Friday, November 21, 2008

In my life...

Today is the 40th anniversary of the release of the Beatles White album.  It made a deep imprint on my young impressionable soul. I was tormented by the conflicts of youthful optimism and idealism and the darkness and disillusionment I had already experienced in my short life.
I don't know how you were diverted
you were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
No one alerted you...

You know I can't sleep I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I got
for a little peace of mind

Yes, I'm lonely wanna die
Yes I'm lonely wanna die
If I ain't dead already
you know the reason why

Black cloud crossed my mind
Blue mist around my soul
feel so suicidal...
My older brother gave this to me for my 13th birthday. I remember thinking that he must have really liked me because it was a double album.  I guess he did and proved it again a few years later when he tried to rescue me from my abusive boyfriend.  Only, I turned my back on him and left with the abuser. His kindness must have slipped my mind. Or, maybe he had become angry like the rest of us.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

I have the evidence...

Well, there's the piano teacher's husband. Is he the perpetrator? Yes. I have circumstantial evidence. It makes sense. My gut tells me it is so...more than my intuition, my emotional and physical reactions tell me yes.

I had chronic stomach issues in elementary school. I had to have enemas. I had enormously dilated pupils. School officials expressed concern - maybe my tonsils were too large and needed to be removed? I think they were onto something but alas, they didn't know where to look. 

Signs of trauma.

And the white shoes I dreamed about recently.

The piano teacher's husband wore white shoes. I am positive.

That, to me, is the most damning piece of evidence.

Why? Did he molest you?

I froze in my tracks. I couldn't speak. All I asked was "Did you take piano lessons with Ms. Knoll?" Yes, she hated her. "Did her husband drive you to school?"

The ax fell. "Why, did he molest you?"

I couldn't answer quick enough and the subject changed. It was the weekday morning rush and we both had to leave. I hung up and collapsed onto my bed. My head was spinning, my insides nauseous. I started to cry.

Driving to work I convinced myself that my sister was just being her normal sarcastic self and tried to dismiss my own emotional reaction to what she said. But then I thought back to the other night sitting in my car at the train station...how that Shuman concerto (or whatever it was) evoked such a strong reaction in me. It filled me with an ache so deep I couldn't catch my breath. Again, I cried. I cry all the time now, sometimes provoked by a thought or feeling; sometimes not.

I described to the LOML how I took lessons in the morning, 7:15ish, before school and her husband drove me to school. I hated being driven by this creepy older man in his big-finned Cadillac. The car had a huge front seat, split in the middle. I sat in the front with him. I don't understand why I had to take lessons before school. My sister didn't. My elderly teacher (50/60?) was an angry housewife and a woman who believed in teaching through humiliation and degradation. We would sit together on the bench of her highly polished ebony grand piano while she spit cricisms at me and smacked my fingers when I hit the wrong keys. DIDN'T YOU PRACTICE?  I had. She made me nervous. Maybe knowing her husband was driving me to school made me anxious. 

Lace doilies graced all the furniture. It was not warm. Everything was untouchable...like my grandmother's. I can remember leaving through a door off her kitchen (I think) into the garage. He would be waiting for me as I climbed into the front seat of this enormous automobile. I started piano lessons when I was 8 or 9 and continued for at least 3, maybe 4, years...always in the mornings; always filled with dread.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Comforting my inner child

I wanted to throw my laptop out of the window last night after I wrote my blog post, but alas it isn't my laptop to toss. I was angry. I am angry still and my back is aching again. I read my Angela Shelton email this morning -- her advice? Be kind to your inner child, practice parenting yourself (I failed miserably as a child), and step off the trauma train.  

Write how you would comfort a child in crisis. 

Hmmm... When I'm in crisis, I isolate myself until I can sufficiently detach, minimize or forget the situation.  Oh, that's not true anymore but that's been how I have comforted my child as a child.  

Today -- I would gather up that hurt child into my arms, hold her tight and reassure her that I was there for her. I would only make promises that I could keep. I would validate her fears and her tears. I would listen. I would smile warmly and wipe away her tears. I will call the appropriate authorities if a crime were committed. I would take her someplace safe. I would be strong for her and protect her and allow her to be weak until she regained her strength. I would make her chocolate milk or let her play with my dog or color pictures or do whatever she wanted to do to feel better. I would put aside my own fears and anger and hurt and just focus on her needs, her fears, and her wellbeing. I would love her fully and tell her she was beautiful and precious and that no one has the right to hurt her like that. 

Lastly, I would rock her in my arms or stroke her hair until she drifted off to sleep.

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Power of the "F" word

FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU, YOU MOTHER FUCKING ASSHOLE.
LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.
GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME.
SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I FUCKING HATE YOU.

No will love you with three children. FUCK YOU.
No will put up with your shit. FUCK YOU.
Your fingers are too stubby. FUCK YOU.
You don't know what you're talking about. FUCK YOU.
Why do behave that way? You're crazy. FUCK YOU.
You can't do that. You can't have that. FUCK YOU.
You're too stupid. You're not smart enough. FUCK YOU.
You wouldn't understand. FUCK YOU.
You're twisting my words. FUCK YOU.
You can't afford it. FUCK YOU.
You're white trash. FUCK YOU.
You're not worthy. FUCK YOU.
Shut up. FUCK YOU.
You're lucky I love you. FUCK YOU.
What more do you want? FUCK YOU.
You don't deserve anything better. FUCK YOU.
Give it up, little girl. Get lost. FUCK YOU.
Give me your money. You owe me. FUCK YOU.
You're a joke. FUCK YOU.
That's the best you'll ever get. FUCK YOU.
Who cares? FUCK YOU.
I love you, bitch. FUCK YOU.
Go ahead, kill yourself. FUCK YOU.
I dare you. FUCK YOU.

Guess how many of those voices were in my head?

The LOML told me tonight that I haven't been doing anything to help myself. I haven't written - emails to him, blog entries. Guilty. I haven't called Dr. B. Guilty. I haven't emailed my friend for her impressions. Guilty. He seems to have forgotten that I have been thinking, piecing my life back together, reading, and talking (to him mostly). But that's nothing. I screamed the other day for the first time, ever. I was no longer mute.

When you read this, scream out the FUCK YOU's...then you'll feel my wrath.

My lower back which ceased up on me this morning has relaxed...not so strange.