relationships – Page 34 – One Woman's Quest

How Tables Turn

“All I want is to have my family around me.”

I was giving my father a therapeutic touch treatment to help ease his pain. His suffering was relentless in his last years.

“I guess they’re all too busy for their old Dad.”

“You didn’t exactly teach us how to be around you, Dad.” I didn’t want to be unkind, but he needed to hear the truth. When I was too young to understand about his ‘needs’, I thought we were an inconvenience to him. Mom would whisk us off to bed before he got home from work, so we’d be out of the way. Later, when his secret was out, we would have to call ahead to make sure it was okay to come home. When I moved out and became a parent, Dad would visit for ten or fifteen minutes before he had to leave.

“I suppose that’s true.” Were those tears in his eyes? “I lived a very selfish existence.”

“Yes, you did. You just have to be patient with us, and give us time to see that you have changed.”

He caught my hand in mid-motion and gave it a squeeze. “I always loved you, though.”

“I know that now, Dad. But there were many times when I didn’t. I could never compete with sports.” Sports were Dad’s excuse for everything: I can’t come see your play, because the game’s on; or: I’d love to spend time with my grandchildren, but this is the deciding match. Trouble is, there was always some sporting event on.

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“You missed out on a lot.”

“I know. I know.”

My father had changed. We never could have had this conversation years ago. He was too intimidating, and never open to criticism. Something in him had softened. Mom said he cried regularly over all the things he had done to us throughout the years. Still, I wasn’t totally convinced.

“It’s ironic how the tables have turned. It was always Mom who suffered with so much pain, and now it’s you.”

Isn’t that the truth, Dad’s face said. “I wasn’t very sympathetic either,” he confessed. “Serves me right, I guess.”

I didn’t say anything. Dad had never understood Mom’s suffering; he couldn’t tolerate weakness. Now he depended on oxygen to breathe, and didn’t go out much because his immune system was so compromised. His life was reduced to pain medication and ointments. Mom seldom left his side.

“I messed up, didn’t I Squeegie?” It was his nickname for me when I was little.

“You certainly had your trials, Dad. No one can imagine what it was like to be you. I guess you did the best you knew how.”

He squeezed my hand again. “You’re a good kid.”

“I wish I could take your pain away, Dad,” I responded.

In the back of my mind, I was remembering something my father had always preached:

You get out of life what you put into it.

Soul’s Guardian

“Mom, I don’t know how to say this, but…” I was tucking my ten-year-old son into bed.

“Go ahead.”

“Well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you know how if there is a sale on at Eaton’s, you want to get there early.”

“Yes?” I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going.

“You want to get there early because the best stuff gets picked over first, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, no offense, but you’re not getting any younger.”

“What are you on about?”

“Maybe you need to get out there before all the good ones are picked over.”

“Are you saying I should start dating?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Well, I’ll give it some thought.” It had been over six months since his father and I had separated, and dating was the furthest thing from my mind, but there was wisdom in those words. Still shattered from the unexpected end of a seventeen year relationship, I coped by going to bed early every night, and staying away from people. My son was probably right – avoiding life was not the answer – life was passing me by.

‘Obi-Wan Kenobe’, one of my friends called my son. From an early age, he has had an uncanny wisdom, well beyond his years. He’s my soul’s guardian.

(Image from: www.kidscreativechaos.com)

Lifelines

The forest is thick with the smell of new leaves, tinged with the lingering winter musk. The trees here stretch endlessly upwards, their trunks a testimony to the timelessness of the place. Rays of warm sunlight reach downwards, creating pockets of warm glow. The soft moss and dry earth beneath my feet cushion my steps. Birdsong fills the air, adding to the aura of enchantment. I come here to meditate. This is my oasis: a calm, nurturing retreat where I can find renewal. I breathe deeply and allow all my senses to revel in the beauty. A crackling of twigs alerts me to the presence of another. A horse and rider come into my line of vision and stop. The young man’s eyes meet mine, and there is a rush of recognition. He is young, maybe mid twenties, with thick dark hair, and dark eyes. I feel that I have known him many lifetimes, and that ours has been a relationship of deep and abiding love. “I am coming back to you,” is all he says, and I feel my heart leap with joy.

The unexpected vision and accompanying emotional surge forces me back to consciousness. The meditation had been so deep and relaxing that it find it hard to shake off the drowsiness. It was so real. I open my eyes to find my friend, Sam looking at me. “It’s a boy!” I blurt out. “You’re going to have a boy!”

