The Novel

“There are various ways to overcome fear, Alexander. None works,” she replied. City of the Beasts by Isabel Allende.

Until now, writing a novel had just been a dream, and dreaming is very pleasant as long as you are not forced to put your dreams into practice. That way, we avoid all risks, frustrations and difficulties, and when we are old, we can always blame other people for our failure to realize our dreams.

My troubles started a few days ago when I committed myself to start the writing of my novel on New Year’s Eve. Since then I have felt so terrified by the fact that I actually must start it that I have been suffering from insomnia for the very first time in my life. I have that knot in my stomach as if I will be sick any minute now. But I will do it. At midnight I will be sitting in front of my computer. I will even drop you a line on Twitter. Now, let’s just hope it will not be on that night that I’ll suffer my first writer’s block.

The Karma Continues...

I am determined to start the New Year as the decent person I have been most of my life, save perhaps for some exceptions which came about during the course of this ending year. However, nothing says that I cannot allow myself one last strike, in the hope of clarity, before reverting to a more courteous being.

As expected, just in time for New Year’s, another close encounter of the third kind occurred, this time via e-mail. I guess it had occurred to him that I may have avoided his numerous phone calls deliberately. Obviously his primitive brain understood as much as to conclude that the telephone was not an effective manner to reach me, but not so much as to grasp that perhaps I had no desire to be reached at all.

Here is the verbatim content of his e-mail; the result of weeks of reflection no doubt:

“Hey, I tried calling a couple of times. I know you have caller ID so I guess you already know. I just wanted to thank you for the time we spent together and say that you made 2008 a special year for me. The Creme Brulle (I can't spell that) was spectacular that night. I will never forget. Have a good new year and if you feel like calling me go ahead.”

I simply could not resist the call of badness: “Let’s make 2009 truly special: vanish”.

How long before I hear from him again? All bets are on.

In Retrospect

This past year has been very difficult, intense, draining and exhilarating all at once. It started with gruesome, mind-numbing discoveries which thrust me to question every aspect of my life so far. Every choice I ever made, every thoughts, preferences, all the challenges and difficulties I have had to face over and over, my reactions to people, to events, and ultimately the vision I had of myself, of my worth, strengths, capacities, dreams, desires and most importantly, of the space I was allowing myself to occupy in this world.

It took a full year of painful reflection to realize that I was a person worth knowing, that I could have dreams of my own, that I was entitled to live and blossom and open up to people, to circumstances and that sometimes I may be hurt, but most of all, I’ll be fine.

With questioning comes frustration, rage, anguish, and eventually retaliation but also, understanding, acceptance and determination, if only to move on, to leave it all behind, even though it will forever linger somewhere in your mind.

This year also witnessed the agony and death of a long friendship, a friendship which had transformed itself over the years, into a ruthless path of hot coals. Still, a friendship which I will always cherish for what it once was.

In the midst of the ebb and flow, in the most unexpected of settings, I found myself sharing breakfast with an unusual personage who quickly became a friend. Not yet one who can pretend to years of acquaintance but certainly to reflection, respect and intelligence.

Unbeknown to him, he provided me with the key to let all my torments go: a blog, this blog. A space where I could share my story with others who perhaps face the same challenges, where I could share my mind about the most trivial of subjects, if I so chose. But also a space where I can slowly open up, expose myself to the world, share my dreams, my increasing joys, learn to brave up, a place where I can dare to dare.

The same friend posted on his blog recently predictions for the New Year by Tom Asacker. Two of them really made me think:

The first one said that many things will change in the next year, but many people will not. That most of us will be doing, thinking and feeling more or less the same things this time next year as we are now. That if you don’t want that sameness, you should grab yourself by the collar and yank yourself off of that comfortable, well-worn path and onto the one less traveled by you. To let go of your past and grab onto your future. Because while you’re waiting for that grand insight to point you in the right direction, the beauty of life is flying right on by.

The second said that most people will sit quietly in their seats and watch life unfold around them. That the best way to know what kind of life you want is to put yourself in charge of creating it. To let the pull of what excites you and what you care most deeply about be your guide.

At first I was devastated in some ways, thinking back about the last year. Then I started putting things into perspective. Sometimes action is more than just physical. And I had plenty of it. My world shifted several times during the year. It was not comfortable, it was not easy, but it was enlightening and it made space for new beginnings, just like the ending of that friendship had done. Removing some of the dusty old – things - we carry makes space for brand new ones, which correspond more to who we have become. I could have done more, I am sure, but I did the very best I could. And that I am proud of.

What will the New Year bring? I don’t know. What I know for sure though, is that at midnight on the 31st, I will be sitting at my computer writing the very first words of my novel. So let’s wait until this time next year to see what really happened. Some of us – me – might be tormenting publishing companies, others might have succeeded in losing some weight or would have joined shameful organizations, and others might be sitting in front of the TV, watching their own show being played.

Whatever happens, keep in mind that the longest journey begins with the first step.

Christmas

I don’t know what Christmas means to you: the birth of Jesus, the gathering of family and friends, a race against time, or simply time off work. Perhaps it is all or none of it. Perhaps like me, you have been brought up in Christian traditions and although you understand the meaning of the celebrations, the sentiments seem to have passed you by. I have a very tortuous relationship with The Lord, myself. I consider him with certain perplexity. I have often felt that he ignored me in times of need. Yet, I have also been cherished in some odd ways more than most.

I am not sure what Christmas really means to me. All I know is that at Christmas I used to visit my aunt Lulu in her convent, where we would attend mass together and more than once, I felt touched.

Merry Christmas

It Must Be Karma - 2

There was a time when it was generally understood that no actually meant no. It does not seem to be as clear nowadays or at least not to all. A while back, in a posting called - It must be karma - I talked about that guy who didn’t grasp such a concept too easily. I guess this is the sequel.

After ending this affair in the most obscure of circumstances, actually the beginning was pretty obscure too; I hoped I would never hear from him again. That was not to be. Last Thanksgiving, months after the fact, he sent me an e-mail suggesting that I call him if I wanted to go for a coffee. I thought my answer was clear and to the point. Apparently not. I guess I am the only one to blame for this lack of clarity.

Last Friday I had just arrived home from work when the phone started ringing. It’s not in my habits to race to answer the phone, I usually let it go into the voice mail and then check who called. I used to receive so many calls from telemarketers who don’t get the concept either that no means no. A quick look at my call display showed a number that was somewhat familiar but which I could not quite place. A quick check in my portable confirmed what I suspected. Him! Not only did his number appear on my display but next to it was – x17 -. The guy had called seventeen times in the previous two days. Woo. I was in for a long weekend of hide and seek. I managed to dodge the seven other calls he made to my home without ever leaving a message. I guess in the back of his mind, rejection is still a strong possibility.

Of course, he only calls when he has a perfectly good excuse to do so should I turn out to be completely unreceptive. How could you be so rude, after all, I was just calling to wish you Merry Christmas. Yeah right. Well, after Christmas, there is New Year, Valentine’s Day, Easter. Let see if there will be another sequel…

Hungry Planet

Hungry Planet: What the World Eats by Peter Menzel and Faith D'Aluisio.

Photojournalist Menzel and writer D'Aluisio traveled the world photographing average people's eating habits, visiting some 30 families in 24 countries, 600 meals. Each family was asked to purchase - at the authors' expense - a typical week's groceries, which were artfully arrayed for a full-page family portrait.

Have a look: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=osSpWbmEYF4

The Meat Pies

It is becoming quite embarrassing to pretend to great culinary skills when lately all I do turns to disaster. Unfortunately, with the Christmas season generally comes a great deal of cooking. It is at that time of the year that we all expect homemade traditional dishes and delicacies.

Last weekend, the task ahead was making tourtière, a meat pie originating from Quebec. It really is just a pie filled with ground pork, beef and game, onions and spices. It is a deliciously fragrant and savory dish especially anticipated during the Christmas celebrations. But a good tourtière has its secrets; a mystery ingredient, a superstitious order of assembly, a special mold. It’s one of those things. Every family has their own – original - recipe, passed down through generations. Marco’s mother gave me hers last year. I guess it makes me family now.

On that Sunday morning, I had seven tourtières to make. No one ever makes one single tourtière. It’s unheard of. By definition, tourtière is an assembling dish, made with the expectation that they will be shared with others. Therefore quantity is in order.

