The Living

For a while, I found myself incapable of writing. During the last couple of years, I focused much on the dead, the ghosts, the broken bones and putrefied corpses of my early years. It had to be done. It was the only way to move forward. But for a while, I needed time away. I needed to find my place amongst the living.

A while ago, I asked a friend if we always come out stronger of tragedy. Although I suspect he was himself facing his own tragedies at the time, as he usually adorns his answers with more faith than the plain – no - he delivered that day. According to him, strength comes from hard work and most are unwilling to commit. Much time had gone by between the question and the answer. Distance had further convinced my friend of my readiness to give up, to discourage, to resent the injustice, the pain, the loss. Yet, he was wrong. I survived. No matter what happened to me, I survived. I made it through. And from there, I could only move forward. Whatever I experienced, I rise above it a little more each day. It turned out that I may have been much stronger than I ever considered.

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars - Kahlil Gibran

Trials and Tribulations of Dating

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a – single – evening of wine and cheese tasting. The wine selection was honest, but I guess it was only a pretext to gather and meet new people. It was a nice evening. Most guests were charming, especially one with whom I had a good time. The conversation was easy, the mood comfortable; we seemed to have much in common. At the end of the evening, he asked if he could take me out to dinner. “I would love that!” A good answer! We exchanged phone numbers and promised to call.

A couple of days later he left a message on my voice mail stating how nice it was to have met me. I returned his call leaving pretty much the same message. The following day he called again wanting to know what kind of food I enjoy in order to make reservations. “I’m just not too keen on seafood. Allergies, you know.” We agreed to get together the following Thursday. On Wednesday he called and confirmed the plans; he was to pick me up at 7, the location was a surprise. “What should I wear?”

“Casual.” Casual…? If only I knew where we were going. A quick survey with all the girls at work confirmed that I shouldn’t wear a dress, too much for a first date, but pants, something classy. After work I rushed home, got changed and walked out the door. He was already waiting for me in his sharp Armani suit. Not casual! Not by any standard! He had brought me flowers, a gigantic bouquet which must have cost half my weekly salary. It was a little much. Then we drove off to La Clarinette, the most expensive French restaurant in town, where he insisted he order for the both of us. He chose the seven course meal with a bottle of Bordeaux. It turned out he had chosen the seafood meal… Great! This meal cost more than my weekly salary. Did I mention it was only a first date?

The morning after, I was writing a thank you note when I noticed I had received an e-mail from him. He was thanking me profusely for such a wonderful dinner and evening, hoping we could get together again soon. It would have been nice if he had let me do it, instead it turned that it was my pleasure, really… Twenty nine e-mails followed on that day.

Saturday morning comes along; I was curled up on the couch after my morning run, enjoying a nice cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was eight thirty. He wanted to know if I had plans for the day. An hour later, we finally hung up. We were to get together later on. A couple of hours before the scheduled time, he called again, determined to cover the gap by talking on the phone. I’m not good at that. Talking on the phone is a laborious task for me. Eventually we hung up and met at the beach for a stroll. By then, we had not shared any kind of familiarity. His first move was to kiss me on the lips, but I dodged brilliantly, the second, to hold me by the waist as we walked. This time my dodging wasn’t as subtle. I’m not keen in public display of affection, especially when there isn’t any. To discourage further fumbling, I put my hands in my jeans pockets. We walked for a while and then ate at a local Mexican cantina. I had a lime margarita with rock salt on the rim. Mid-sentence, he took his paper napkin, unfolded it, wrapped it carefully around his index finger and wiped something off my face. I almost jumped out of my skin. It ought to have been something really gross. It turned out it was a grain of salt. Who ever does that? How about “You’ve got salt on your lip” It reminded me of my mother who used to put saliva on a tissue to clean something off my face.

The following morning, the same routine started again, only this time, I didn’t answer the phone, and went about enjoying my day. By six o’clock he had left several messages. I called him back and gently told him that I felt slightly cornered. It was a bit intense; I would rather take things a tad slower and perhaps lighter. “Sure, it’s not a problem at all, I’m glad you told me.”

