Gum In the Dryer

Yesterday started off well enough.  I finished a mountain of laundry, paid bills, budgeted household funds for the next two weeks (and even managed to throw a little bit in the savings account which is always nice), straightened up the house, finished a Christmas afghan for Korbin's cute little girlfriend, went to the store to pick up dog food and toothpaste, helped the kids figure out some nightmare algebra problems, comforted Gram about my mother (who is now missing), made dinner.... 

And I even managed to squeeze in my soap operas. 

Not too shabby. 

But all the while I could feel it:  Anger.  Resentment.  Bitterness.  And any other fancy adjectives that describe being "pissed off".  It built all day.  What I should have done is stopped what I was doing, and acknowledged it. 

But I didn't.  I just let myself simmer, and kept my fingers crossed that if I kept accomplishing tasks, working hard, living that oh-so- perfect life.....the anger would dissipate and leave without me having to face it head on.  'Cause after all, that is what I do.  Ignore ignore ignore.  And run like hell. 

So when I went to add the final load of clothes to the dryer, and realized Greg had left a pack of gum in a pocket, I began to sob.  I think I even stifled an anguished scream as I looked at how much gum was stuck to the barrel of the dryer.  If this has ever happened to you, you know how hard it is to remove.  You have to pick and pick and pick and chip away until it loosens enough to wipe clear.  It takes time and patience.

In this case I needed help, because my elbows were so sore that I could not pick the gum away by myself. 

So my kids jumped in and started picking while I fetched a glass of water. 

On my way to the kitchen, I noticed that a cup of coffee I had left on the end table was now on the floor, alongside a gigantic stain all over the carpet.  Standing astride the mess was my dog, Tiki, wagging her little nubby tail and licking every drop she could manage.  As soon as I began to panic that she might have drank the entire cup (caffeine can kill a dog), I realized that the dog would be just fine. 

But I would not. 

Not only had the coffee spilled all over the carpet, but it also spilled on my very extra special crochet project that I have been working on for weeks now.  A 22 inch white lace doily with only three rounds to go until it was finished.  It was going to be one of my Grandma's Christmas presents. 

I rushed the doily to the sink with cold water, and spent the next hour doing all I could to remove the stain.  All the know-how I have....all the tears....all the panic that it was ruined....all of the yelling and cussing.....
all of the damn laundry stain remover and Woolite and dish soap......

Nothing totally removed the stain. 

I was left with a beautiful doily that was light tan on one side, and white on the other. 

Ruined.  

And then the flood gates opened.  I stood at my sink with my head buried in my hands, and cried so loud the neighbors could probably hear.  I didn't try to hide it from my kids, who rushed up and wondered if I was okay.  I mumbled something about "Mom's just having a really bad day and I need to cry", and then heard the doorbell ring. 

Who the fuck rings the doorbell at 7 p.m. other than the UPS man? 

Red eyed and wet faced I opened the door to receive the package.....the package......the contents inside of it being the very reason I had been building anger and resentment all day long.  I had known it was coming, and I dreaded it. 

Looking at me, you would have thought I was holding a bomb, or an envelope of Anthrax.  But it was just a book. 

"Healing the Child Within"----recommended by my therapist, and reluctantly agreed, by me, to read it with her together. 

Instructed by Pam not to devour the whole thing in an hour like I would any other books ---because let's face it, even though it's a scary book, it is still a book; and I take to books like moths take to light---I read the first two short chapters. 

I have to note, that right now I am feeling myself "leaving".  Splitting off, as if part of me is standing on the other side of the room.  I am in a great deal of pain, and I am terrified of feeling it.  I am more terrified of my memories.  I do this all of the time, and have no idea what to call the sensation.....other than what I have been told.  Dissociation.  I will try my hardest to stay present, and keep going. 

In summation, I gathered one point from my reading: 

When we are children, we do not have the ability to reason and logic as adults do.  Our parents(or caretakers) set the example.  They are, literally, Everything.  Because we cannot provide for ourselves, we must rely on them to provide us with what we need:  food, shelter, education, clothing as well as love, nurture, guidance, and ideally, unconditional love.  It is from this love that we grow to love ourselves...because we were taught to.  As we grow into puberty and teenagers, we begin to understand that we must prepare to become an adult ourselves.  Typically this is "easier" when we know and feel that we are loved and cared for.  We begin to feel free to make decisions, mistakes, take risks, care for others and ourselves and at the same understand (because we are taught) that there are consequences and rewards for the choices we make.  However, what never changes is knowing that we are fundamentally loved. 