Generally speaking, tourtière is an easy dish to make, fairly straightforward. I made the filling, the dough, assembled the pies, covered with top pastry, pressed the edges to seal, cut decorative shapes from the remaining pastry and arranged them all in a pretty pattern on top, brushed the pastry with an egg mixture to make it all shiny, and baked for 45 minutes. The result was splendid. A row of hot and golden brown tourtières was cooling down on the kitchen counter.

My work was done. It was time to relax. I made myself a nice cup of tea, put on Benny Goodman, grabbed a book, sat next to my cat and stroked her gently behind the ears. The couch was bathing in sunrays. It was pure heaven. That is, until all hell’s broke lose. A loud – KABOOM - made us both jump out of our skin, startled, confused, and eventually panicked. I nearly scalded my cat to death when I dropped my hot steaming tea all over her. It remains unclear whether the noise or the hot water set her running across the apartment as if her life depended on it, making a trail of hot sweet tea on every carpet and pieces of furniture along the way. Her tail was apparently rather soaked as it splashed tea on the walls and ceiling like arterial blood in horror movies. In her desperation to get away she had knocked over a plate of biscotti’s which landed on the floor. Although the biscotti’s completely crumbled to pieces, the plate did not break until I actually stepped on it. In my race to catch up to my cat, I failed to notice that I had cut my foot, pretty deep. Eventually, I found her sitting on the bed, drying herself off. Apparently calm, cool and collected. A quick check revealed nothing to worry about. She was fine. That’s when I noticed the blood, my blood. It crossed my mind that I may faint and bleed to death; thankfully I managed to tend to it on time. How I found the strength is beyond comprehension, I get feeble at the mere sight of blood. Although it was pretty clear that I might need stitches and a better bandage than my grey sweatshirt, I was more concerned by the fact that it may upset my plans to wear my brand new heels at the office party the following week.

It’s only when I returned to the kitchen to get a bucket of hot soapy water and a sponge that the origin of the commotion became clear. It turned out that the – KABOOM – in question was generated by all seven tourtières exploding at once. There was ground meat everywhere. As if someone had splashed walls, cupboards and ceiling with molten porridge. To make matters worst that was exactly the moment Marco chose to knock at the door. Surprised, but not overly bewildered, he kindly suggested he’d come back later.

Back in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in the microwave door. In an attempt a brushing off my hair, I had put blood on my forehead, my mascara probably splashed by hot tea was running down my cheek, my hair was disheveled and a piece of wet dough was caught in it, I looked slightly possessed. Yet, I had not lost my cool.

Meticulous investigations revealed that I may have neglected to cut steam vents on the top dough…

By dinner time, all traces of the slaughter had been removed. I had to part with my favorite sweater, but otherwise all was quite fine. Exhausted, I grabbed my book, aimed for the couch, and sat straight into a puddle of tea. Darn.

Vancouver Winter Storm

December 16, 2008 10:42 AM

Chilled Vancouver commuters faced their second day of winter hell today, as an additional centimeter of the peculiar white stuff fell, bringing the lower mainland to its knees and causing millions of dollars worth of damage to the marijuana crops. Scientists suspect that the substance is some form of frozen water particles and experts from Saskatchewan are being flown in.

With temperatures dipping to the almost but not quite near zero mark, Vancouverites were warned to double insulate their lattes before venturing out.

Vancouver police recommended that people stay inside except for emergencies, such as running out of espresso or biscotti to see them through Vancouver's most terrible storm to date. The local Canadian Tire reported that they had completely sold out of fur-lined sandals.

Drivers were cautioned to put their convertible tops up, and several have been shocked to learn that their SUV's actually have four wheel drive, although most have no idea how to use it.

Weary commuters faced soggy sushi, and the threat of frozen breast implants. Although Dr. John Blatherwick, of the Coastal Health Authority reassured everyone that most breast implants were perfectly safe to 25 below, down-filled bras are flying off the shelves at Mountain Equipment Co-op.

"The government has to do something," snarled an angry Trevor Warburton. "I didn't pay $540,000 for my one bedroom condo so I could sit around and be treated like someone from Toronto."

The Great Darkness

The last time I spoke to my mother, she had just left a message on my voice mail praising my brother’s unequal extraordinariness, even though he has not uttered a word to her in almost twenty years. Despite the fact that she knew very well that I despised him, that he molested me as a child, which in my opinion should taint slightly his merits, and that he was a violent person even to her, she found it appropriate to leave such a message to me. It is useless to say that after a long day at work and excruciating new shoes, it was like getting a brick across the forehead.

That night, I finally lost my cool and called her back in the mist of a raging mood. It was time to set some things straight. The moment she answered the phone, I had become murderously calm and cold. I told her to never, ever, ever again leave such a message on my voice mail or even dare to talk to me about him if she intended to maintain the slightest of contact with me and I hung up before she could say anything. There was no room left for negotiation or interpretation it was as clear as a threat can be. I don’t mind her loving him, after all he is her son, but I need not be the one she shares it with. Especially when I know this feeling is not extended to me. I have never had a good relationship with my mother but on that day, it no longer mattered to me. Her love was no longer worth the pain, the effort, the humiliation. The craving times had passed. It was simply too late. It didn’t matter anymore. She did not matter anymore. I was finally free.

Yesterday, months after the fact, I called her. On a human level, I can appreciate that her life kind of sucks. I was a little edgy as you can imagine, but I don’t think she noticed, she was essentially focused on what she had been up to – not much – but repeated at nauseam, it may seems like a lot. She is very good at re-writing the past, at enhancing her role as a mother, but most of all, she is excellent at blaming. Blaming life, karma, heavens, children, ex-husband, solitude, and most of all: me.

I was listening to her distractedly while watching TV, when she started again on my utter ungratefulness for refusing to move back closer to her so that I could take care of her as she gets older, just like she had done for me as a child. That’s when I lost my cool all over again. First of all, she never took care of me, as a child or else and second; it was her job as a mother. Even if I was so stupid as to consider such a move, she would treat me like a servant, devoid of any gratitude. Of course, this sudden burst of hostility was the perfect excuse for her to point out all my flaws and wrongdoings.

You want – me - to remind you of all that – you - should have done differently as a mother? You wanna talk about all these things you are conveniently shuffling under the rug, as if they never happened? Because if you want to get into this, I have a long list for you, a foot long. I am sure you would rather not have this conversation right now or most likely ever, would you. …Wounded silence… Yeah, I didn’t think so. I’ve got to go now; we’ll talk again sometimes in the New Year.

I was so close to snapping. A mere comment on her part would have pushed me over the edge. She has spent a lifetime trying to make me believe and everybody else around that I was crazy, disturbed, aggressive, a lunatic who ultimately did nothing more than disturb their otherwise perfectly fine lives.

My mother has always assumed the position that nothing has ever happened to me, but that if something had happened, it would have been my own fault for provoking it, and chances were I had probably been the one who molested my big brother in the first place. I was simply jealous of him. If I ever was to breach the silence surrounding the – subject -, she would never validate my grief. She would dismiss it as a craving for attention. My brother was the golden child, the untouchable, the son. I was nothing. I was a girl, a Jezebel.

It may not be the most enviable situation I find myself into, but at least, I managed to secure myself a nice and peaceful Christmas time and perhaps the New Year will witness the end of the Great Darkness, mine that is.

Something Greyish

Yesterday my Manager asked me to go with her do so errands for the office. I agreed, ever so reluctantly. The mere thought of spending time with Diane is exhausting. She is mainly a good person. But she is also an energy sucker and in every other aspects of her personality, a peasant. But in her mind she was doing me a favor and thus left me no choice, I had to go.

On our merry ride, we stopped at Costco. I was glade for the opportunity of getting a few blocks of Parmesan cheese, since my membership had expired a few months earlier, but the experience left me dizzier than I expected. Not only did we not need to patron this establishment for the office, but she further insisted that we go through every aisles. At some point, between the cream puffs and the cheese cakes in the frozen section, there was a display of Poinsettias’. In each pot someone, presumably the Poinsettias’ marketer, had planted sparkling red or silver stars held on metal rods. Diane stopped dead in her tracks. I believe I neglected to mention earlier that Diane has also a pronounced taste for knick knacks of all kind, mainly the useless, cheapest ones and in vast quantities. Her office at best of times looks like a dollar store on clearance day.