Two days later I received an 890 word e-mail of sheer panic. An e-mail about the size of this post! He was so, so terribly sorry he had made me feel so bad, he hoped he had not jeopardized the relationship. Since our last conversation, he had this terrible knot in the stomach. Funny enough, it ended with “sincerely”, and had been sent in the middle of the night. Although I had no ulterior motive when I asked him to slow down a little, his e-mail certainly made it clear that I should run away as fast as I could. A week later he left a message on my voice mail and again the following week, which I never returned.

Talk about being intense. It’s too bad, he was nice.

Home Run

In early summer, after a miserable winter of introspection and careful examination of my life, it became quite evident that it was time to make crucial changes. I had to broaden my horizons, to enrich my life with new people, new interests, and new ways; I had to become part of this world I knew nothing about.

In the past Marco had been very present in every aspects of my life, but it changed when he had children. Although predictable, it still caught me unprepared. His absence left a void which knocked me off balance, combined with the assimilating and distancing myself from my past, its influence and perpetrators, it was a forlorn time which left me exhausted. Nevertheless, I plunged head first into action, feeling a little shaky at first perhaps, but mostly resolute.

For years I wanted to run, but I never did anything about it. This summer it suddenly occurred to me that nothing prevented me for doing it. So one morning I rose with the lark and went running down the beach. It was that simple. Since then, every morning I get up early and go running, rain or shine, tired or not; I haven’t missed a day yet. Some days are more difficult than others, but I feel so good afterward. I started attending Yoga classes held in the park near the beach, and in the fall, I’ll enroll in a gym. I also got into more social activities, where I have met quite a few people, some more interesting than some others. Every day I have to make the conscious decision to step out of my comfort zone, to open up to people, to get involve, to take a chance, and people response differently to me. I am less – inaccessible - than before, even with people at work. Little do they know that I was simply terrified of them before. In meeting new people, I have also met a lot of available guys. This as you can imagine, is a little bit more challenging to me.

In bygone days, several of them would have been quite attractive and close to what I was looking for. But when the opportunity presented itself I had no desire to move forward. The interest just isn’t there right now. Last time I saw John, he had told me that I should date, date and date some more until I figured out what I really wanted or needed. Until recently I never felt like I had a choice when it came to involvement. We all know where that comes from but, the spell seems to have been broken. Still, I can’t help but feeling guilty at time, as if I owed these guys something. I realized that even though my mind might not remember much of my childhood trauma, my body’s memory is now very acute and rebelling. It might take a while before I am ready for relationships.

A friend recently asked if the – setbacks - I might have experienced were affecting my determination to embrace new opportunities. I think of them more as a way of testing my determination, to see if I really mean to change my life, or whether I will yield at the first hindrance sent my way.

I read somewhere that "life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming “WOO HOO what a ride!” I think it is the wisest think I have read in a while. I’ve played it safe all my life and see where it got me! Now it is time to Live.

The Ring

My mother has always been a little strange. At the time these events took place, I was well into my teens. She had been separated and divorced from my father for many years, and was quite happy to be rid of him. It was after all of her own initiative. But somehow, she never got over the flaw of being a divorcee. She felt abandoned and perceived herself as a failure. I have to admit that we did so too, but for entirely different reasons. Anyhow, being divorced at that time was far from being unusual, actually it was getting to be rather the norm in our social environment.

When the separation occurred, my mother was still a relatively young and fairly beautiful woman who could have met someone and built a new life for herself. She tried. She actively and sometimes quite obsessively started looking for a new companion, to no avail. After a short while it became clear to all, if not to her, that her mind was too filled with contradictions and constrictions for it to happen. Her fears outweighed her desire. She was convinced that my brother would deliberately pick fights with him while I would necessarily seduce him.

Although she never claimed to have given up on the concept, over time she started feeling as if by putting herself out there, she was advertising that she was untaken! To remedy her discomfort, she bought herself a used wedding ring from a pawn shop, so she wouldn’t look discarded. To this day she still wears it, and no matter where she goes, there are no available men around…

Karma - The Never Ending Cycle

The law of karma says that beneficial effects are derived from past beneficial actions and harmful effects from past harmful actions.

