree stuck right in the middle of the meadow, then walked on and down a hill into a denser, darker wood. The scent of decaying matter centered my being; the rich potpourri of mossy wetness, rotting logs, leaves, nuts, and berries tingled my senses and made me feel at home in my body—a rare occurrence. I sucked it up as if I had never breathed before.

Misty picked her way along carefully, without much guidance. Wildflowers hid in patches. The woodsy coolness enveloped us. Finally we came to a clearing opening to sunshine, so we explored some more before turning back.       

Heading home, we were pleasantly spent, the sweat around her saddle drying into white crust. She received a hose down after the tack had been removed. Her neck extended to the fullest, arching as the water streamed down, washing the sweaty foam off like whipped cream, the strong jet of water soothing and cooling her warm muscles. I walked her till almost dry, and then let her loose to eat, roll, or drink. She nickered to Tony who nickered back. They were happily together again.

SHATTERED- CHAPTER 4: CHET

A memoir by Patricia Grace- available on Amazon

n my house growing up there were six bedrooms: three downstairs, three up. Mine was sandwiched in between the two upstairs and decorated to my liking, just for a little girl. The sunny yellow walls complemented the matching bedspread with intricate threading woven through the soft cloth, little squares of yellow outlined in white. Mom’s bedroom, next to mine, faced the front yard and, after Dad died, Stevie slept there too in a separate twin bed by the window.

No one else besides Chet and me were home and the usually active, loud, busy household seemed oddly quiet. Mom had found work as a secretary and we were left on our own much of the time. Chet, fifteen, and the designated watcher of Stevie and me, was known for his happy-go-lucky good nature and charm. I loved and adored him, as I loved all my brothers, though a crack had begun to form deep below. Quite the lady’s man, he dated frequently and the girls couldn’t get enough of him. I couldn’t either. He made me laugh and feel good and always had a smile. You could not help grinning or feeling happy around him.

I sat cross-legged on my bed with an array of punch-out Barbie doll clothes I had received for my tenth birthday, the kind where you dress a paper doll Barbie with paper clothes that have little tabs to fold over the doll to hold them in place. I hummed while playing, the bright sunshine splashing onto the sunny yellow bedspread. Stevie had taken off with his bike down the road to play with his cousin. Warm summer air fluttered the frilly white curtains.

Chet came upstairs, looking into my room, dangling a pack of Wrigley’s gum in his hand, not the stick kind but the box with little pillows of gum crusted with sugar glaze.

His eyes were smiling, playing a game. He said excitedly, “You get it before I do and you can have it. I’ll give you a head start!”

I jumped off the bed into the hallway. He threw it towards Mom’s room where it landed on the floor by her bed.

“Go!” he said.

Loving games with prizes, especially those involving gum or candy, I raced after it, reaching it before he did, claiming the prize. I’d won! I held it up staring at the cellophane, straining to see at least one square of the sugary gum, but it was empty. I looked at it bewildered, but had little time to complain. His body slammed into mine, the rock solid force knocking the air out of me. He dragged me onto Mom’s bed, falling on top quickly, as if all in one motion, smothering me with his weight, his chest crushing air from my lungs, his shoulders, head, and face so close the minute heated air space between his head and my face lacked oxygen. My body roared in defense, bucking, twisting, and trying to pull away or get up but I couldn’t move. Fighting made it harder to breath and so much worse, like I might die if I kept it up. So I lay still. His fifteen years of male growth, massive and violent, overpowered my child-sized frame with deadening, brutal, iron heaviness. No breath came until I quit fighting. The brick wall stifling me had just one moment ago been my smiling brother.

SHATTERED

A Memoir by Patricia Grace

When severe repeated traumas of sexual abuse by loved ones occurs in childhood, and it is repressed life-long due to the family’s shame of it, the victim, me, suffers life-long.

One cannot hold that in without it causing damage to just about every system in the body.

That agony simmered red hot. The internal rift and damage won’t be cured, only tolerated and managed.  

Sleeplessness, anxiety, a heightened startle response, hypervigilance, mistrust… these are a few injuries left behind by brothers using my body against my will.

Maybe the hardest loss is loss of self, disconnected to my body, thoughts, or soul. It is a forever quest to bring back shattered parts.

OXYMORON

PHOTO BY PATRICIA

Strong, yet fragile.

Delicate, but armored.

Openness shrouded by mistrust.

Not getting close and taken advantage of

both at once because opening to the wrong

person causes it. One lives, and if all goes well learns.

ARMOR

Looking at my own flaws, mistakes, and faults is overwhelming igniting PTSD rockets when trying to sleep in the night. Much of my life has been about how others hurt me, which is every day due to an inability to trust or have faith.