Diane was frozen in front the Poinsettias’ display. At first I thought she had in mind to get one, but it was the little stars that had caught her attention. Quickly she pulled out a red and a silver one and asked me which one I preferred. None really, but if I must choose, the red one I guess. She immediately put them both in the upper basket of our cart. In fact, not only did she put them in the cart, but she deliberately put them under the red plastic cover which I assume is designed to close the openings when there is no child sitting in the cart. I thought for a moment she was about to buy it for me. How embarrassing. But I was all wrong; she was planning on stealing it for me! I was mortified. What is the etiquette in such circumstances? What are you supposed to do? I had a quick note to self, a reminder to keep my drawers locked at all times from now on, but what are you suppose to say? I mean, she is my boss. If I go along does it mean I am a thief? Would it extend to the workplace? Was it a test of character? I was stunned. So I chose to wait and see.

Fortunately or not, a nosy cashier spotted the deed right away. She asked a few questions, but luckily I was a mile away from the action at that time, entirely focused on some guy’s advertizing a land mower for sale. I would have bought it if it had guarantied a faster exiting of the premises.

On our way out, it was pretty obvious that I had not appreciated to be part of this great plan. Not the least fazed by my – stuck up – attitude, she explained that it was actually Costco’s fault for not selling the stars on their own. They had forced her to do such a thing. Candidly she explained that it was routine for her to – adjust – prices or ownership on items of choice. It was not really stealing; stealing is such a dark, dark word, it was something greyer…

Well, stuck up or not, to me it felt like shoplifting. We had three more stores to visit that afternoon, needless to say, it was a long one.

The Love Stories

When I was young my aunt asked almost every Christmas what I wanted to be when I grew up. She suggested I be a nurse, a teacher, a hairdresser. But really, I had no idea. I liked drawing, I loved writing, but these were not jobs I was told, they were hobbies, so they did not count. Plus, as my mother pointed out incessantly, my grammar was excruciating so I had no hope.

Therefore, I did what was expected of me and I studied a field that would provide me with a real job, but a job completely ill suited to me.

The fact was, I really liked writing and I thought it was a good idea to write for a living. However, I also knew that any ambition I would voice would be received with sneer and sarcasm from my mother and brother, thus I was not particularly inclined to share my aspirations with them. Once in a while, the longing would resurface but to protect my dream, I would bury it deeper and deeper until one day I forgot all about it. It all came back when I started working with John. Or should I say, it is only at that time that it no longer appeared absurd.

When I was young, young enough for my grammar or syntaxes not to matter, I wrote a book. Given that I did not know how to write at the time, I had chosen to illustrate it. I asked my mother to write down the title, so that I could trace the words on the cover. A book must have a title. It was called “The shock of the future”. What a title for a five-year old! On the first page, the first drawing was one of a beautiful brown horse and on the second drawing, the horse had been butchered. All the little stories were similar and in retrospect, quite morbid. I guess the future did not seem all that promising to me. Obviously, my mother was not too impressed, but no so surprised as to wonder where I got that kind of ideas from.

From there on, my writing career became sporadic and secret.

I have often heard authors say in interviews that writers can only write well about what they know well. The first time I heard that, I was heartbroken. I knew about drama, loss, hurt, abandonment, loneliness and broken heart, but of nothing else. I had nothing to write about, nothing had ever happened to me.

After much thought to the matter, my teenage mind concluded that I could only write very sad love stories with tragic endings. Of course, I knew nothing about love, but I certainly knew a great deal about the craving for it. The only problem was that I hated that kind of books, it was so sappy, so unrealistic. Needless to say, I was devastated at the perspective that my most cherished desire could only serve that kind of material. I had Pulitzer Prizes in mind, not Harlequin.

At university, I took a class in literature, in creative writing. The idea of writing stories for credits seemed marvelous. The first story I wrote was a fantastic story about an illegitimate son of Leon Trotsky who while in exile in Montreal, had become a mute homeless until the day he had won the lottery. All the stories were read in class and then handed in for markings. After the reading, I got good revues. The professor thought it was very well written, fantastic syntaxes. Gosh was I ever proud. When I received my mark though, I barely passed. A note on the last page justified the marking by the fact that the grammar sucked.

All these years, I knew I could write well, I just couldn’t master the grammar. Nothing I did could ever change that. That is, until I realized that I could simply change language. Suddenly everything became possible. And check it out, soon you’ll be able to buy my book in any bookstore and it won’t be a love story.

The last Christmas that my aunt asked what I wanted to be when I grew up; I had a slightly clearer idea and probably far too much imagination for an eight-year old. I told her that I wanted to live in a big city like New York, have a beautiful apartment in a high rise where I could see the night lights and have tons of lovers. I remember the nervous laugh and the impressive silence in the room. She never asked me again.

A Special Day

Today is a very special day. Today is my best friend’s birthday.
I am sure he would be more than happy with the usual good wishes. But I would rather tell you how truly special this day is to me. How his being born, how his existence has touched my life. Without him, I wouldn’t be half the woman I am today. He brought strength and support to me life, but also whim, joy and laughter. His unwavering trust and belief in me has allowed me to blossom. He has encouraged me through every endeavors, every obstacles, forcing me to transcend myself even in the weakest of times. He is the parent, the brother I never had, he is the best friend anyone could hope for. But most of all, he is my best friend. And although a birthday is really just another day of the year, on that day, one of the most precious person I know was born.

Happy birthday to you, my friend.

It Must Be Karma

I went out with this guy for a short while. A really strange guy, actually he was a complete loser. Why did I go out with him? To this day, I have not the faintest idea what could have motivated such a choice. He was by no mean handsome, sexy, brilliant, rich, good lover, kind, funny or even decent. In fact he was weak, deceitful and completely disconnected.

My feelings for him mostly consisted of a certain disdain strangely associated to my brother. You see only a few days after I discovered that I had been sexually molested by my brother did I meet this guy. Worst still, they bore a certain physical resemblance. Anybody in their right mind would have concluded that perhaps the timing was slightly off and abandoned the pursuit. Not him. Even though I had informed him of the particulars of my life and what was bond to happen following such discovery, he was determined to be a part of it.

I think as nice and decent as we mostly all are, there comes a time in every human being’s life where being bad takes over, if only for a short while. Although not intentionally, someone ends up paying for all the evil deeds made by others before them. Perhaps it is karma. Perhaps they deserved all the pain that comes their way. Perhaps, and I am sure I am stretching the concept here, that having been hurt so often and by so many somehow entitled me to a certain degree of retaliation.

So I figured, the victim may just as well be him… he was so eager. In retrospect, I was bad. I made him pay. I made him absolutely miserable. I got it all out of my system. I was surprised that he lasted that long.

One night while I was sound asleep, I heard an uproar coming from his side of the bed. I woke up but, not enough to appreciate what was going on. Still to this day, I have no idea what happened. Never-the-less, he got up, dressed, and left, more or less in that order while making much fuss and backtracking in between. I think he thought I would get up and convinced him to go back to bed. Instead I dozed off.

The morning after, I called him to find out what had happened. He did not answer my call or returned it. Being the smart girl that I am, I figured it was finally over. The grief, if any, would be short lived as I was going on holidays a few days later. A nice trip in the sun that I had planned solo a week earlier, it would do me wonder.

I had always been pretty decent until then and although I was not particularly nice to him, I thought the ending should be more civilized. Therefore, the morning of my departure, I left a message on his voice mail summing up my hunch that it was over and that the break up was probably the best thing that could have ever happened to us, we were after all a very bad match, sorry for everything, goodbye and good luck.

A few weeks ago, months after the fact, I received a brief e-mail from him, it said: “If you want to have a coffee phone me.” I pondered over the content. I thought it said so much about him. Nothing to the effect that he would like to have a coffee with me, that recently he had thought about me and would like to catch up or else, which could have enticed a much nicer answer. Rather it meant if you want to see me, I am willing to be seen by you!

Needless to say, the bad girl resurfaced just long enough for the answer back: “I don’t.”

The Lemon Cakes

I am a good cook. In fact, my friends would tell you that I am a darn good one. Not much eludes me in a kitchen. I can pretty much cook anything. Alas… I can’t bake. If my life depended on it, I could not bake a cake. I have tried though. I have tried every weekend for months now. I am hopeless.