I believe I can sincerely affirm that I have paid for many bad deeds before I was even capable of making some myself. Of course, I shall not picture myself as a saint, as I have since certainly reached the same level of mischievousness as most. Although, it might prevent Santa from visiting me on Christmas Eve, it certainly would not justify incessant fateful retributions. So why does – he - keep on reappearing in my life? Or should I say why is it that in spite of all the venom I threw at him, he still insists on getting some more?

Indeed, I received another e-mail from him last Friday. This time, I must say all pretenses we left out. The gist of his missive was pure and simple: begging me to take him back. Apparently he had realized he made a few mistakes and would do better this time given the chance or as he phrased it himself “I should not have been such an asshole about many things”. It was both sad and pathetic. Worsen by the fact that so much time as passed since we dated that I can barely remember what these mistakes might have been. Then again, I guess this is precisely the strength of his strategy. He did warn me way back then that he was very persistent. No kidding! Perhaps it could have worked in another lifetime, but not anymore. The big question remains though, how could anyone believe that by reducing themselves to this state of absolute inconsequence they might remain in some way appealing to others? Sadder still is the fact that I am forced to become the villainess once more. It would be nice if at least I could extract joy form it, alas it only brings boredom. Boredom and some degree of discouragement as he clearly understands the uselessness of his action and the unavoidable result “Please don't be too vicious. I know you don't beat about the bush. You tend be devastatingly dismissive of things you are done with.” Obviously he understands the words just not quite their meaning. As you can see, it is quite clear that in not so distant a future, I will be repeating the same speech all over again: seriously, it’s high time you moved on. Whatever we may have shared at some point years ago is long gone, and irremediably so. I thought I had been abundantly clear. Now, be kind enough not to contact me again, ever.

So this karma thing… I wonder, am I paying back right now or cashing up?

Cruise Control

About a week ago I went to a local store to purchase a present for Billy’s birthday: Mr. Potato Head and a box of chalks, which had much success on her parent’s dark hard wood floor, almost as much as last year’s xylophone. When I got to the store, there was a car parked next to the only available stall. The driver’s side door was open; the owner standing next to it was holding a plastic jug, window washing fluid I guessed. The moment I was parked, he came running to me with an unexpired parking ticket. “Gee, you’re far more honest than I am. Thank you” I never bother purchasing these time allotment parking tickets; my patronage should be more than enough to these establishments. The only time I was ever caught red-handed, I expressed my dissatisfaction with such vocal clarity, and attracted such a crowd of curious, that the manager kindly made it disappear. Never-the-less, since it was freely provided to me, I put it on my dash and left without as much as glimpsing at the donor. When I came back, he had left a note on my windshield asking that I call him if I was as single as he. Given that that very same morning I had decided that from there on, I would embrace all the opportunities sent my way, I thought a certain leap of faith was in order, so I gave him a call. I got his voice mail and left a message for him to call me back after work. He was evidently a very eager man for he returned my call almost immediately, requesting that we meet for lunch fifteen minutes later, for coffee in the afternoon or that we spend some time chatting about ourselves over the phone, all of which were impossible at the time. Not only was my schedule crammed with meetings, but I also work in an open office where walls are inexistent, therefore preventing any private conversations from taking place, let alone an introductory one. Eventually we agreed to meet the following day at a café. Keep in mind that although he knew exactly what I look like, to me this was a blind date.

When I arrived, he was already waiting for me. He recognized me right away, introduced himself, we shook hands and he kissed me on both cheeks. Bad, bad, bad! Major faux pas if there was ever one, you never kiss a girl you meet for the first time. How gross! We ordered coffee and went to sit by the beach. By that time, he had removed his sunglasses in the hope that I would do the same so that he could further check me out and ensure there was nothing unpleasant hidden behind them. Unfortunately, this was the hottest, brightest, sunniest day of the entire year; I simply could not remove my sunglasses without risking getting blind. It obviously did not impress him much. However, by then I was drenched with perspiration, and my only desire was to hit the pool as fast as I could. My singlehood was the least of my worries.

