On Familiarity

Jealous Of The Life I Used To Have

I think back on my life before the pandemic and how my mom, my sister, my aunt, and even someone I thought was a good friend all were jealous of the life I had that involved traveling and visiting my in-laws who are truly lovely people. 

After my divorce from the WASband left me destitute, literally bankrupted me, leading to me residing with my hoarder cousin and stealing day old bagels & rolls of TP from work just to get by between paychecks, you’d think they’d be happy for me that my burdens (in that regard) were lightened, but no. Misery likes company. 

Now *I* am the one who is jealous & resentful of that version of myself, and how I wish that were me now. I feel like I actually died back then, and this current existence is a posthumous, dystopian fantasy illusion. 

My husband is planning this lovely trip to Paris is like he is trying to resurrect that dead version of me, hoping I’ll happily look forward to this trip.  

I am very appreciative he is in a position to plan wonderful adventures for us; however, what should be happy anticipation is replaced with fear and anxiety and trying to estimate how many N95s I will need to pack and worrying about bringing COVID back as a souvenir. 

The pandemic has destroyed 10-15 (possibly even 20) years of diligent personal work & enrichment. 

Before COVID, I was risk averse, neurotic, and distrustful of most people. Now? I have to put those pieces of myself back together, AGAIN, and I am angry and resentful that I have to do this all over again. Luckily this is familiar territory, and it all comes back to self care and mindfulness, and a bit of encouragement & accountability from those of whom I trust. 

This is the nature of life: change. Even our bones don’t remain unchanged. The cycle of building up and breaking down is the natural order of things. Lather, rinse, repeat until the tipping point is reached and we can’t rebuild again. Into the breach once more. 

On Parenting My Parents When I Was a Child: Two Book Ends

As they are both no longer physically here, and I'm not doing much of anything these days thanks to the pandemic, this leaves me with plenty of time to just ruminate, and connect what dots I am able to, and just try to understand my trauma, and be in awe of the fact that I survived. I have a couplet of stories wherein I advocated for my parents, something neither of them ever did for me at a time in my life when it was truly necessary for my development:

Age 4-5

My mother's verbally abusive father was at our home. My dad and my grandfather both were outside doing yard work or some household repair. My grandfather was his usual verbally abusive, emotionally destructive self, verbally harassing my dad. All I knew at the time was he was being really mean to my dad. So, in response, I picked up the garden hose, and gave the old man a good dousing with some icy cold well water. This was long before RA had crippled him up, and he made chase after me, stopping once he got to our dining table, my hiding spot, a place he could not reach me. Dripping wet and seething with anger, he wanted my dad to punish me, and all dad did was shrug his shoulders and say, "tough luck, pops."

Age 12

At a family gathering at the home of dad's aunt (his mom's sister), my dad's mother decided (now that she had an audience) she was going to humiliate my mother for being fat. "I'll never understand how anyone could make love to a fat woman!" Which of course brought all conversation to a full stop. And not one of the adults in attendance, NOT EVEN MY DAD, interceded on mom's behalf. I gave it a moment, and then replied, "Well, grandma, I don't see anyone beating a path to YOUR door to make love to YOU." And much like in the first story, dad's mother asked if he was going to discipline me. Dad just shrugged his shoulders and say, "Why should I? She said the truth."

The parallels between the two stories is evenly balanced, and a consistent theme throughout my life--parenting my parents. And now, here I am in my 50s, and I need to parent MYSELF.

In Possession of My Tormentor's Weapon

In 1989, when I left home for the final time, and eventually married my ex, I grabbed a humble, well-worn wooden spoon. I have vivid memories of mom using it to stir bubbling pots of Sunday gravy, or mixing up batches of holiday cookies--and I'm realizing now, 900+ days since she died, that those were just surface memories and attachments I had with that spoon. 

Only recently did the other memories associated with that spoon bubble up from the depths of my subconsciousness, and I am remembering the spoon as an instrument of abuse. When enraged, she'd lash out and beat us with whatever she had in her hands at the time.

My sister always (ALWAYS!) would get stabbed during dinners, but for me, I usually got beat with the bristle end of a hair brush, or get beat with the wooden spoon, or a stinging open-handed slap--all met with m stony stoic silence until one day I snarled out the words, "Are you DONE?" And I don't think she ever beat me again after that.

I'm just now able to acknowledge my tormentor is physically gone, but her physical weapon remains in my kitchen--yet her psychological and emotional weapon remains deeply entrenched in my memories, my attachment style, persistent rumination, and fighting a constant battle against the negative inner dialogue and self-gaslighting. 

Somewhere I read CS Lewis said that it isn't JUST that his friend died--it's that the part of him that only his friend could bring out would never be brought out again.