I have tried dozens of recipes from the simplest to the most elaborated. Sometimes, the same one several times during the course of a single weekend in the hope of figuring out what I’m missing. I have tried American recipes, French ones, metric, imperial; I even tried Martha Stewarts’ own recipes, to no avail. I simply do not appear to have a pastry thumb. How is it even remotely possible?

The concoction of the batter is usually easy enough. Every ingredients is measured, weighted, whipped just enough, the ingredients are fresh, of good quality, the pans brand new and my oven’s heat is accurate. Most of the times the cakes are cook through. But they absolutely refuse to rise. They remain as flat as they were when they got into the oven. The inevitable result: a dense lemon brick.

Lately, finding tasters has become a tough job. For lack of volunteers, most cakes finish cooling down in the garbage container out in the lane.

The other day I was shopping for groceries with Marco. Lemon cakes were on sales. I bought one just for analysis. Once we got back to my place, we cut it in half to see what the inside looked like. Well, it turned out that it looked exactly like all the ones I made…

The Paintings

I am a painter. As far as I can remember, I always painted or drew or sketched something, usually always the same thing over and over again. I was especially prolific during my years in high school and college and then I stopped completely. It is only when I started working with John that the desire to paint, rather the obsession to paint, resurfaced. It was an important part of me that I had suppressed, but I assumed that everything came to pass and I never questioned the reason why I had stopped. I kept all my brushes and paint; somehow I couldn’t part with them. I love the smell of bristles many time used and cleaned.

I would draw eyes, eyes and nothing else. With dark pencils or black ink, I would draw hard, empty, frowning, sad, scared, cold, haunted eyes. They came alive on paper. It became my trademark. In high school, my work was well known for its gloom and was much appreciated by my teenage counterparts. At that time, my work was regularly exhibited at school and won several merits. One of them I remember particularly well. It was a very large painting made entirely of black ink, depicting a forest of looming willow trees. At the end of each branch, there were eyes. Some starting to bloom, some fully open with horrific expressions, some rotting on the ground, the white running like the yellow of a broken egg. It was a piece of art, an instant success.

In college, these were harder years. It was a very selective fine art program and only fifteen people were invited for the duration of the curriculum. Unfortunately, the friends I had made initially dropped off after the first year. I should have done the same. For three years I found myself surrounded by nine poisonous women set to make my life miserable. The queen bee had immediate aversion for me and my work. In all modesty, I was the only one who really had talent. But from great, my work became guarded and lame. Afterward, I put my stuff away and never used it again until recently.

When I started working with John, I almost immediately felt this imperative need for painting. Unsure and still shaken by my college years, I decided to enroll in a night class. I thought that perhaps it would help me break the spell. It did, and soon after I started painting again. My paintings were just as intense as before, but this time they were full of color as well. My obsession turned towards women. All I painted were women busts, women with large vacant, unseeing eyes. I painted dozens of them if not more.

Last January, I found out that I had been sexually molested by my brother, and that my mother had witnessed some of it without ever intervening.

A few months later, I pulled out my old portfolio from storage. I was looking for something but I didn’t know what. I was driven by instinct. Then it dawned on me. Every painting, every drawings and sketches I ever made screamed as loud as it could that someone saw. That a woman saw what happened to me, a woman with eyes that refused to see. My mother did not want to see, she didn’t want to know what had happened to me, she would have had to do something about it.

All that time, somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew that something terrible had happened to me and that she knew about it all along. She could close her eyes tight, she could look the other way, but whether she liked it or not, she saw.

From Generation to Generation

It was a shock, as you can imagine, to realize that I had been sexually molested by my brother. It was a shock and a relief as well. In my therapy, I had focused a lot on my strained relationship with my mother. There was something about it which was haunting me. The relief came in the knowledge that I had not screwed up my whole life based solely on the fact that – mummy did not love me -. Although irrefutable a fact, it still felt too pathetic, too weak a reason. I refused to consider it as the only explanation, there had to be more. Something had always felt out of reach, and now I knew what that was.

The enormity of it did not immediately dawn on me. When it did though; it felt like a ton of bricks. Only recently have I gotten out of the preliminary period of shock and disbelief, to feel rage and a need for certain level of retaliation. Hopefully, in some distant future, this could perhaps transform itself into some sort of life experience and maybe fade away somewhere in the background. In any event, I have to learn to live with this knowledge and not let it define me as a person.

During the last year, I have spent a great deal of my time wondering about the ways this affected my life and the choices I made. It was a very tiring period in that I had to question every reaction, thoughts, likes and dislikes I ever experienced. Some say that not every aspects of my life could have been affected by this, that I had a choice, but the truth is there is hardly any aspect of my life which has not been impinged on in some ways. I was only four years old at the time. I was barely starting to discover the world. These tragic moments defined my views of love, safety, security, respect, trust, intimacy and ultimately the place I was allowed to occupy in the world.

Unfortunately, there were even more fundamental questions to be asked if not answered. My brother was only three years older than me. How does a seven years old boy know about these things unless they were performed on him first? And then, who would be his abuser? Where did it all start? Then again, he could – simply – have been some sort of a psychopath but at seven? And my mother, why didn’t she do anything to prevent it? She knew what was going on all along. She abandoned both her children to their fate. Why? Was she reminded of her own painful times? Did she not care? Was she helpless or more concerned with the judgment of others on her maternal skills? I understand these were other times; it was not an easy subject to raise but still. What about my dad? Did he not know? Did he not care? Was he the original instigator?

This new knowledge has also forced me to rethink my rapports with all of them and most particularly to my mother. None of them would ever admit to any wrong doing. If the subject was ever brought up, I would be accused of craving attention, of dirtying my brother’s golden aura; of being responsible for it all, and perhaps even be accused of being the instigator myself. Therefore, whatever validation I may be looking for, it will have to come form other sources.

I am interested in finding out the origin of things. But ultimately, my claim remains with my brother and my mother. They are the ones who hurt me. They are responsible, whatever their stories is. They had a responsibility towards me. They failed. They chose the easiest path at the time. A path which has become increasingly costly to them both. My brother could never again pretend to an affiliation with me; he has been banished from existence. My mother is now an aging and lonely woman, abandoned by her dear son and slowly deserted by her only daughter.

When I was a teenager, my mother once came to me and asked why I was so aggressive, why I hated my brother so much. She wanted to know if perhaps he had abused me sexually. Until recently, I could not remember a thing so this line of questioning was surprising. How could she ask me such a thing? In retrospect, she was probably trying to figure out if I remembered. She must have been so relieved when she realized that I didn’t. These are the kind of glimpses that have resurfaced throughout the year. If anything, it helps me realize that I am not crazy, that all the signs were already in place, waiting for me to be strong enough to handle them.

Being Four Years Old All Over Again

This post was amongst the hardest one for me to write. It triggered such a strong emotional reaction every time I tried that my mind went blank. But however long I postpone its writing for, I know I could never write another story until this one is told.

There I was, back in the hypnotist’s office, deep in a hypnotic trance. I was four years old all over again. Except that I was not. Rather, I was in the presence of the four years old I once was, observing her. During a hypnotic regression the – you - comes back as an observer as if you had inadvertently landed in the middle of a play with no role to play. The players don’t seem to notice your presence; you are free to walk around, to observe them, to scrutinize their interactions with each others without being emotionally involved. It is fascinating. There are times where you can also reach out to your alter ego and make contact.

At first, the hypnotist brought me back to the age of five but there was nothing to see, except perhaps statics. Statics like we used to get on TV at the end of the programming. Then we regressed further to my earliest memory. I was four years old. I was a beautiful little girl, blonde with long hair held in a pony tail by a red ribbon. I was wearing red pyjamas with little blue flowers and red fuzzy slippers. I was in the basement with my brother Richard. My dad had installed swings there for us to play during the winter. It was winter and it was dark. The little girl seemed happy on her blue swing, she was giggling. My brother was standing in front of her, his back against the wall, watching intently. Although pretty mundane a scene, it crept me out. Something was wrong. My brother had an erection; in fact, his penis was out in his hand. To a four years old, this wouldn’t mean much, but as an adult I was horrified and there was nothing I could but observe. A few minutes later she had been molested for the first time. To make matters worst, when it was all over, she saw her mother watching the scene.