All and all, he wasn’t bad. He was all right, you know… nice. Not amazing, average. He was by no mean a loser. But he was the kind of guy scared of getting old. He was as tall as I, which is bad given that at best of time, I wear four-inch heels. I have to give him that, he had beautiful eyes. The conversation was hard coming, for even though he had initiated contact, he was trying to play mysterious and withhold the most pathetic of information. Thankfully this meeting was only supposed to last half hour. It’s easier to look forward to the next one, rather than hope eternity could somehow come to an end. Until then, he had been spectacularly blah, regrettably that was not to last. A surge of typical Vancouverite male hit him. “How is it possible that such a beautiful woman like you is not married?” meaning - what’s wrong with you? Well… Where should I start? Or the most typical “Do you have a lover then? I mean, how do you satisfy your personal needs?” I should be shocked, but I’ve heard that one from almost every man who ever talked to me or any of my girlfriends. “I manage just fine.”

“Is it something you ever considered?” Let me guess, you would be ready to sacrifice yourself to the greater good! On that evening, Vancouver reached an unprecedented 35˚c. There was not a gust of wind or a cloud in the sky. My brain was frying, my patience was running low and I was starting to smell like a three-day old dead trout. “Well, if I was looking for an occasional lover to satisfy my needs, I would be looking for the Paul Newman type my friend, not Jiminy Cricket.” And then there was the pool.

Florida - The Sunshine State

My family and I were roaming through sunshine Florida, all packed up in the family car, visiting the mandatory tourist attractions. One night after an exhausting day at Disney World, and a long frustrating drive back, for my father had as much difficulty navigating himself landlocked as I would on water with the North Star as sole reference point, we finally returned to our motel room. A non-descript room with a kitchenette, a few mismatched utensils, a broken coffee machine, two kitchen chairs covered with green and yellow flower plastic material, a kitchen table with stainless steel legs, and a chipped brown Formica top burned in the middle by cigarettes butts, beige shaggy carpet permeated with the smell of humidity, one of the lamp had no shade, two double beds covered with flower bedspreads in red and green tones, a bureau which top drawer hosted an Anglican bible and a dead beetle; a motel room that defied description. That my parents saw fit to lodge their precious heirs in such bleak setting tells much about their nurturing nature.

The sleeping arrangements were also of an intriguing nature. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I would always share a bed with my mother and my brother with my father. My parents never slept together in the same bed, despite the fact that in real life they spent very little time together. My family was quite financially comfortable, there was no apparent reason why we couldn’t have occupied two rooms, especially of this caliber, providing them with a bit of intimacy, and us with a good night sleep, since my father’s snoring was so excessive and I must say, repulsive that there was no dozing off possible, thus exacerbating the general crankiness. However, that night was slightly different. My brother had found a dubious looking pee stained fold-away bed in the wardrobe and decided to spend the night on it. In my opinion, such decision had to be motivated by some level of desperation. More so, given the fact that there were no sheets provided for it and he had to wrap himself up in one of the bedspread.

In the middle of the night, once we had all sunk into a sleep deprived coma, I had a dream. A vivid dream punctuated by some degree with mild somnambulism. I was found kneeling behind my mother, who was sleeping in a spoon shape facing away from me, pummeling her with both fists while screaming at the top of my lungs. My mother, along with everybody else no doubt, woke up abruptly and wondered what was going on. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, are you mad?” To which I apparently replied “Oh! Sorry! Sorry mum! I thought you were Richard (my brother)” upon which I peacefully went back to sleep.

The following morning, the incident was told and retold to whoever would listen. It had become the liveliest moment of the holidays. Everybody thought it was quite hilarious and cheeky. Ah, my dear parents…

The Family Car

My mother is known for her impractical and often ridiculous choices. She makes them in the hope of impressing people, neighbors, bystanders, all in all, people she doesn’t know, but whom opinion she cares a great deal about. That my father went along with her choices is another proof that they both truly deserved each other.

