memoir – Page 6 – One Woman's Quest

Whiskey Fights

Most evenings I would return home from work at 10:30 exhausted by my day. Juggling school, homework, and a part-time job was taxing, particularly as I worked from six to ten, four evenings a week, as well as eight hours on Saturdays. Typically, I would stop to visit with my parents before heading off to bed. It was always at these times that my father would engage me.

It started with an empty drink glass he would balance on his knee. This was to be my cue. I would ignore him.

“Ahem!” He would nod at the empty glass.

Continuing to ignore him, I would talk to my mother about the day.

Clink, clink, clink. My father would tap the glass to get my attention.

“Your legs worked fine the last time I saw them.”

He’d raise his eyebrows in displeasure. “I worked hard all day. It’s the least you could do.”

“I worked hard all day, too.” I’d object. “Get your own drink.”

My mother, the peacemaker, would take a step towards him.

“Don’t you dare, Mom! You worked equally as hard all day. He can get his own.”

“Is this the thanks I get? All I want is a simple drink, and my own daughter won’t even get up and get it for me.”

It was the point of the thing. My father was the epitome of male chauvinist pig. It was his home, his castle, and everyone and everything was expected to pander to him. It made me mad.

My mother stood by, hesitant.

‘It won’t hurt him to serve himself once in awhile.” Now I was arguing with her.

“Your not going to win,” she’d sigh. My father leered with satisfaction.

“Not if you give in.” It was a hopeless plea. My mother always gave in. Didn’t she realize I was on her side? I was doing this for all of us?

This wasn’t about the drink. It was about all the times he made her have dinner on the table the moment he walked through the door, then pushed his plate away after two bites, exclaiming disgust at her cooking; humiliating her in front of all of us. And how he always had to have the first helping of pie, and it had to be flawlessly served; no broken pieces for him. It was about how he insisted on napping in a chair beside the dinner table, forbidding us to talk even though we were busting to discuss our day. And how every time we were watching the movie of the week, he would come in just at the climax and insist on changing the channel, even though he had a TV set in his room, which only he was allowed to watch. He was the King of the Castle, he’d remind us. As if we needed reminding.

For once, I wanted to win. To prove him wrong. To see him back down. It wasn’t going to happen.

I got up and grabbed the glass. There was no winning against my father. He knew it. She knew it. I seethed inside.

(Image: www.photigy.com)

Abuse and Money

I arrived home from school one day to find my mother sitting in a corner trembling, her face face blotched red and swollen from crying. “Mom?”

The eyes that stared back at me were distant. This was not my mother. I took stock of the situation. It was 3:15. My little sister would be home from school in half an hour. Dad would be home at 4:30 and expect dinner on the table. Nothing had been started yet. I dropped my books and got down to business.

“Mom. You need to talk to me. D is going to be home soon, and we have to get dinner on. What’s going on?”

She nodded slightly. “I can’t do it anymore. Your father……..” Her voice trailed off, but she didn’t need to say anything. I knew how brutal my father could be. I heard daily how stupid she was, and how she never cooked anything properly, even though that was her only job. I wanted her to leave him, too.

“I’ll do whatever I can, Mom. In two years, I can quit school, and get a job. I’ll support us.”

Was that a faint smile?

“We’ll make it work, Mom. We’ve got each other.”

Reaching for the pots and pans, I added, “Now what can we get started for dinner?” There would be hell to pay if dinner wasn’t on the table the moment my dad walked in.

* * *

At twelve years of age, I learned that money was what kept my mother in an abusive relationship. It never occurred to me that she had the option of getting a job; she was a stay at home mom. Five years later, we would go through a similar scenario, only then I was already living on my own, and had enough sense to get her to a lawyer. In the end, my father convinced her to stay.

Years later, I would find myself a stay at home mom, with a husband who controlled the purse strings. Like my mother, I felt powerless, and inferior. Unlike my mother, I left anyway. I braved poverty in order to find my worth. Nevertheless, I struggled, seldom able to give my children the material things they craved. I felt guilty, worthless, inadequate. After six years, I had a serious talk with God.

