The Beginning

Preface:

At times, my verbal purging is raw. My words are honest and in full representation of my thoughts, my heart, and my spirit. I share these things as a means of bonding with those who might recognize me. I ask, that you not only read the print on paper, but look deep between the lines. Life is not colored in black and white. There is a precarious balance when using words like: never & always. Search for rainbows.

My description and telling of my life’s events is candid. I pen this tale, not so that you will feel sorry for me; rather, I elaborate to empower and encourage. My journey makes suggestions to find meaning from experience whether tormented by fear or joyful in simplicity. To pay attention, though your days seem ordinary or mundane. There is dignity in shining light on a place that was once dark. Life’s challenges are meant to propel us forward by honoring what has come before. When we can heal the past with forgiveness, then, and only then, are we able to let go.

I can not tell a story of days for it is only moments that are remembered.

.....and so I begin

The definition of the word Mother, according to Dictionary.com, is:a female parent. A daughter regards this word with a multitude of emotion and therefore definitions become plenty. Birth vessel, mentor, disciplinarian, advisor, dangerous, intimidating, soft, loving, unrelenting, judge, jury, nurturing, frightening, powerful, weak, understanding, critical.... My mother was all of these wrapped up in one body with a conflicted soul.

I don’t think we fully comprehend the power of our parents life, before our own began. The past, for me as a child, seemed a fairy tale of people and places that existed "once upon a time". I believed that my parents life began with mine. Isn’t that the beauty of youth? To embody innocence by living in the moment.

As time went on, I realized my parents were not only influenced by their past, they were bound by it. Each word, each action hinged on the whispers of ghosts. Voices from the past were crying out from beyond the grave. Thus, perpetuating generational cycles. Do we succumb or do we survive by becoming warriors? Do we fight vehemently for change without exception? Or do we find comfort in complacency?

My parents fought with the passion of a starving man put before a feast. They used this passion, however, to fight each other with debilitating reactions to past hurt and pain. Events that kept replaying over and over again, though, through different circumstances and scenarios. Consequently, they would keep spiraling into darkness by excepting the lack of light.

Solutions came in the form of broken dishes, language that splattered like bullets, and intense physical combat. They were ravenous and explosive with fervent love and vengeful hate. Kill or be killed. But how do you gauge victory in an emotional war? The carnage and mayhem is void of recovery and becomes detrimental. Once words are spoken without consequences we can’t un-hear. I bore witness to this without realizing my own fortitude and pacts for the future.

The intensity of violence could turn without remorse to tenderness. Loving embraces and soft gentle words would round the sharp edges of scorn and bitterness. So rich in compassion were these two souls, their bodies intertwined without effort in cradling the other. I would hastily meld myself into these moments. My little body was weary from the wars that raged. Thirstily, I would drink the essence of purity which took us far from the battle cries. I would gasp and gulp, for I knew, that without warning, I would be required to walk the dry, arid desert once more. It was powerful to be in the presence of extremes.

When we know better we do better -Maya Angelou

I must believe that my parents did the best they could with what they knew. Otherwise, I would be left to imagine my conception acted out by monsters. They believed destiny to be by chance and not by choice. They found a comfortable complacency there. Attempting a smooth ride, but getting sucked into divots. At times, fighting furiously to turn the wheel, but to no avail. Was the phrase "stuck in a rut" coined from such a pattern?

I can fantasize a different reality. June and Ward Cleaver. In actuality, however, my mother was one who physically reacted to her disordered brain process. My father was a sweet enabler unto her derangement. His happy demeanor would fade with every sip of his evening scotch.

By the age of seven, the universe was teaching me that I was responsible for my own security and happiness. I was master of my destiny and keeper of the key. I was to be a warrior. A warrior knows by instinct when a battle is about to ensue. Survival was my teacher and I rarely made the same mistake twice.

I am able to remember the exact moment I became aware that I was raising my parents, and not vice versa. My mother acted and reacted as if I were the cause to everything. My life defined hers, and her life defined my father’s. My existence was a gauge to happy or sad; mad or glad; rage or bliss; guilt or innocence. If you were to put all your eggs in one basket, I was my parents proverbial basket. Keeper of the eggs to all hopes and dreams.

Leaves -1964-

It was autumn with a sky of bluest blue. I longed to feel the cool air on my face. I loved the sensation and flush of rosy cheeks. I wanted to run and breath the scent of fallen leaves. I remember every detail with all of my senses. I need only close my eyes.