At the time of purchase, my brother and I were both in our teenage. My brother was involved in several organized sports and required rides to and from wherever, several times a week. Each sport involved bags of equipment and usually team mates who also had bags of equipment. Although I was more self-reliant, there were times when I desperately needed a ride home. My mother was then working at a popular college downtown. Over the years she provided free rides to most of the neighboring kids, except for me, for she had had enough by the time I started college. Thankfully I had already turned sixteen and by then, purchased my own car. Still, we both left home at about the same time in the morning, returning, at first, at about the same time at night. Freedom of transportation, however, soon allowed for less rigid return times which I took full advantage of.

Naturally, the wise choice for a family car would have been to acquire a spacious and solid four-door sedan with a large trunk, a safe car where everybody could have been comfortably seated. But my mother never considers others. Her vision is limited to her own needs and desires. Instead she insisted on a two-door grey Camaro with red leather interior and a huge eagle on the hood. That car had a big V8 engine which she never drove faster than 50 km/h, even on the highways. As a matter of fact, she even managed to get a ticket for impeding the flow of traffic…

Sit by a gorgeous woman for an hour and it will feel like a minute, sit on a hot stove for one minute and it will feel like an hour, said Albert Einstein while explaining the theory of relativity. Sit with my family in a confined space for a month and you will understand the true meaning of eternity. At some point during the time we owned that racing car, my mother decided that the entire family would go on a road trip down to Florida. In the middle of winter, four people, none who spoke English, two heavy smokers, one asthmatic (me), one over six feet tall (my brother), a large cooler on the back seat between the children, no back windows, two doors and four weeks later, we hated each other with pure raging passion which lasted to this day.

Oh Boy!

It started over a year ago. There was this very handsome guy, whom I would see almost every day walking by my office building during lunch time. After a while, we started nodding hello to each other and one day, as we were walking alongside, we introduced ourselves. The ice was broken. From there on, our hellos were voiced and supplemented by a few words, a few sentences and eventually by full paragraphs. The connection was slowly refining itself. After a few months of this enlivening exchange, while in the middle of a crosswalk, and rather unexpectedly, prince charming turned into a toad. Vociferation of outrage and disbelief burst out of his formerly tempting lips “How can you behave like that when you have a partner!” I was dumbstruck. Me? How was I behaving? Who’s partner? What? Or more eloquently: Huh?

“I don’t have a partner!” Needless to say, I almost ran to the office. That guy is completely crazy! His outburst had seized me like an electric shock. I was relating the story to a few colleagues when Linda started howling.

“I can’t believe it! This guy is just as datingly inept as you are! He was obviously trying to find out if you had a boyfriend.”

A few days later, we were both standing on opposite sidewalks waiting for the traffic light to change. When I saw him, standing still and smiling at me, I freaked out and rushed back to the office. Since then, I have bumped into him with a melting ice cream cone which bounced on his dark Armani suit. In hope of remedying the situation, my dirty napkin only managed to spread the mess from shoulder to shoulder. One afternoon, his little dog, until then pleasantly strolling along, suddenly took a bit at me and left with a chunk of my suit pants, I almost took one of his eye out on a rainy day with my umbrella, and managed to drop the entire content of a sweet foamy tall cappuccino on his leather shoes, the day he stopped me from inadvertently throwing myself into incoming traffic. I also stabbed him with a blue marker, staining his crisp white shirt, and we banged heads the day his rain coat belt got tangled with my scarf. It seems that the level of anxiety amongst us had built to an unmanageable level. For a while, we tacitly agreed to avoid each other. It was working well until recently. A few days ago I saw him walking alongside a gorgeous brunette. When he saw me, he turned around and waved, while colliding with a stop sign pole that got him a nose bleed.

Now imagine if this had blossomed into a relationship.

Mitigated Success

Inevitably every time I speak with my parents, absurd childhood memories resurface. Not that we discussed them, they simply re-emerge under a new perspective.