And that is my flaw, though not my fault. Who would trust after a childhood like mine? But no free passes because life is among those who do trust, love freely, and tolerate closeness from others, even welcoming it daily while my own being shies away from it.

That mistrust compounded by a self that beats herself up? Like a prickly porcupine, cute when the quills aren’t out, deadly when they are.

That is my curse. Discovering it nearly drowns me in the night when the black thoughts hit. Looking at my armor reflects a face of aloneness. And if you don’t drill some holes in it you will be all alone.

TRUST

How many relationships have been blocked or lost through the years due to my inability to trust? More than what was kept. Yet slowly trust built enough to begin to sustain some, friends held close for twenty years now, maybe more.

But if feeling crossed, or more succinctly manipulated, and treated dishonestly, you are gone. And recently that could easily have happened yet again if not researched more by a touch of assertiveness in asking a question.

Her response made me sigh in relief and was believable. She just didn’t think about answering my email with her husband’s account even after asking her if we could converse privately as I do with all other women friends.

Strikes me odd that women do that, yet one friend sustained for decades had once done that too until asking if she’d open her own email account. She did and it seems as if she has enjoyed it ever since.

My friend could easily have been gone. By defying my request to have interchanges privately, my thought was she was upset with me for asking and was stubbornly going to email back with her husband’s account anyway.

But I asked why, and she apologized, saying she just grabbed a device and put in Patricia. I believe her- miracle upon miracle that some faith is restored, not an easy feat for me.

My childhood gave me no reason to believe anybody ever again. But there are some I am able to open up to, and yes, eventually trust.

PTSD

The PTSD rocket takes off without my permission, leaving many parts behind right here on earth. But a body can’t sleep splintered like that. On night three of rough, erratic sleep, a stronger sleep aid was resorted to.

Grogginess from it caused a bad fall the next morning possibly breaking a toe which throbs even now, also looking black and blue. That day, yesterday, a cardiology appointment was completed where a treadmill and ultrasound were used for my routine check-up. The gel felt so cold on my bare chest after huffing and puffing on the treadmill’s incline.

Though I did it, I cried like a baby during the undressing- the anxiety of the appointment, the hurt toe, but especially the after-effects of Xanax which always leaves me full of self-pity the next day for having to use it due to the traumas from childhood- bringing me right back to it all as if it were yesterday. Luckily the technician possessed all the qualities you’d want in a medical person, compassion, and competency.

“Everyone gets anxious at appointments. You’re doing great,” she said. (more than once)

“Samuel, will I ever heal from it?” I asked through tears, adding, “no wonder some people believe in reincarnation. No one reaches their full potential in one lifetime,” wondering how I could ever let this one person affect me so dramatically. Haven’t I grown? Can’t I find depth and wisdom to handle this, and rise above it?

Samuel doesn’t say much because I prefaced my lamenting by asking him not to say anything, to just let me express myself without trying to ‘fix’ it. So, he was blessedly quiet.

The peaceful lull of night after night of sleep ended as it always does, a happy period of sleep, then? Whether caused by an acquaintance who unfortunately is part of my inner circle of friends, or it just periodically happens because my bodily systems were broken in childhood, I just don’t know.

Seems too coincidental not to be due to this one person’s cagey deceitfulness reminiscent of my entire life; living in the shadows invisible to even myself because it made my mother’s life livable. And the others who did such monstrous things to their little sister. My close inner circle of those allowed in is limited. Rosalie doesn’t belong, yet there’s no way out of it.

Great effort is being put into trying to see some positives about having an untrustworthy person as part of my small, safe, inner circle. So far none has been discovered.

TAKE HOLD

Control the beast. The beast takes many forms; doubt, fear, insecurity, ungroundedness, an inability to trust or love, and the roots of self-criticism grown in childhood tangled so deeply it cannot be cut out only confronted daily.

Is it that simple, that all this time the adult just needed to take the reins not allowing the troubled willful child to have her will? But no, each path has many signs leading to the wrong places, maybe because fully feeling how wrong something is one learns what is right.

I won’t live long enough to get it all right. But the biggest secret hidden from myself all this time is that when others have said through the years, ‘you’re too hard on yourself,’ that it is a truth unrevealed to me. My head heard it, thought about it, but the critic kept on banging.

But when taking hold of the beasts causing worry, disruption, and chaos- choking them not by asphyxiation but with love, gentleness, kindness, and warmth… a soft place inside, an oasis opens inviting me in. The gnarly roots of self-criticism disintegrate making room for new growth of another kind.