I was right about the boy, but the message was not for my friend who was so desperately hoping for a child. It was for me, who although I thought I was finished my childbearing, was about to discover myself pregnant again. My dark haired, brown-eyed boy was born the next fall.

Mothers know that there is an unseen cord of consciousness that runs between them and their children. It is first experienced when they wake up seconds before their sleeping baby. Or maybe earlier, in the dream time.

Abuse of Power

Although I never met the man, I can imagine him as somehow mesmerizing, with a captivating smile, a soothing throaty voice, or sparkling dark eyes. From all descriptions he is an average middle-aged man, slightly balding, and plump around the middle. Without a doubt, he knows how to charm.

I first heard about him at a conference for healers. A reputable woman was promoting his work as ground-breaking, and rooted both in science and spirituality. His workshops carried a hefty price tag, but were reportedly worth the sacrifice.

I didn’t go.

“He’s very mysterious,” people reported back to me. “And very powerful.”

As always, I listened without commenting. New Age workshops were popping up everywhere, each one proclaiming to offer the answer. I liked to bide my time.

“He only works with women.”

My ears perked up.

“And only if you are chosen.”

Why is that? I wondered.

One by one, I watched the women flock to him. “He gets us,” one woman explained. “It’s like he can look inside and he knows exactly what each person needs.”

“He’s seeing my wife at three in the morning,” a distraught husband told me over the phone. “What kind of therapist meets with clients at three in the morning?” I was wondering the same thing. “I feel like I’m losing her.”

I agreed to talk to his wife.

“He’s helping me cleanse myself of the past and all the bad relationships I’ve had.” True enough, she’d had her share. But why the middle of the night? “It’s the time of the day when there are the least physical distractions and the psychic energy is stronger.”

Looked like red flags to me.

Then I met Kay. Kay was young, and beautiful, and highly intelligent, but something wasn’t right. She had enrolled in a therapeutic touch class, and while she seemed to be enjoying the course, I noticed she seemed agitated. I pulled her aside to ask if she was okay.

“Yes. The course is great and all. It’s just……..”

“Kay, if you have concerns, talk to me. It’s not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no. It’s not you. Not at all. It’s just that I’m not sure I should be taking this course.”

“Does it conflict with your beliefs and values?”

“No, no. It makes so much sense. It’s my mentor. He doesn’t like us to study with anyone else.”

Why on earth not? I must have looked dumbfounded.

“Eventually, obviously……but for now, he doesn’t want us jeopardizing the work we are doing.”

A realization was dawning on me. I offered her the name that had come to mind.

“Yes, I work with him! Do you know him?”

“I know of him.”

“He’s amazing, so powerful, and he’s helped me so much. I just don’t know why I feel so guilty about taking a course like this. It feels so right, so why am I scared?

“Explain to me why you shouldn’t.”

“It’s part of the process. In the beginning, he requests that we set aside all doubt, and questions, and trust solely in him. He’s helping us gain faith.”

And he control, I thought to myself.

The next time I encountered Kay, she was visibly shaken. “Can we talk?”

Ushering her into a back room, I pulled up two chairs.

“I’m not sure whether he followed me or not?”

“Would he do that?”

“He knows everything. I can’t get away. I tried, but he found me. He says there is nowhere I can escape him. I am so afraid. I don’t know what to do.”

“Kay, back up a bit and tell me how you met him.”

“A friend of mine was part of his inner circle. He told her to bring me to him. He said he could help. I was having difficulties. I thought it was worth a try.”

“Did he mention you by name?”

“No, but he knew she had a twenty-three year-old, blonde friend at the university who was going through a hard time. My friend knew it had to be me right away.”

“No offense, Kay, but this is a university town, and the chance of anyone having a friend that fits your description is pretty good.”

I could see that my words had hit their mark. “Oh my God. You’re so right! What a fool I was.”

“No. You just wanted to believe there was an answer for you. It felt right at the time.”

“What about all the other things? Could they be made up to? But, no, not possibly. You have no idea.” The look of terror reappeared. “Oh my God, he’ll kill me for talking to you!”

“You are okay, Kay. We’re safe. What else did he tell you?”

“He can command nature to do his bidding. He has spies everywhere. One woman went canoeing, off by herself, in a remote area, and he sent a hawk to greet her. She saw it!”

“Also possibly a coincidence.”