When my parents got married, they bought a house in a new residential development, an upscale bungalow with an unfinished basement. My mother lived there mostly all by herself as my father was away for work the majority of time. So that she wouldn’t feel too lonely, the legend has it that my mother adopted two cats. Her companions were religiously kept locked in the basement, for shedding hair was not permitted in her living quarters, or sent outside during the warmer days. My mother recounted that one of the cat became twice as big as the other one, presumably because it ate both portions of food, she concluded. Not that this realization helped the smaller one in any fashion. My mother did not believe in the power of intervention. It’s unpleasant. A few months later, the smaller cat died and half a year later, the other one disappeared she recalled. I don’t believe they were ever given names. The experience, no doubt, was deemed a brilliant success for a few months later my mother decided it was time to have children…

The Blender

It’s a rare occurrence for me to take the bus home after work; I usually carpool with a friend. However, that night he had other commitments. The timing was bad. Earlier that day, a package had been delivered for me at work, an awesome stainless steel blender bought on my Air Miles points. It was a beauty, a fifteen pounds beauty which I had to take with me on the bus. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I was not wearing excruciating new heels which by then, we slicing my little toes in half. The bus arrived quickly, but as could be expected, it was jam-packed. I hustled my way towards the back of the bus and held on the best I could to a pole. The box was so large that I couldn’t carry it under one arm, two were necessary to hold it and I could not very well put it on the floor as the bus was very crowded and I was standing by the exit. The bus driver was not particularly smooth either jerking people in every direction, every time the bus abruptly departed or stopped. Mercifully, I didn’t have far to go. Half way through the ride, a big guy who had been sitting nearby suddenly came to life. “Wow, this box looks really heavy.” Need we state the obvious?
“Yes it is.”
“If you want, you can put it on my lap. I’ll hold it for you.”
“Gee, thanks. I think I’ll be fine.”

Jung's Syncronicity

Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events which are causally unrelated occurring together in a supposedly meaningful manner which are unlikely to occur together by chance.

I had a dream. In my dream, there were two girls. I was one of them. We were in a small room, more like a closet, sitting on the floor, scared. In the distance, I could hear a little girl singing in a disturbing hollow voice while skipping her way towards us: “I know about food… I know about fear… I know about twins…” and as if in a horror movie, she grabbed the other girl with a swift hand and they both disappeared. I woke up screaming. I was confused and shaken. Was it my subconscious trying to tell me something? Or was it testing the ground, trying to find out if I was ready to know more about my past? Because the answer is no, I’m not. I am perfectly fine with oblivion now that I know the substance of it. But the dream really shook me up. Ready or not, I could feel that forces stronger than me were at work. Something was shifting.

A week earlier, the office had organized a fundraising event where used books were sold. Whatever was left at the end of the day was given to a charity. The day after I had the nightmare, my Superior and I were checking some inventories in a room where only the two of us had access. As we talked, I noticed a book which had been left on a table. I picked it up. It was an odd place for anyone to leave a book. I glanced at the title “My father’s house - a memoire of incest and healing”. How odd! All along my therapy, I referred to “My mother’s house” as the place where all hell broke loose, the similitude struck me. I took the book with me to my desk and then brought it home that night without further thinking about it. I threw it on a pile of books “to read”. In the evening, I kept glancing at it. Finally I picked it up and read the back cover: “Somewhere around the age of seven, Sylvia created a “twin” who shared her body while living a life apart from hers, with separate memories and experiences. For forty years, the existence of that twin and of the secret life she led while growing in her father’s house was unknown to the author.” Someone had circled the word “twin” with a dark pen, making it visible only at a certain angle. This really caught by surprise. I could feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. This was definitely a sign, too many coincidences to be random. That’s when I knew I was on the right track about the twins, about the dissociation, about healing.

I read the book diligently. The author was a Canadian woman. Her story was very similar to mine, so was her background. Her reactions were identical, and also her conclusions. I felt validated. I was not so different after all from all the people I had met in my life; only, I had just not met those who had suffered similar life experiences. My reactions had been normal, so was my self-ostracizing from the world. Now, all that was left for me to do was to learn how to interact on the same level as the others, those who apparently never suffered traumas.

Mine is a story of early loss – of innocence, of childhood, of love, of magic, of illusion. It was a hazardous life which began in guilt and self-hate, requiring me to learn self-forgiveness. My life was structured on the uncovering of a mystery. As a child I survived by forgetting. Later, the amnesia became a problem as large as the one it was meant to conceal.