There was a comforting sound that rose up to my bedroom window provoking my desire to reach the outdoors. My father was raking and it was my invitation to join him. There was nothing more comforting to me than standing in his company. He had a smile and a laughter that reached inside your heart. His green eyes had the ability to tell stories. They sparkled with genuine expression of his love. He was my peace. He was my knight.

I threw on jeans, a turtleneck and a bulky sweater. My long hair hung to my waist, though, normally pulled tightly back in a braid. It rarely hung free, but I was in too much of a hurry to stop for coiffing.

Once I reached the out of doors, I sought after my tool of season. My little hands maneuvered their way around the full sized rake. It stood a good foot taller, but what a big girl was I in helping her dad with the chores. Our synchronized rakes created a melody that sang like a symphony. We would catch each other’s gaze and smile with mutual admiration.

I believed for those first seven years that my life was as it should be. My father was adoring and attentive. My mother would weave in and out with no consistency or reason. She was dark and then she was light. She was there, and then she wasn’t. Asleep in her room, checked out to leave me on my own. Or, teaching me lessons that remained after the bruises healed. It seemed normal and OK. I felt that I had a balance to turmoil. I was merely waiting for the event that would change it all. I knew I would be saved.

Without warning, a horrible sound came crashing down and muted the sound of rakes and fallen leaves. My mother’s voice pierced through the autumn air and called out my name in damnation. "CHRISTIE!!!! CHRISTIE!!!!"

Initially, it would seem that I should be filled with terror, but I had waited my whole life for this moment. My mother had never taken retribution in the presence of my father. I had believed that my suffering of irrational consequences would come to an end the day my brave savior was versed against the beast.

The screaming from indoors became closer and louder. "CHRISTIE" and then guttural, "Where are you?" I remember feeling giddy with anticipation, until I caught my father’s gaze. There was no adoration, no smile, no attempt at my defense. And then, a moment that changed destiny and hung like a cloak on a hook. I shattered into a million pieces as I stared in disbelief. My father’s eyes averted mine, and he resumed raking leaves.

Time began to play in slow motion.. "Save me." I screamed, but without sound. "Save me." I said telepathically as his back turned and the sound of raking drowned my thoughts. "Save me." went rolling down my cheeks in tears that hit my hands as I released my rake.

I began to walk slowly toward the back door. Nobody runs toward the face of danger. My little heart was pounding. My dreams were dying with every step. I was not prepared to see the rust of armor and my knight fall from grace. My hand reached for the door handle, and there was no force to stop me.

My young life had already given me pause for moments that would require my spirit to move beyond my physical body. Unspeakable retribution for irrational causes. My rosy cheeks flushed from the crisp October sky would be the cause for this day.

"Were you outside?" came shrill from her lips in upper octaves. I felt the familiar terror of uncertainty. "Yes." I replied in a quivering voice. "Are you CRAZY?" My ears heard sound as if I were under water. My mother’s face was contorted with the insanity of her rage. This kind of anger never made sense. She believed my outdoor adventure would spiral me back into ill health, though I had been recovered for days.

Without warning, she reached out and used my long hair to enmesh her hands. I struggled with balance as she abruptly pulled me backwards. My feet fought furiously to gain ground to alleviate weight from my scalp. I was dragged from the kitchen, up the stairs, down the hall and into my room.

All the while, she was screaming incoherently about the flu, relapsing and my excursion outside being premature. Once she had me where she wanted me, she disengaged and I was propelled forward. I hit the floor face down.

Out of fear in having my back towards her, I rolled over to face my punishment. The glint of the metal spatula reflected the morning sun and her hand rose skyward. "Pull down your pants!" "Nooooooo!" I was screaming in full terror. Where was my knight? Why was he not riding in on his white horse? Where was his mighty sword? When would he save me and behead this horrible beast?

Each slap came down with a searing pain. The target being the inside of my thighs, soft and sensitive. My spirit took flight and watched on as my body took blow after blow. My mind continued to display images of a valiant knight’s crusade. Then the visions were gone as I lay beaten and helpless on my bedroom floor.

My mother exited through the slamming door. I lay there for a while with my pants around my ankles. I was afraid to get up. I knew then that everything I had believed was only my belief. It wasn’t real. My father was afraid. There would never be a rescue.

When I finally rose to my feet, I walked slowly to my bedroom window. I looked out at our backyard. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fought to focus......on my father.....still raking leaves.

2007

A life lived without regret is a life filled with purpose. -Christabel-