She was four years old. A beautiful young naive and candid four years old. Her childhood was over. She had died before she could live. She would be nine by the time her torment be over. Forty before she could reclaim a life for herself.

Thanksgiving

Where I come from, we didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Were we ungrateful or did we have nothing to be grateful about? I don’t know. Maybe we needed something big to remember, something substantial, something with a wow factor in it.

Yesterday I was walking home after spending some time with Marco and his family. I had spent the greater part of the afternoon playing in the autumn leaves with his daughter. We had not planned anything special for that day, not even dinner, just a few hours walking in the sun, being together. Thanksgiving had more to do with a nice long weekend than gratefulness.

However, as I stepped out on the sidewalk heading home, after sharing a nice glass of red wine, I suddenly remembered that it was Thanksgiving. I had seen an old lady earlier being picked up by her daughter; she was carrying a plate of goodies. I assumed she had been invited for dinner. It wasn’t dark yet but there was no longer light except for the yellow glow of the street lamps. I could feel the coolness on my skin, my nose was cold. The moon had risen, it wasn’t quite full but it was bright against the midnight blue of the sky. Lazy clouds were passing the moon pushed by a soft breeze. The ground was covered with dried leaves which crackled under the steps. Winter was coming. Somewhere nearby, someone was burning wood; the scent in the air was soothing. It was a beautiful night. And I had spent a wonderful day. And this was good enough a reason to be grateful.

It's All a Little Insane

When I first started my blog, I was very proud of it. Very proud of the fact that I had decided to reach out to people and share with a number of them some of the tribulations of my life. I thought it could be touching and smart. Of course, the main subject I had chosen to talk about was not the most uplifting one, but I believed that one can talk about misfortune and particularly one’s own like a perfectly ordinary thing.

A few chosen friends got the privilege of my blog’s address. For the others, it was up to them to find it by accident. I was not ashamed or uncomfortable; it was simply easier to reveal myself undercover. My friends were supportive and enthusiastic. Most of them already knew the broad lines for having been into my confidences for many years; others were more on the inspiring side of things. One of them however, particularly surprised me, Juliet.

Juliet and I met years ago while studying abroad and we managed to maintain a rich friendship afterward. Although we lived an ocean apart, the distance didn’t seem to be a precluding factor. Over the years, we shared much of our troubles and joys over emails and phone calls and we visited each other as often as we could. I thought we shared similar intellectual interests and a desire to surpass ourselves, to grow and to learn.

Juliet’s initial reaction to my first couple of postings was at best disconcerting. She was adamant that I was not only clinically depressed and in dire need of chemical support but also wasting my potential with incommensurable despair, an unhealthy focus on the past, and ultimately a profound regret for not having the life I hoped for. I was quite surprised especially since she knew how excited I was about the fact that my life was finally beginning to make sense. No amount of reassurance would work, she was right, I was in denial. I should accept my limitations, put an end to this ludicrous therapy and stop questioning myself. After all, too much reflection is bad for the mind. Everybody knows that the Great Philosophers were not especially known for their tremendous joie de vivre. According to her, life made no sense, we never got to know the why, the how and certainly not the thereafter, so what was the point?

What was the point? How could anyone be asking such question? What would the world be today if Socrates, Einstein, Newton, Freud or Christopher Columbus had decided that it was useless to even attempt at finding answers? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t pretend to be of their caliber, but we all have a role to play, people to touch, lives to affect. What kind of legacy do we leave behind when we just give up? Is life really easier afterward? Can we really just stop thinking, feeling, living? And then what? We all have limitations and they can be quite frightening, but are they not especially designed to force us to transcend ourselves?

Her reaction got me thinking. Was I boring her to death every time I attempted a meaningful conversation? It is no wonder she never participated. Was she just bearing her time until we could discuss her latest craft or haircut? That’s when I knew I had misjudged her; we had nothing in common except perhaps, a distant past.

Would it be so awful if my life did not correspond to what I had imagined? I had not imagined anything, I had no life. I died emotionally many years ago, before I even had the chance to live. I was a moth, larvae and I am now blossoming into a beautiful butterfly, thanks to all these wonderful people determined to help accomplish myself. Life has never been so good, so generous to me.

No matter what others may think, it is important for me to understand where I come from, what I have endured, how my life has been influenced in order to be able to understand the choices I have made and the reasons why I made them. How could I choose a different path if I know not how I go to this one in the first place?

Perhaps some people can go through life making as little waves as possible. Perhaps they may even be the happiest of all. I have after all cursed my own brain more than once wishing for a greater level of inanity. In spite of everything, there is nothing more stimulating to me than a conversation or a book that haunts me for a while and gets me thinking. And as long as I think, I am alive.

The Magic Trick

I have been through some terrible things in my life, and some actually happened said Mark Twain. I was about to discover the same thing.

I had made up my mind; I would let the hypnotist perform his tricks on me. Useless to say, I was terrorized. There was something very unsettling in the idea of letting a complete stranger access my mind. I mean, I am not talking about someone to help me stop chewing gum; I am talking about finding out deep poisonous secrets completely unbeknownst to me. Still, considering where things were at, there was not much left for me to fear but fear itself.

And so the session began. I sat myself comfortably on a bulky coach and grabbed a large cushion which I held protectively throughout the entire time. He handed me a headset playing a series of meditation scenarios designed to help me relax and facilitate the induction. After a few minutes he removed the headset and took over.

The idea was to deepen my relax state into a hypnotic trance where my mind could be more receptive to suggestion. First, he suggested that I felt very heavy and relaxed and comfortable. He made me imagine that I was slowly descending a flight of stairs, into the darkness. Then, he asked me to watch his hand as he raised and lowered it in front of my eyes and snapped his fingers. He did this a few times while conjuring the right words to let my mind go deeper and deeper into my memory. He spoke fast as if he did not really want me to understand what he was saying.

Because the memory is supposed to be extremely accurate in hypnosis, he used regression to help me with that part of my childhood which I could not remember. He kept repeating that I was safe, that I was myself as an adult returning to the past, that I was just an observer and nothing could affect me. I must admit, at that point it felt quite TV performance like. Then, he carried on with more visual scenarios bringing me to a time when I was four years old. At that point, I am supposed to be in a hypnotic trance. It is hard to tell because it is not exactly a mystical experience. If I was in a trance, I didn’t notice it.

According to him however, there is always evidence of trance in the form of a slight flushing, eyelids fluttering or an easing in the breathing pattern. He also used a little monitor linked to his computer that he had attached to my finger to monitor the depth of the trance. Apparently the evidence suggested that I was in a deep hypnotic trance. The mind is then fully open to suggestion and can be worked with.

And at the end of the session; the hypnotist simply suggested that I return to my normal state of consciousness and he snapped his fingers once again. I was wide awake, back to normal.

Throughout I felt like I was in control of the situation. I could open my eyes, move around a little, or simply refuse to answer some of his questions. I did not expect that I would remember so well everything that was said and experienced while in trance. It felt rather more like daydreaming.

Of course, compared to a more traditional form of therapy which requires time, effort and commitment - hypnotherapy – is a swift way to deal with issues. However, there are some issues that may require a better support system to deal with the aftermath of a devastating discovery, than a quick session with a hypnotist may allow.

Two Ships Passing in the Night

As a child, I thought my dad was great. He was so different from all the other dads. He was the Captain of a large ship traveling all around the world and in spite of the fact that he was never home, I felt connected to him. And in the rare occasions when he came home, he would bring toys and goodies from all these exotic places he had been to. Sometimes during the holidays, he would take me with him. At night, on the bridge, he would teach me about the stars and the tides and he would tell me stories about explorers and pirates who, before him, had sailed the seven seas. I would spend my days exploring the ship’s every nook and cranny. It was not unusual to find me nosing about in the engine room or sitting on a kitchen stool licking the remaining of a cake batter off a wood spoon. These were the happy days for me.

When I moved out on my own, I naturally chose to live by the river where I could see the ships pass by. Still today, I live in a beautiful city by the ocean. In the bay leading to the port, there are always large ships which have dropped anchor while waiting for a dock to free. Ships of all origins and sizes, some full of merchandise, others waiting to fill their hold. Every time I walked by and saw the ships, I felt a pang of nostalgia. Beautiful memories, some genuine, some perhaps not so much, resurfaced. And once again, I felt connected.