Searching my face for some reassurance, Kay continued. “He told me once that he sent a bear to follow me. I saw it’s shadow.” Before I could say anything she added, “Do you think that was just power of suggestion?”

“I think that’s a real possibility.”

Kay leaned back in the chair and let out a long groan. “Oh my God, I slept with him.”

“You what?”

“I slept with him, and he’s gross, well you know, old.”

“How did that happen?”

“He made me meet him in the middle of the night. He had all these candles and incense burning. The lights were dim, and there was meditation music playing in the background. I felt like I was in an altered state. I didn’t want to at first, but he convinced me that this would be good for my soul; that it would cleanse me of all my past sins. How could I be so stupid!”

I’d heard enough. This man was going too far. With Kay’s permission I called a friend who worked with the Victim’s Unit through the local Police department. Kay’s story was not new to her.

Kay moved away two weeks later. Unfortunately, she was not the only woman I would encounter who had fallen under this man’s spell. All of them attractive, intelligent women, whose only sin was the desire for enlightenment.

Conned

The man across from me was weathered and tanned, with a dark mop of curls, and shocking blue eyes. “What bothers me most,” he was saying, “is spouses that cheat. It’s the worst thing you can do to another person.” I was warming up to him rapidly.

“What happened to you?” I asked. No ring. New to town.

“Girlfriend decided it wasn’t working for her. Threw me out. We had a business together too. I lost everything.”

“I can relate to that.”

We began to see each other. It was a bit unnerving for me, this dating thing. I felt like an adolescent all over again, swept up in an emotional whirlwind.

“I feel so vulnerable,” I told him.

“Give it time,” he responded. “Don’t rush anything.”

Good answer, I thought. He seemed so much more self-assured than me.

I noticed that I was becoming distracted, and forgetful. I forgot to return phone calls, and missed appointments. My bank book showed me making more withdrawals then I remembered. I misplaced a paycheck. I started to feel out of control. When I told him, he suggested we slow down, take some time. I trusted his judgment.

One lazy afternoon, he fell asleep on the sofa while I was doing my laundry. His gym bag was in the hall, and I thought I would offer to wash his things with mine. Not wanting to wake him, I opened his bag to remove the dirty clothes. On top was his wallet. I don’t know what possessed me, but I opened it. His driver’s license checked out…his health card…..debit…..credit….the same as mine…..they were mine! My cards were in his wallet!

Removing the cards, I put the wallet back. A friend of mine was RCMP. I called him from an upstairs phone and gave him the name and birth date. He called back and said there was nothing in the files. I was afraid. I didn’t want to confront him alone. I decided to wait until he was gone.

Checking with the bank, the credit card company, and my employer, I found out that he had been using my cards all along, and cashed my paycheck using my identification. I called the police.

While he may not have had a record with the feds, he was wanted on dozens of charges with the police. Once I reported, former girlfriends called with similar stories. I felt so foolish. The officer assured me that this happens to nice people all the time. Con men count on good people like me to be unsuspecting. I was an easy target.

I don’t know who I felt more victimized by, him or me. I chastised myself for being so stupid. What was I thinking? I felt sickened, and full of shame. But, more than all that I needed to take stock of my history with relationships. My track record was poor. By all accounts life had taught me not to trust in love. Giving up seemed the only sensible option.

Yet, closing my heart seemed so cold and final. Surely, this was not God’s intent. I needed to look at this from a different perspective.

“Your picker is broken,” a friend told me. “Until you fix it, it’s not safe for you to love.”

She was right. I had no discernment. Loving in nature, I always look for the best in others. I forget to watch out for red flags.

Closing my heart was not the solution, but guarding it responsibly was.

(Image: acountryroseflorist.blogspot.com)

Saying Goodbye To Father

My father fought against death at the end, even though he was wracked with pain, had difficulty breathing, and spent many of his nights in hospital.

“At what point do we stop all this intervention, Dad, and talk about keeping you comfortable?”

It was the early hours of the morning after another night spent in emergency.

“Now,” his voice cracked as he spoke. Dad was so clearly in distress it was alarming. Involuntary spasms of pain kept him from resting, and the strain was telling on his ashen face.

I took his hand in mine. “Dad, all I want for you is peace,” I hesitated. “To be honest with you, Dad, I have never known you to have peace in your life.”

He squeezed my hand. “Not a lot.”