“God,” I said, “I want to make a difference in the world, but I can’t do it if I don’t even know where the next meal is coming from.”

I tried affirmations: All my needs are always met; there is enough for everyone.

Eventually, things turned around. Yet, my relationship with money has not yet healed. I want to be able to say the money’s the money, the way my new husband does. I want to be able to see money as a means to an end, and not the end of my means.

My attitude towards money still needs work, but I am ready for change.

(Image: empoweringparents.com)

What Is Right If Everything Is Wrong?

My father ‘borrowed’ his brother’s identification and enlisted in the war effort at the age of fifteen. He told me once that it was an opportunity to escape home. He trained as a commando. His mission was to go into enemy territory, scout out where they kept their ammunition, and get out without being caught. His instructions were to swallow a black pill (cyanide) if captured, and kill any soldier he should encounter, in order to keep his unit’s operation covert. He did not carry a gun; gun’s were too noisy. He was trained to kill with either a knife, that he kept strapped to his leg, or his bare hands.

He knew exactly how to render an enemy immobile, and apply pressure to end their life. I know, because he practiced on me.

He never let me forget that he was boss, and he could snuff me out in a moment.

He would do it in a state of drunkenness, in front of his male friends. He’d twist my body in such a way that if I moved, I would surely break an arm, or a leg. He’d hold me there, humiliated, angry, and make me tell him I loved him.

“Yes, Dad.” I would say, teeth clenched, breathing like a trapped animal.

“What?” He’d pull tighter. “I don’t think that was very convincing.”

“I love you.” I don’t know who I hated more, him or me. I felt so cowardly. Inwardly, I plotted revenge. He might conquer me in the moment, but not the long term.

How long he held me there, depended on how much pleasure he was deriving from the moment. He said he did it because he loved me.

“Your father loves you,” my mother would echo. “He’d never really hurt you.” I was not reassured. She said the same thing when he attacked her verbally, and psychologically.

She said the same thing when her brother tried to slip me his tongue. “Your uncle fancy’s himself a ladies’ man. He’s harmless.” Even when his own daughters accused him of sexual abuse and refuse to see him, she defended him. “Boys will be boys,” she’d say. “The woman has to control the situation.”

I was twenty-eight before I told her the reason that I disappeared when I was fourteen was because I had been abducted and raped. It took me fourteen years to build up the courage to tell my mother that when men behave inappropriately it is wrong. That they alone are responsible for their crimes, and that women are not to blame.

“I’m sixty years old,” my mother told. “And I’ve never told anyone.”

“What, Mom?”

“I always thought it was the girl’s fault. I don’t why I thought that, but I just did. I knew my mother would say so, so I never told.” She was only six, and riding in the backseat of her family’s new car, when her uncle took her little hand and made her fondle his penis. Her parents were in the front, but she didn’t say a word. She thought she did something wrong.

The abuse did not stop there. “My mother would make me visit my grandparents, even though I hated it. Grandma would be working in the kitchen, and she’d tell me to go and keep Grandpa company.” ‘Keeping Grandpa company’ meant climbing into bed with the old man. Mom didn’t explain any further.

The same brother that tried to french kiss me, was also a problem growing up, she confessed. She’d just shoo him away.

Her younger sister wasn’t so lucky. Their grandfather dragged her out behind the barn one day and raped her, while the rest of the children stood by helpless. Only the youngest son grabbed the shotgun and threatened to kill the old man. It was an empty effort. Years later, the family would shun that aunt for her inappropriate sexual behaviors.

A child may be born with an innate sense of right and wrong, but it is not long before she learns to question her own instincts. How do you unravel the corruptly tangled web of abuse and denial? How does a child who has not been protected from wrong, learn to trust in right?

For me, it has been a slow dawning realization that words have no meaning. A man can say and promise whatever he wants, but it is action that speaks the truth. Holding your child in a death grip to prove your prowess, is not an act of love.