But when a child is abused, they are taught something entirely different.  They....we....are taught that the world is not a safe place.  It is wrong to feel what we feel.  To think what we think.  We are told we are selfish, bad, wrong, and unworthy.  We are taught, before we have the ability to use reason and logic, that we are not fundamentally loved......but instead, fundamentally flawed.  Sometimes we are taught that it is because of our being flawed, that bad things happen.  We are taught that we should feel responsible for the failings of our parents (caretakers), and that we cannot be anything other than what the parents want or need themselves.  If we stray from this, we are beaten, abandoned, insulted, and blamed.  And because a child does not have that ability to reason, they believe what they are taught must be true. 

As we grow, our logic and reasoning skills are wrapped around what we lack, and what we were taught is true:  that we are bad.  That it is our fault.  That we are not worthy.  As adults, we continue to function in this way:  we live what we believe is true.  

And it is our responsibility to care for and nurture that "child" that was so horribly treated.  By going back and examining what happened, placing responsibility where it lies, and taking a tremendous leap of courage. 

Splitting again......stay with it! Keep going!

I remembered, like a series of flashes on a screen projector, images from my childhood, as well as my teenage years.  My mother putting the tip of a kitchen knife in her stomach while looking at me (and only me, even though there were four others in the room) as if to say, "this is YOU who's done this".   I remember once chasing her in the backyard, in the snow, as she made her way to the garage with a packet of razor blades, begging her to come back.  Telling her it would be alright.  But she pushed me down, and I didn't know what to do other than get help.  Only my stepfather laughed and told me she would be fine.  I remember watching her go to the car with a bottle of pills, and not able to see clearly in the dark through the window, if she was really actually taking them.  Five minutes later, she was back inside the house, hugging me and telling me in a very "teacher oriented" tone of voice, that things in the house were going to change...that things would be different---yet she made it seem like it was me who needed to do the changing. 

I remember her choking me because I wore the wrong shirt to school one day.  Beating me after I came home from a dance at school and eating a piece of cake in my dress.  Beating me over the head because my bedspread wasn't tucked in right.  Calling me stupid because the vacumn marks weren't a certain way across the carpet.  Throwing me out of the house because I didn't put the clean dishes on the right side of the sink; and when she let me back in, she told me how frightened she was of my "stupidity".  I remember being grounded, literally, to the house for an entire summer because I received a B in math.  She said even though the grade itself wasn't bad, it was my lack of initiative that made me bad----'cause I COULD have gotten an A but didn't try hard enough.  She told me I was lazy.  She told me that alot.  I watched her have sex with men in front of me.  I watched her self-destruct. 

And no matter what I did, or didn't do----bad or good (cause I did do bad stuff!)---it never got her attention away from whatever it was that haunted her.  I couldn't save her.  I couldn't make her love me.  I couldn't show her that I was good enough.  I couldn't even get through to her that I was, myself, on the path to self-destruction. 

I remember being touched in the swimming pool by my stepdad.  Being looked at by him.  Being given alcohol by him, because he said it would help me sleep at night.  Being confused by him because he was so sympathetic with what my mother was doing to me---but I know (don't I?) that he was touching me in my sleep.  Was he?  WAS HE?  I can't remember very well.  And when I told my mother that I felt uncomfortable, she would literally attack him---but then come after me and tell me that I was a slut who needed to stop flirting with him. 

But I was 10 years old.  I was only 10......did I flirt?  Maybe I did. 

Maybe I did alot and don't know that I did. 

I remember attempting suicide, finally, at 15.  She was there, after my stomach being pumped, and told me that she was sorry that I didn't die. 

She wanted me to die.  Because I was bad.  Or was I? 

Splitting.  

You're doing it!  Keep going!

When I came home from the hospital, she brought into my room the entire bathroom contents of pills, and told me to take them.  To be done with it.  To rid her of the headache.  To rid her of the burden.  A few days later, after reading something in my journal, she brought me knife and told me to just kill myself. 