“Do you believe that there is something for you on the other side, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Honey. I don’t have the faith that you do. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Some say that our feeling about God is related to our relationship with our own father.”

“How so?”

“When you were a boy, huddled in the coat closet, hiding from your father, what were your thoughts? Did you ever think about God in those moments?”

“All the time.” My father closed his eyes and laid back. “I remember asking God over and over, what I did wrong to deserve the beatings. I thought God was punishing me.”

“Exactly, Dad. Maybe your fear of death is because the little boy in you thinks God will reject you, or inflict more pain.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “You could be right. I know I’m afraid.”

“God didn’t punish you, Dad. Your father did. I have to believe there is something better awaiting you.”

He closed his eyes again, processing what I suggested. “You were a child, Dad. It wasn’t your fault. You need to forgive yourself.” A tear trickled down his cheek.

We didn’t talk about it further, but we did speak to the doctor on duty about changing Dad’s care. Plans were made to transfer my father to palliative care. The day he was to be moved, my father announced that he didn’t want any visitors. He said he needed time to settle in. They moved him mid-morning. He died within hours. I rushed to his side, but it was too late.

“Good for you, Dad,” I cried. “You finally made it.”

Acceptance

“I know what I want to give my Father.” Dee looked at me through her veil of blonde hair. Her face always bore such sweetness, yet the young girl I knew was so intense.

“Tell me.”

Dee was dying. This was her third dance with cancer, and the doctor’s said it would be her last. I visited daily, at her request, and we talked about fears, and dreams, and spirituality. Lately, it had been on her mind that if her life was to be a short one (23 years), then she had to make it purposeful.

“I have decided that the best gift I can give him is to accept that he loves me, even if he doesn’t show it the way I’d like. What do you think?”

Dee and her father had been fighting since the news came. He wanted to take her home, but she refused. She wanted to die here, in the town she had been living the past four years. He couldn’t understand her unwillingness to fight in the face of death. He wanted the doctors to do more. She wanted him to let it go, and to be more emotionally available to her. We had been discussing their relationship during my past two visits.

“I think that is an amazing gift, Dee. I am forty years old, and I haven’t even been able to do that with my own father. That’s the best gift ever.”

* * *

Dee had me thinking. What would happen if I were to accept my father, just as he was?

Dad’s 75th birthday was coming up and I hadn’t yet bought him a gift.

He had asked for my acceptance once, and I’d said no. It was the night he shared with me his awful secret. He sat the family down and told us all. He said that all he wanted was acceptance, and when he turned to me I said I couldn’t do it. I said I needed my Father, and what he asked of me was too much. I stormed out.

So, on his 75th birthday, I wrote him letter. I apologized for that girl so many years ago, and I told him that I never really understood his problem. I told him that I knew he loved me, and that I loved him too. And I said that when I got past all my self-righteous anger and frustration, I had to admit that he was probably the best teacher I ever had in life. If it hadn’t been for his struggles and the challenges they presented for all us, I might never have been the person I was. If there is a divine plan, or higher purpose for life, I wrote, then he accepted a hellish existence in order to give us the opportunity to grow and evolve.

He cried when he read it, and he called me up after, and said I had an odd way of looking at life, but that he appreciated it. He appreciated it that I was willing to accept him as he was, but he wanted to be better. Did I think it was too late?

I told him what Alan Cohen said: “Look in the mirror. If you see yourself looking back, then there’s still time.”

* * *

Dee’s father liked his present, too. His anger had broken the next time I saw him, and he even let me see him cry.

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)

Gift of Communication

It was a Friday afternoon and I was picking up my three children from school. Within five minutes of climbing on board, the oldest had her younger brother in tears. I felt my ire rising.

By the time we got home, she was lacing into me. My first instinct was to let her know who was boss, but I was the adult, so I walked out of the room, and took a deep breath, willing myself to gain some perspective.

Calmly, I rejoined my daughter, gently placing my hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Your brother and I weren’t around you long enough to get you this upset. What’s bothering you?”

My eleven year-old daughter’s anger melted into tears. “The kids at school are pressuring me to smoke,” she sobbed. “I told them I don’t want to, but they keep bugging me.”

I sighed with relief. Thank goodness I had not met her aggression with more aggression, shutting down any communication between us. This child needed someone to confide in, and I was so grateful I could be there for her.

That was the day my daughter taught me never to take another person’s moods personally, because when you do, you miss the possibility of greater intimacy.

(Image: www.nhs.uk)

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.