Creativity and Self Definition

I dream that I am walking across an open field. The landscape is barren, and dry, and a wind storm is whipping up, with low menacing clouds. I am headed to the farm, where I raised my children, and where my ex-husband still lives. I am living in the city, in the basement of a raised ranch with hand-me-down furniture. While the apartment is bright, because of the high windows, it is still a basement. I am walking against the weather, despite the weather, because I want to finally settle something with my ex; call a truce. He is processing wood – putting it through a machine and creating little piles of wood chips and lots of sawdust in his large open shop. He keeps working and ignores my presence. My mother arrives in a car and has a present for him. My older sisters show up also. They are in the main house primping, and trying to show me how to make myself more attractive. I just want to clear the air, but there are too many distractions.

I always say that creativity is the process by which we define and then express ourself. In the dream, I am influenced by the women in my family, the inclement weather, and an ex-spouse who is preoccupied. I chuckle at the dream’s image of my older sisters preening, as growing up it was impossible to find a mirror that was not taken over by one of my sisters. It was part of the reason I chose to be a tomboy; it was easier than trying to get bathroom time for grooming.

In my family, women were expected to be pretty, under educated, and submissive to men. My older sisters were both beautiful, and took secretarial skills at school, leaving after grade 11, so they could get a job and find a man. I did not fit this mold. Taking after my father in looks, I had a receding chin, and wore glasses. I was also ‘gifted’ and aspired towards a university degree. I was outspoken and pro women’s lib. My mother told me daily that no one would ever love me; she worried about my future. I felt my mother’s legacy fulfilling itself, when my second, and former husband told me he had never loved me after seventeen years together. I left that marriage believing that I was unlovable.

I thought I had worked through all that. I am in a relationship now with a husband who constantly demonstrates his love for me. So why, in my dreams am I going over old territory? And what does this have to do with creativity?

Maybe the dream is reminding me that if we define ourselves within the context of our environment, then we are limited. If we are to expand our sense of self, we must be able to see beyond the landscape of our past. In terms of health, my mother has had numerous issues, including three rounds of cancer; my oldest sister suffered illness all her life; and my next older sister is debilitated by schizophrenia. None of them escaped the limitations of victimhood to experience either successful careers or relationships.

I believe that the purpose of dreams is always to bring positive movement in our lives. This one left me feeling hopeless, unwanted, unseen or heard – much like my childhood. I need to envision a new reality for myself. I need to create new possibilities instead of searching and re-searching the experiences that will never serve to define me as anything less than inadequate.

(Image: wallpapers-kid.com)

Relief

The verdict is in: there is no cancer!

Relief is immediate. I find myself breathing easier. I feel lighter.

So, what was that about? Months of uncertainty, unknowing, like a cloud hovering over each day. Dare we plan….? What if…..? What about…..? The questions were there, but unanswerable. Just as quickly as it arrived, the cloud is gone. The sky is clear again; life is back to normal.

But I am not the same. I am more aware. I more aware of how important my love ones are to me, and that I let them know. I am more aware of how fortunate I am to be working at a job I love, but that my health and well-being comes first. I must look after myself. I am more aware that as I grow older my body is less forgiving, and it needs my care. Health is not a given, nor a promise; it requires work and commitment.

I was lucky. Not everyone is. I have been given another chance. I’ve got some personal work to do.

Navigating Intuitively

In 1997, the annual Therapeutic Touch conference was held in Vancouver, and to my great delight, my then husband encouraged me to attend. The conference was to be held over a weekend, but as I had a friend living on Vancouver Island, I decided to extend my stay. Two others wanted to join, and while I said they were welcome, I wanted it to be on my terms – outside of the conference, I wanted no set agendas, or schedules. I wanted to be fully open to the experience, and whatever presented itself; to let my intuition alone be the guide.

One of my teachers and mentors was also living in Vancouver at the time, and as it turned out would be on the island during our stay. Em agreed to meet up with us. We needed a place to stay. J, who lived on the island, scouted out a cottage we could rent for cheap. It was November, so very off season. She found a three bedroom that looked like it would accommodate us. We were excited.