A few years ago, my dad came visiting for the first time with his wife. I was delighted to show him around and especially to show him the bay and its ships. I thought he would be touched be the heritage he had left me. Touched by the fact that I could never look at a ship without thinking about him. About the fact that he had made a difference in my life, that wherever we were in the world, there would always be water to connect us.

We walked to the sea just my father and me. We sat and watched a distant light, our mind drifting through times and memories. It was a beautiful summer day; the breeze was warm and the sun about to set. Then my dad did the unthinkable: he spoke.

“I hated working on ships. I hated everything about them. I am not one of those old sailors who are moved by the sea. I never liked it.”

I watched him for a moment, puzzled. He had just torn apart the most precious memories, if not the only happy ones of my entire childhood without a flinch. But his obliviousness was genuine. We were like two ships passing in the night.

When I walk to the sea now and watch the ships anchored in the bay, I see ships. And I hope for them an unfailing lighthouse on their path.

False Memories

For as long as I can remember, every time I wondered about my family and the reasons why we were so hostile, I had the feeling that something significant had happened around the time I was four or five years old. It seemed to me that before that, we had normal interactions. In any event, I hardly have any memory of my childhood from that age on until I was well into my teens. This is actually the first subject I brought up when I first met with John. I thought it was odd that feeling I had. It felt like I had been sheltered from crucial information. No amount of therapy managed to get me to the breaking point. We tried, but every time my mind went completely blank or refocused its attention towards something apparently more manageable. It really frustrated me. I wanted answers and they were slow coming. That’s when I started doing research on hypnosis.

So, there I was, sitting in the hypnotist’s office. I was prepared to let him do his tricks on my mind, but only under certain conditions. I knew enough about the subconscious to know that false memories could easily be created if he was to start projecting preconceived opinion into the hypnotic regression. And if indeed he was wrong to start with, it could taint my entire recollection of things, making it difficult afterward for John and me, to differentiate between repressed memories and false memories. I had enough on my plate without creating my own tragedies from scratch.

Therefore I asked the hypnotist to regress me to the age of four, without suggesting a setting or a location. He was allowed to ask me details about the rooms, the time of day, whether there were people around me but nothing about their interactions. I was afraid he may start asking leading questions and that was a scary though. If I was witnessing something of importance, he would let me observe for a while; otherwise, he would suggest moving forward by a few months.

These were my conditions and he agreed. I did not feel comfortable discussing the most intimate part of myself with a complete stranger, especially when I did not know myself what could be found in the first place.

The Altered State

Marco was not exactly thrilled with my decision to meet again with the hypnotist. He was uneasy with the idea that a perfect stranger could play with my mind and, who knows, make me do bizarre things or change me into a different person. I would lie if I’d say that the idea didn’t cross my mind, but surely there had to me more to it than just what we see on TV. Never-the-less, I went. The desire to know what had happened to me was critical by then, there was not much room left for caution.

However, prior to even considering the use of hypnosis, I had done some research. I knew that it could be used as a tool in combination with therapy, but I was not too sure about what it entails exactly. Here is what I had found out:

Hypnosis is an altered state of awareness, one were the mind remains clear, alert and focused on something. It does not feel frightening or eerie as one might expect. During a session, you feel very relaxed. You can hear everything around, the sounds outside the room, a car down the street and you remain aware of everything that is going on around you as well as what your unconscious is revealing to you.

The reassuring part was that no one under hypnosis can be induced to do anything against his will. Whatever moral and ethical codes you hold in a normal waking state will still be in place under hypnosis. Just like you cannot be made to do anything against your moral code, you will not say anything that is embarrassing and will not reveal more than you are comfortable doing. Usually, if a hypnotherapist's suggestion conflicts with your value system, you simply bring yourself up out of hypnosis; you just "wake up." You are in complete control at all times.

And finally, mastering the art of hypnosis does not necessarily mean that one is qualified as a hypnotherapist. In my case, he called himself a hypnotherapist in spite of the fact that his training did not include a single class on therapy. Furthermore, he was incapable of recognizing or understanding a person’s basic state of mind or emotion and possessed no compassion what-so-ever. Still, he chose as a line of work, to help people heal their sorrow. Of course, at the time, I was unaware of such facts. Still, it is precisely his brutality in dealing with delicate matters which helped me move forward.

However, I must warn you to be cautious before you decide to use the same path. I strongly believe that I was able to make the most of it because I was tremendously insightful, I had already done a lot of work with my own trustworthy therapist and I had a great support system. Furthermore, I was very clear on what I wanted to achieve. In other circumstances, his gross incompetence might have caused much more grief that enlightenment. In retrospect I don’t regret what I did, but should I have known that every qualified therapist had basic understanding of hypnosis; I would have asked John to perform it instead, I would have been in better hands.

The Great Dive

Recently I read an article written for a French newspaper. It was obviously written during the Olympic games of Beijing. I thought it was very well written and a beautiful reflection on life. I thought it would be nice to share it with you.

Pierre Foglia
La Presse
Pékin

The Great Dive
A perfect dive is a difficult dive, but so well executed that it looks easy. The same principle applies to all sports of demonstration: gymnastics, synchronized swimming, figure skating. The same could be said about arts, dancers must not look as though they were dancing or writers writing.

The difference is that once a dive has been executed, the diver disappears. His final act is one of disappearance. In that, diving is much closer to life. I mean to death.

All sports, all art forms aim for perfection. The diver, also, tells us what perfection is: to disappear without leaving a trace.

That’s exactly what I was telling you earlier: diving teaches us the way to die.

When we die, right after the great dive, there where we arrive shaking ourselves off like divers coming out of the water, seven judges mark us on the pirouettes we made in life, and multiply it by the degree of difficulty, very important the degree of difficulty. It makes all the difference.

We are marked on the splash, the swirl, the foam that we leave behind upon exiting.
A perfect life is the one that makes no splash. The humblest, the most subdued, those who will have gone through life like a knife blade slices the water without making a splash, those will be the ones getting the 10.

Forgiveness

A few days ago I received an e-mail from a friend of mine. He is a Lutheran pastor in a small community. Every week he sends me a copy of his latest sermon. I am not especially religious, but his sermons are always written very intelligently. I believe they are rather more intended to provoke a certain reflection than impose a path to follow. This week, it was about forgiveness. Not an easy subject to cover at the best of times. Although it may seem effortless for those who have nothing to forgive, for those of us who have truly been hurt; it is not an easy process. Is it even a realistic one?

It is without contest a terrible waste to go through life bitter and full of resentment. It not only impoverishes even further, but it also confers greater powers to the offender. How can one move on when the mind is clogged with constant reminiscence of the difficult times? I believe one cannot, but forgiveness? I am not so sure.

As I was reading his sermon, I thought it was a very Christian concept, one in fact that can make me quite uneasy. I remember the days in church when the priest would profess the value of turning to the other cheek. Not that I wish to promote violence in any form or shape, but how many of us have experienced first hand the danger of such gesture. I am all for a good leap of faith, but after a while, there is also the concept of self preservation which has to kick in. Most abusers understand from the beginning that what they are doing is wrong. Do you really expect them to feel any sense of shame or remorse at striking the other cheek too?

It is honorable to think that we should be able to reach out to those who’ve hurt us and forgive, perhaps even forget and who knows, maybe even embrace the abusers and restore a nice healthy relationship with them, as if nothing ever happened. Would this be forgiveness or sheer madness? There are these extraordinary people out there who perhaps could do such a thing. I am not so sure I could be so generous myself; or rather I think this generosity would better serve my own healing.

Forgiveness is hard. I don’t believe that only hard work is rewarded to the fullest. I think that life is hard enough in itself. And sometimes, the path of least resistance is the one that makes more sense. By that, I don’t mean to wish ill or seek revenge or even to be forever haunted by the pain that was inflicted, but to let go and move on. You may never understand the motivations of your aggressors, their moral shortcomings, the circumstances which led to their actions but you can understand that most people are not born totally bad, that something made them what they were, that their might be mitigating factors to these otherwise horrific acts and that, might be enough.

Having been victimized does not make you a victim. And by understanding it, you can regain control over your own life. You learn new ways. Be a better person. There doesn’t need to be a constant mental connection with the abuser. It is possible to let go. Thus free yourself and move on.