And when I told people what was happening to me....my grandparents, my school guidance councelor, a teacher....I remember feeling like they wanted to help, but they were so shocked by what was going on it made them uncomfortable.  So no one helped.  NO ONE HELPED ME. 

Because I was bad.  I was bad.  I wasn't worth saving. 

I remember leaving home and seeking out my father.  Telling him what my life had been like without him there.  Telling him what my mother had done.  He rescued me.  Took me into his home.  Was my white horse knight....my father had finally come!!!  Two days later, he drove me to my grandparents house and told them he changed his mind.  He didn't say goodbye.  I didn't know he left.....I just thought we were visiting Gramma.  When I went upstairs, he was gone.  My bags on the porch.  He packed them when I wasn't looking.  He didn't even warn me. 

He left me like a dog. 

Because I was too bad for him to love.  I was bad. 

Or was I?  WAS I THAT BAD??????

I just want to scream....seriously.....WHAT DID I DO THAT WAS SO WRONG?  I'M SORRY!!!!  I PROMISE I'LL FIX IT!!!!!! 

I'll be cleaner.  Smarter.  More organized.  Less selfish.  Less needy.  Less slutty.  I won't flirt, I promise.  I will get the best grades.  I'll make something of my life.  I swear.  I will always be loving, and I will never---I promise---ask for you to love me or give me anything.  I don't need it.  All I need is for you to not leave me alone.  I won't be ugly.  Ever.  You don't have to buy me anything either.  I am always happy with what I have.  I will make you proud.  I will do nice things all of the time.  I will save you and fight for you when you need it; and I will make myself so strong and perfect that you will never have to worry about fighting for me.  I wouldn't burden you like that, because can't you see I am good now?  I am sorry that I was born, but I will stay out of your way as much as I can.  Please tell me when I'm in your way so that I know where to move to make it easier for you to move.  If you mess up, I will be there to take the blame.  Always.  You will never have to be responsible for anything.  Because I am perfect and strong and I will do it all. 

Just don't leave me alone.  Please.  I promise I will fix it. 

The above paragraph was very painful to write.  And yet I'm proud of myself.  And livid.  Because on some level, I say this everyday in my head to my parents.  I live this way.  I BELIEVE this. 

But I am beginning to wonder if what I believe is correct?  I wonder if that above paragraph is my "child"--the one who was taught to believe this by people who were sick? 

You see, it is easier to believe what I just wrote.  It is easier to believe it was my fault, and much easier to believe that I can fix it all because that gives me a little control.  It gives me hope.  It gives life to the daily "what if they come back?  what if they call?  what if they want to love me?  what if they decide I'm worth a try?"  It keeps me believing that I could regain all that I lost. 

But I wonder...no...I am beginning to believe that it also keeps me a prisoner. 

What is NOT easy to believe is the possibility that none of it was my fault.  It's NOT easy to believe that I can fix it.  If I am powerless over what happened, and of how they feel....than that makes THEM utter shit.  That makes me the victim.  That means I was powerless then.  That means that my parents...my "Everythings", did not love me. 

If I can't fix it, that means what happened was real.  It means I have to let them go.  It means a death. 

And it means pain.  Absolute, utter and gut sucking pain....the kind of pain that takes my breath away and leaves me feeling utterly lost and alone. 

I would walk thru fire for my own children, regardless of how "bad or good" they are---and I don't even define my children in those extremes.  They are people who have qualities covering the whole spectrum of desireability.  I love them regardless.  Love is love.  It just is.  There is nothing they could do to make me not love them.  The thought is absurd.  And if I did stop loving them, that would be something that was my own fault, not theirs. 

But mine did not love me. 

And I don't think I can "fix that".  I really don't.  If I could.....wouldn't I have already succeeded?  I certainly feel like I'm running out of solutions. 

And energy. 

I keep going back to the gum in the dryer.  You just have to pick and pick and pick until it's free enough to be wiped clean.  And the ruined doily.  Sometimes no matter how hard to you try to fix it, clean it up, etc. you have to let it go because it is ruined. 

I need to close this.  Enough "work" for today.  I have to go pick more gum out of the dryer.

And more muck out of my life.