We flew into Vancouver and rented a car. By late evening, we were in Victoria. We decided to stop for the night. S and I were up early the next morning, ready to explore.

“What does it mean to follow your intuition?” she asked as we set out on the deserted streets in search of an open coffee shop.

“Some teachings believe that Spirit speaks to us through omens and signs, but most of us miss this guidance in our day to day living, as we are too focused on schedules and obligations. I just want to see what happens when we open to guidance.” A large black bird squawked from its perch across the street. We both looked. “Like that bird, for example. What would happen if we followed it?” On cue, the bird flew a short distance, then stopped. We followed.

S and I were going into business together. She already had an established business, and I had a vision. I wanted to create an environment in which people could find help in times of need, but I didn’t want it to be clinical, or formal. We were thinking a book store, with added services. We shared ideas as we continued to follow the bird, who seemed to be enjoying the game. He would fly only within sight, and wait for us before journeying further. Eventually he stopped just outside a store front. The store was called “The Pomegranate”.

“I like it,” I exclaimed. I had just read something about pomegranates, and how some scholars believed the original apple in the Garden of Eden was actually a pomegranate. I shared this with S.

She told me in the Jewish religion, the pomegranate was a symbol of the many ways man can serve man. She said the pomegranate has multiple seeds (over 100) and that each seed was representative of a different act of service. Our discussion became lively and animated. We walked on, our harbinger forgotten.

When we returned to the hotel, L was ready to move on. We loaded up the rental vehicle, and headed north. L would drive, S would occupy the passenger seat, and I would be the backseat driver, listening for ‘signs’. With its combination of mountains, trees, rock, and water, it is difficult not to feel inspired on the island.

I tried to pay attention not only with my eyes, but also with my other senses. We hadn’t travelled far before I felt a shift in my physical perception. I asked L to pull over. My companions looked at me expectantly. Not sure what I was experiencing, I explained that I felt something different, a sensation of depletion, as if the energy was being zapped out of me. We got out and looked around. Not much to see. I pointed in the direction where I thought the sensation was coming from. There was some big machinery there; it looked like it might be the beginning of construction. We asked a passerby, who responded that the forest was being clear cut here. What a shame, we thought.

We drove on until I suddenly felt my heart begin to flutter, as if it had taken flight. “Pull over,” I announced. “I feel like soaring.” We got out and looked up. Three eagles were circling high above. We watched in speechless reverence.

Our next stop was close to the inner channel. I suddenly felt playful, bubbly. “It’s in the water!” Sure enough, it was. A lone dolphin was jumping in the waves.

“This is fun,” L said. “But I’m getting hungry. Where does your intuition say we should eat?”

“Wendy’s,” I blurted. A chorus of groans erupted. We had driven past a number of quaint towns and cute little restaurants, and fast food was the last thing on our minds.

“Surely, not.” L protested. I shrugged.

Wendy’s came into sight. Reluctantly, we pulled in. I made a beeline for the washroom, while L and S got in line to order. Inside the bathroom, I had the sensation of the earth moving. Something was here, but I had no idea what. “This is the right place.” I told the ladies when I caught up with them. They rolled their eyes. We pushed through the crowded restaurant to find a seat, and were nicely tucking into the food when I heard an unmistakeable laugh. Em was here!

Across the room, seated with her back to us, was a middle-aged woman with a long grey-black braid down her back – Em. We embraced and laughed at the serendipity of meeting in this restaurant, when all of us avoided fast food. Em was visiting friends and would be meeting up with us on Miracle beach later in the week. She travelled by motorcycle, and preferred no schedules. We would see her whenever.

We set off again, now convinced. If we make room in our lives, and open up our awareness, Spirit can speak. It was the beginning of an incredible week. Our setting was aptly named: Miracle Beach. The miracles for that week had just begun.