My friend quoted Henri Nouwen in that there is a step beyond the realization that we need not be victims of our past…The step of forgiveness. According to him, forgiveness sets us free without wanting anything in return. I am asking you, is it not just as benevolent to wish your abusers no harm, to offer a healing distance without pretense, and not care anyone more one way of the other?

Something Dark

It is hard to consider child abuse, and especially your own, to reflect on its possible occurrence, the triggers, the instigators or abusers, the when, how and why without tainting the process with your own adult view of things. The fist time it was suggested to me, I though it was completely ridiculous. Me? No way! I would never let anybody do such a thing to me, I would fight back. Plus, I would remember if it had happened, how could anyone forget such a thing? Then again, how would an innocent child react in such circumstances?

What if, as Marco wisely pointed out, I didn’t have a choice? Perhaps I was too little to know better or to do anything about it or to fight back. Perhaps fear made me forget… Perhaps like in the movies, someone had threatened to hurt my cat if I told? What if nobody believed me? What if they thought I was responsible, that it was me the bad one? I felt so incredulous. But… wouldn’t I remember…?

Useless to say, the intricacies of the human mind are vast. Thanks to John I got to understand a bit more of it. It seems that many factors could actually cause the brain to block a traumatic event from consciousness. This means that something could have happened to me and I may not remember it. But I am getting ahead of myself, here.

On that afternoon, Marco and I discussed several theories involving alternatively each member of my family and their interactions with each others. Anything was possible, even the fact that perhaps nothing happened at all. Marco was not especially set on trying to make me believe either way. Oh, I’m sure he had a theory of his own, but he did not share it with me. Instead, he played devil’s advocate and let me think my own stuff through.

By the time we finished our third cappuccino, it was time to shake off all that caffeine with a walk in the cold. Walking can be quite conducive to thinking. And after a short while, Marco inadvertently threw the final punch at me:

“Loulou… How long have we known each other?”

“I don’t know… Twenty years perhaps”

“Do you realize that during all that time you have never talked to me about your brother? Initially you did mention that you hated him and had cut all ties but you could never quite tell me why that was. I remember thinking it was odd. I mean, you know how much I care about my own brother. I can’t imagine not talking to him…”

“…”

My intuition suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew something terrible had happened. I couldn’t tell you what and to which extend, but there was something dark. That’s when I knew that I would go back to see the hypnotist. I needed to know.

Marco was not exactly thrilled with my decision. He thought that guy was bad news. But if I was set on going, he was set on coming with me.

The Visitor

Fish and visitors smell in three days said Benjamin Franklin. No truer words were ever uttered!

Recently, I had a visitor stay over at my place. Even though I do enjoy my privacy enormously, I was happy to have him over for a short while. We were not particularly good friends, rather acquaintances from a long time ago. Still, spending some time with him, chatting about the foolishness of our youth and the journey travelled so far was an enjoyable perspective. I had taken some time off work and planned on showing him around. So far, everything was fine.

The troubles started the moment he landed. I had forgotten his true nature. Actually I had known him so very little that I was really unaware of it. Distance and years had done their toll on my memory. I thought that at some point we all grew up. I was wrong. And for the next seven days, I would be reminded of it constantly.

My visitor, George, it turned out, was far more interested in listening to his own voice repeat ad nauseam the same insipid stories than engross himself in this wonderful new culture in which I now lived. It became so pathetic that I had to actually apologize for interrupting his monologues, to point out places of interest and pieces of art, only to be acknowledged with a curt nod and a resentful silence; he was annoyed at my lack of manners or interest, was I told. Not only did he spend seven dreadful days and evenings talking solely about himself, and let me tell you he is not that interesting in the first place, but it turned out that he was also terribly competitive, judgmental and loud in his believes. And this can be quite uncomfortable, especially when his disdain would focus on someone nearby. Obvious sexual orientations, excess of weight or ethnis were amongst his favorite targets. No matter what the subject of conversation, every sentence, without exception, made allusion to some sex he supposedly had, to something smoked or to the pretensions of some expert friends of his. It was rather pathetic.

The funniest moment happened around the third day. I am an avid reader; my home is crammed with books. Not only do I have an overflowing bookshelf right in the hallway, but there are piles of books everywhere. That afternoon George was commenting on the fact that he was very surprised there were no books in my home. He had somehow thought of me as a reader. As far as I was concerned, it was another one of his brilliant remark that did not require an answer. What could I reply to that? Never-the-less, the morning after, when he got up to be fed breakfast, he noticed a large pile of books located by the couch. Within a minute, he was shaking his head in disbelief. He actually thought that the previous night while he was asleep, I had deliberately piled up books around so that he would think I read a lot. He could not phantom how I intended to make him believe that they had been there all along…

The morning after his arrival I had a moment of panic. I briefly considered the possibility of asking him to pack and leave. But I am a fair person. Considering I was also at fault for inviting him in the first place, I figured I should make an effort; it was after all, only six days of my life. However, as Albert Einstein once said, sit besides a beautiful woman for an hour and time passes like a minute, sit on a hot stove for an hour and it will feel like one hour. Needless to say, the length of those days did not go by unnoticed; I had time to appreciate every minute of it. Thankfully the weather was on my side and we were able to roam freely outside. It would have been unbearable otherwise. I have to admit though; it was surprisingly easy to block him out of my mind. I remember bits and pieces, but for the most part, I enjoyed to the fullest the last of summer days.

His coming was mostly a vast waste of my time, save perhaps for the wonderful realization that I have made a lot of progress in my life. I am definitely not the same person I was at nineteen.

On the last night, I drove him to the airport and after a few minutes we parted. I was walking away when I stopped and turned around. Apparently, my visitor had already passed the gate for he was nowhere in sight. For a moment I was baffled, I could not remember whom it was I had just dropped off. That night, I headed home with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.

Marco

Marco is the kind of friend everybody wish to have. The best of kind. He is loyal to a fault, protective, supportive, curious and intelligent. We have known each other for years and he certainly knows me better than anyone else. If something terrible had happened in my childhood, together we could figure it out.

Being the caring person that he is, I wasn’t surprised to see him rushed over to my place the moment we hung up the phone. My distressed call had done its toll. From there, it took no time at all for us to get absorbed into the matter at hand. Actually, that’s not exactly how it happened. First we made it to a nice little Italian café, ordered a couple of steaming hot cappuccinos; it was after all a rather cold day of January, and sat at a small round table located just besides a colossal marble of Michelangelo’s David and then, we began. Having David’s private parts hanging in my face was a rather witty introduction to the subject.

It’s all a little insane when you stop to think about it. My family at large and all its members have always had strained rapports and interactions with one another. Enmity has existed between us for as long as I can remember. The antagonism was so bad; we could not even eat all sitting together at the same table. The rare conversations or rather exchange of sounds or grunts were more than just harsh insulting language, it was loaded with vitriol. Yet, from the neighbors’ perspective, we appeared to be a nice little family like all the others. And as long as they thought us to be normal, we ought to be. My mother was all about appearances.

Both Marco and I were quite aware that based on the raw material we had to work with; we could easily come up with just about any arguments supporting a probable conclusion that some sexual abuse might had taken place in my childhood, or that I had been relocated by alien forces into a micro disfunctional environment for research purposes. Truly anything was possible. I had always felt so out of place amongst them. In fact, for the longest time, I was convinced that I had to have been adopted. There was no way these people could be in any way related to me. We had nothing what-so-ever in common, except perhaps aversion.

Therefore, the idea here was not so much for us to attempt proving or disproving the likelihood, rather to analyze the possibility with an open mind. Given how shaken I had been at the idea, we thought something was afoot.

The First Impression

That morning, I had an appointment with the hypnotist. It was only an introductory meeting. Mind you, before I let some stranger play with my mind, I’d like to know what he looks like. If all went well, then perhaps we could proceed on another day. In any event, the lapse of time would provide a buffer zone in case I changed my mind.

My first impression of the hypnotist was not the best one ever made. He was a short pudgy balding gay guy with formidable yellow teeth. He had a bounce in his steps, as if the heels of his feet never quite reached the ground. He was dressed conservatively yet, shabbily, like horseplaying boys in boarding schools. Not terribly impressive, still he looked rather harmless.