Though not a friend--when mom died a big part of me died too, but which part? The dangerously vulnerable part? If so, I should be glad it won't be brought out again. But she is my mom, and she gave me life--something I had no choice in the matter, and I had no choice for 52 years but be resentful and resigned that the relationship never was AND NEVER WILL BE what I wanted and desperately needed it to be, and I just hope whatever I DID do for her/on her behalf was sufficient. And yet, all I still want to do is run away and hide.

Pieces

Thinking back on that quote attributed to CS Lewis regarding the death of a friend & grief. It isn’t just the death of his friend he grieved for, but also he grieved for that part of him that only his friend could bring out and which would never be brought out again. 

A refinement on a thought in another blog post—she is my mom and she gave me life—something I had zero choice in the matter, and I had no choice but be resentful & resigned that the relationship never was and never will be what I wanted & needed it to be. A sentiment in one of her last birthday cards to me, “Remember, this was a journey we took together” still resonates and makes me wonder how much of a choice does a zygote have?

I just hope whatever I did for her was sufficient. It HAS to be sufficient. 

Another Funeral

To be frank, when I got a call from my cousin David, I knew someone died, and at first I thought it might have been my uncle as he had heart surgery not that long ago. I never would have expected it was my cousin’s husband Dan.

Five years ago we attended their wedding. And here it is five years and two months later and we’re burying my cousin’s husband, age 38.

In all likelihood, he died due to COVID, but we will never know as my cousin opted out of an autopsy, which left me no other recourse but to do what I always do and connect the dots. 

August 24th my aunt (mom’s sister, who is his mother-in-law) tested positive for COVID, and has been sloppily adhering to limiting in person stuff to people in her pod/bubble. 

Three weeks later, he was found, stone cold dead on his kitchen floor. His co-workers came to the house when he wasn’t reached by phone. 

Entirely plausible he had been exposed to COVID, if not this one time but likely multiple times by everyone in their “pod.”

So, three weeks after my aunt tested positive, there we all were in the funeral home to say goodbye to Dan and try to (feebly) support my cousin who was in shock. 

The only people wearing masks in the funeral home besides myself was my cousin David & another cousin, and my aunt and uncle were both there bare faced. Of course my sister, brother, brother-in-law, and niece all were barefaced too. 

The funeral home was a full house, and several people in attendance had persistent coughs. 

This illustrates quite keenly my justification in avoiding family gatherings, that the majority of people sadly cannot be trusted to do the bare minimum to protect others or protect themselves. It is as if mom’s death meant nothing to them, and doesn’t even serve as a warning to them. Perhaps they have forgotten about her already. 

On Childhood Abuse RIP Anne Heche

Someone’s worth is what remains when we subtract one’s bad characteristics from the good, and the sim that remains is our true value. 

While I am not an apologist for the destructive behavior which sadly led to Anne Heche’s passing, as a survivor of childhood abuse, I do possess empathy for her, and sympathy for her friends & family she left behind. 

I know all too well, and all too personally, that when our tormentors die, all the damage that they wrought does not miraculously dissipate and correct itself. 

Ms. Heche’s death did make me pause for more than a moment and reflect how random it all is, how we survive and cope in the aftermath of emotionally destructive childhood abuse. 

I could have been a statistic in many ways. I could have been a pregnant teen. I could have ended up in relationships with domestic violence. I could have become an addict. I could have been many of those things, but did not. 

This is not to say I came out of my childhood, or my almost 54 years, unscathed. The after effects of abuse presents itself differently in everyone whose formative years were impacted by abuse. 

For me, most notably, I have had problems with nearly every relationship I have had with women in authoritative positions in my life: my grandmother, mother, aunt, women I encountered in the military, as well as my boss, and work associates older than myself. 

Perhaps this is one of the contributing factors behind my difficulties to find a job elsewhere. Then there’s the issue of spending my first 30 years totally lacking any self worth. 

All that is MY legacy of abuse. 

Recently Jennette McCurdy’s book “I’m Glad My Mom Died” was published. Much like Anne Heche’s book, “Call Me Crazy,” it is a biographical account of childhood abuse. I wish these were isolated books, but there are countless books out there (remember Mommy Dearest, by Christina Crawford?). And this isn’t unique to mothers & daughters—the very night my mom died, I watched Cracked Up: The Darrell Hammond Story. 

It is a predictably easy thing to blame our mothers for our struggles. It is easy because for too many of us it is true. 

I don’t need to publish a book or have a movie made about my abuse, and that doesn’t make my reality any less real than anyone else’s. But I do feel an uncomfortable kinship with these women (and Mr. Hammond as well). 

Reading articles & books or watching films depicting their abuses resonates deeply with me—it is so eerily familiar, we are all telling familiar stories, so familiar, it is as if we are sharing the same narrative, or perhaps we are distant members of the same family.