(Image: www.hellobc.com)

An Unexpected Lesson

On April 15, 1978, I married for the first time. It was also the day my eldest sister was diagnosed with leukemia and given one month to live – a year, if she had any fight in her. I was nineteen.

As a young woman, I viewed life’s issues as black and white, and was often intolerant and impatient of others. Now, thrown into a world of uncertainty, I was ill-equipped to cope. Jo was a single mother of one, and asked for my help and support. I vowed to be there for her, but had no idea what that would entail.

Even though we were siblings, my sister and I could not be further apart. Eleven years my senior, Jo was born with a hole in her heart, a condition that saw her constantly in and out of hospital as a child. At thirteen, on the brink of death, a new procedure, open-heart surgery, saved her life. Much of our family’s energy and attention centered around Jo’s well-being, which was always a difficult task. Coddled as a child, and setback by illness, Jo was temperamental, self-centered, and high-spirited. If there was a fight to be had, she would instigate it. She was reckless, impulsive, and emotionally immature. At nineteen, she was unwed and pregnant. She insisted on marrying the child’s father, but it didn’t last. A string of bad relationships followed, along with several moves, in and out of our family home. It seemed, Jo had a knack for creating chaos.

In contrast, although fifth born, I played the role of the responsible, sensible child, often trying to mediate calm in our tumultuous lives. It was the natural order of things for Jo to turn to me for help. I signed on as legal guardian of my niece, and accompanied my sister to medical appointments. She underwent intense chemotherapy, and many times we thought we were losing her, but Jo would rally round again.

I learned from my sister, that life is often grey – that uncertainty, and change are givens – and this rattled my sense of self-righteousness. I felt inadequate and overwhelmed. Pursuing education in the medical field was never an option for me, as a I was a fainter. Instead, I sought understanding of the psychological and spiritual aspects of illness. It would lead me to years of study and a career.

I don’t know how much I actually ever helped my sister. She was never open to any of the ideas or approaches that I studied, and she never became any easier to get along with. Her survival, fourteen years beyond the initial diagnosis, can only be attributed to an incredible fighting spirit and will to live. She never changed. I, however, was forever altered because of her.

I was with my sister the night she died, holding her hand as promised. She was one of my greatest teachers.

(Image from Pinterest)

Adjusting Focus

At thirty-one, I suffered from acute anxiety depression. Translation: the amount of stress in my life overloaded my ability to function. My mind snapped, and I was reduced to a blathering blob of human jelly – trembling uncontrollably and unable to perform even the simplest of tasks. I lost all sense of self.

While incredibly frightening at the time, in retrospect this a time of breakthrough. The black abyss into which I had fallen was a wake up call to re-examine my life. Obviously, the way I had been progressing was not working for me. I needed to regain equilibrium.

In desperation, I sought inspiration. I found it in one particular quote, whose author I have long since forgotten:

I turned to God when my foundation was shaking, only to discover that God was shaking my foundation.

Prior to losing my grip on reality, my life had been externally focused.

My oldest sister was dying of cancer, and opted to die at home, which resulted in my mother and I becoming her primary caregivers. At the same time, I had returned to work full-time in order to allow my then husband the luxury of finding himself career-wise. Ideally, the plan involved swapping roles, but his search led him to uncover an insatiable love for racing, and I found myself juggling work, childcare, and homemaking.

In response to the unhappiness I was feeling, I strove to better myself by enrolling in a fourth year French course at the university, and pushing myself to become more physically active.

In short, I had taken on way too much. I like to think God pulled the plug.

Alone in the bottom of my black hole, I discovered something miraculous – my faith. I hadn’t given it much thought before, yet, there is was, like a faint beacon of hope, drawing me out of my darkness. I realized that I did believe in God, and more than that, that God believed in me. My doctor offered long term drug therapy, but I preferred to take God’s challenge, and build a new foundation from within. A spiritual dialogue began.

Twenty-three years later, with the threat of the c-word over my head, I find my equilibrium challenged once more. I have not forgotten that God uses nudges as reminders. I need to find balance again. The dialogue continues.

(Image:

Allef Vinicius)