I understood from doing some research that hypnosis could be used as an adjunct to therapy. That it was a state of inner absorption, concentration and focused attention. A period during which the senses are more acute, enabling a person to gain control by being more engaged in the inner world. Although there is deep relaxation involved, the mind is perfectly alert. This is the zone where that individual can resolve inner conflicts. And that was exactly the reason why I wanted to do it.

So there we were, sitting in his office, talking about what had brought me there. It was rather pleasant; a cup of tea would not have seemed out of place in that setting. After all, from all the local websites I had searched, hypnotherapy was often linked to crystal balls and tarot cards. Thus, if I could not find out what had happened in my childhood, then perhaps I could have a chat with my guardian angel! Either way, this could prove to be quite interesting if not plainly amusing.

As I mentioned in an earlier chronicle, this hypnotist was not especially versed into the therapeutic aspect of his work. Actually, he was rather clueless about the consequences his words could have. And so, blissfully unaware, eventually asked if perhaps I might have been sexually molested in my childhood? Huh? Well… not that I recall… Oh boy… What had I gotten myself into?

But the comment stuck to my mind; it had made an impression. To tell you the truth, I was stunned. Nobody had ever asked me such questions. Could I have been - I mean molested? I didn’t know. But the possibility didn’t feel far fetch. It was just not something I had ever considered. I guess that’s why I was so surprised, because it didn’t seem so ridiculous. It actually made sense.

I was scheduled to meet with him again the day after to address the issue. Now, I wasn’t so sure anymore it was a good idea. One thing was clear though, it was time to take advantage of the buffer zone for an emergency meeting with my best friend, Marco.

All is About Timing - Good and Bad

I am a real fan of Karl Jung and his principle of synchronicity. I do believe that very often experiences which seem to be coincidences due to chance in term of causality must be the manifestation of parallel forces or circumstances in terms of meaning.

Until then, my life had been an emotional mess and I couldn’t figure out why that was. I went through life in a comatose state of mind: perfectly aware of what was going on around me yet unable to do anything about it. It frustrated me and baffled my friends. But that morning when I woke up, something was different. I could feel it deep inside. I had had enough and sincerely wished for a change. So I was not exactly surprised when later on that day I was introduced to John, the man who would help me figure it all out.

It is certainly as hard to talk about psychotherapy as it is religion. Either way, there must be something not quite right with the talker. With religion, you ought to be some sort of a zealot ready to brandish a bible and preach the words of God to all sinners; while psychotherapy necessarily suggests that you must be crazy. Was I crazy? Had it all - affected my mental - ? Hard to say. Regardless, I embarked on this quest with enthusiasm. I had questions; he had a way to help me find out the answers. That was good enough for me.

I had done my homework over the years, so it was not exactly empty handed and clueless that I started – a therapy. I had a good fifteen years of written dreams and diaries from which I was able to extract a clear pattern of misery. I knew that the mystery resided in my childhood. I also knew that somehow my mother was responsible – aren’t they always? It had always been very clear that she had no love for me, but can one really jeopardize an entire life based on such a fact? I hoped not. It sounded too trivial, too weak. There had to be more. Other than that, my father was rather absent and ostensibly insignificant, and my brother, well, I had no opinion about him. I abhorred him, but I would be damned if I could tell you why. That’s how it all started.

I will spare you the chronological discoveries, although numerous and absolutely fascinating, to make a leap to a more recent time. A determining moment in this venture. Let say, last January. At that time, I felt like I was stalling. John is a brilliant therapist, he would never try to influence the pace of my recollections or provide me with inside information that, as an experienced therapist, he would spot right away, even if I begged him to. It was my job to discover about my past at my own rhythm. Whenever the mind is ready, the information would surface. But what if – the mind – is never ready? I wanted to know and that in spite of its lack of readiness. My level of frustration had risen exponentially. There was something eating at me and I could not figure it out. For years we had worked my life on the same principle as a spider wed, removing all the little knots from the periphery onward. But we had not managed to get to the core of it which remained excessively elusive. Was there even something to discover? With time, the mere possibility that there might be nothing at all was becoming just as disturbing an outcome.

That’s when I decided to do the most radical and ultimately decisive thing of my entire therapy. I went, without consulting John, to see a hypnotherapist. Well, that was no John I assure you. There was not much of a therapist either. It was mainly a – hypnotist. A mere circus performer for he had the look and the disposition of mind. I won’t insult clowns in general by assuming their lack of professionalism and integrity but if they were all so disposed, so was he. Yet, his incommensurable lack of decency or principle is precisely what pulled the rabbit out of the hat.

Highlights and Lowlights

I simply cannot disclose a complete account of the events of my life in perfect order of time or consequence without ever providing you with glimpses of the present time. That would be completely unfair. Imagine, it took me years to come to this level of sanity. By the time this particular moment should appear in the narration, it may no longer matter. But for now, it does.

Last night I met with Sally. Sally is my hairdresser extraordinaire. We had meant to get together for dinner for years but there was always something in the way. I guess if we really wanted to, we could have made it happen. We chose not to. Sally has one of those rollercoaster types of life. Spending time with her means hours of good laughs. During my last appointment with her, last week when my highlights and haircut needed major refreshing; I had been more somber than usual, not imparting her with the crazy events of my life as she was herself generously doing. I was not my usual bubbly self. I had lots on my mind but blaring my most private thoughts over the noise of a hair blower in a busy salon was not going to do it for me. However, this time it turned out a little differently. Once the masterpiece was completed, the usual accolade granted and the promise of a getting together soon was phrased, Sally actually opened her diary and went ahead suggesting date and time. I was stunned. Delightfully so, but still. I was not sure I was ready for such commitment. None-the-less, a date was set for yesterday night. No only did we set a date but we actually kept it. Oh, I did try to cancel a few times, but unusually so, I felt guilty. Coming from me, this is nothing short of a miracle. I would not bother telling you all this if I had not already explained to you about my pretense at being a hard core loner.

So last night we went to that new place overlooking the beach. We had a glass of wine and shared a few starters. The conversation was easy and funny. We have both come such a long way since we met years ago. I managed to share with her all that I had not dared in the salon and I was surprised to see how easy it was. How simple. How utterly normal she made me feel, normal and resilient. And then we spoke of trivialities and it felt good. Misfortune after all, can be just another subject of conversation amongst many.

What's Wrong with Me?

There was obviously something wrong with me. I mean, how could there not be? I am intelligent, attractive; I have a pretty good sense of humor, a strong sense of life, a decent education, plenty of creativity, talents and interests. I am good with people and people seek my company. I have friends, not so many but really good ones. What more could I ask for? I am bursting with potential. But that’s all it is - potential; I have never lived up to it on any levels. Sometimes I wish I could be dim-witted, so I would not realize how a complete waste of an otherwise fantastic life I am leading. I am trapped in a dead-end job, when I should be creating wonderful pieces of art. I have mostly dated men that were completely ill suited to me with whom I could never have build a life, a family. I even used to think of myself as a loner, one who likes spending much time on her own, only to realize recently that I actually enjoy having people around. But, an inherent mistrust tainted my relationships. It’s not that I thought they would cheat me, I simply did not feel safe.

My first recollection ever is one of fright, fright and puzzlement. Why is that? How could a child who grew up in a seemingly - normal - family learn fear from the get go? Something must have happened. That’s the plainest of all explanations. Could there be another one? Years of solitary introspection had proven insufficient to uncover the deed. I needed help. It was time to reclaim my life by doing some serious digging of the mind. It was time to fill up the blanks. Actually, there was really not much more than blanks. I simply wanted a childhood, mine if possible. I have always felt like I was born an adult, the responsible one of the family but chances were, it was not actually the case. I had to find someone who would help me sorted it all out. Someone I could trust. That’s when I met John. He was all I could have hoped for and so much more.

My expected reward: a life of my own. I wanted to become the hero of my own life, and not let that role be held by somebody else.

One Day I Shall be Amazed that my Childhood is Finally Over

I am not exactly clueless, not at all. I am actually quite insightful, not that you needed to be to realize that my family was completely insane. But it helped. As far as I can remember, and that’s pretty much all I can remember, I was always aware of the fact that they were not quit right, any of them. It is still true to this day. I have not spoken to my brother in twenty years, or him to my parents. They themselves divorced years and years ago. For the longest time, I thought they were at the root of all my difficulties in life. It turned out, I was right.