Children who were in some ways abused, abuse others; victims become villains. Like Sleeping Beauty I was both cursed and bless at birth. I was given the poison and the antidote at the same time and by the same people. The well that poisoned me also provided me with the ability to resist that poison. I believe that it is not so much the calamity that we are subjected to which destroys the soul more, but the one we inflict upon others.

In early retrospect - early – since the healing process started only recently, I feel about my life the way some people feel about war. If you survive, then it becomes a good war. Danger makes you active, it makes you alert, it forces you to experience and thus to learn.

As Katherine Anne Porter once said during an interview, we spend all our lives preparing to be somebody and one day we find we have irrevocably become that person.

Healing - What a Process!

For almost forty years, I lived a split life. Somewhere inside my mind was another person who had the memory of all that I experienced as a child and the reasons behind most of my choices in life. To this day, she has only shared glimpses with me and those were quite disturbing. I may never recover these memories. It may not be necessary for me to recover them either. The fact that I know about them might be enough. I wouldn’t want to be haunted by the graphic nature or the emotional intensity of these memories, as I am certain, they would resurface with the same magnitude as I experienced them at the time. The fact that I cannot remember them, I learnt, is due to a phenomenon called dissociation.

Dissociation is a mental process that severs a connection to a person's thoughts, memories, feelings, actions, or sense of identity. Dissociation is a normal response to trauma, and allows the mind to distance itself from experiences that are too much for the psyche to process at that time. It occurs when unable to remove herself physically from the abuse; a creative child victim finds other ways to leave. Many incest survivors refer to this separation as "splitting", others as creating a “twin” who shares the same body while living a life of its own.

During my work with John, an image kept coming back to mind over and over again, the one of two small children holding hands. They were motionless, expressionless; they were no more than black pictograms, black holes devoid of depth. They were standing by the wardrobe door where I used to hide, in the basement of my mother’s house.

I felt like they were holding me back that I could not escape them and move on with my life. Yet, I felt terrible at the perspective of leaving them behind. I was stuck, but I needed to know. I could not figure out who they were and why there were two of them. Two children without identity, without real existence, silent and scared. That’s what I felt about them. I knew instinctively that there was something more, something hidden. This was not a random vision, they meant something. After much brainstorming, I came up with twice, as in twice as much, as in twice as scared. That was it! It was the explanation or so I thought at the time. I was on the right path though. I was so scared that I lost all substance. My fear was so terrible that it duplicated itself. I was so scared that I became completely paralyzed by fear. Sadly enough, all that was true. But what my mind was really telling me was that I was so scared that I became two distinct people with separate memories and experiences. And I understood that only the day I could join them up could I truly reclaim my life. Through much, much more work with John, the story slowly revealed itself and with it, the extent of the devastation and the amount of work ahead.

The obsession of a lifetime was drawing to a close though. My path of revelation was to be the path of dreams – dreams triggered by physical shock. After the events of my past finally resurfaced, I went through a year of extreme confusion. There was so much to understand and to absorb. I was on a constant emotional rollercoaster. I believe that many unexpected deaths occur when a person finishes one phase of life and must become a different sort of person to continue. And nothing or nobody ever dies without one last fight. I needed a chance to heal, to be free. I’ve earned that right. Forty years is long enough for the working out of any curse.

Fortunately, I could feel changes were coming my way, and coming fast.

The Risk

I was finishing an undergraduate certificate in public relations. Getting the exact courses I wanted was getting rather conflicting since I was also enrolled in a full time program at another institution. So I ended up in a class called - Introduction to Labor Relations - a subject for which I have no interest whatsoever. To make matters worst, the teacher was mortally boring. He would speak very, very slowly, enunciating every word in deep monotone without punctuation; it was like listening to one long senseless sentence without beginning or end. Worst still, he would stand absolutely motionless, reciting from memory the entire content of the manual without ever breathing or making eye contact. At first I attended diligently, then I started leaving after the first half and soon, I had much better things to do on Tuesday nights. I thought I’d be fine just reading the manual. Alas, the final exam caught me utterly unprepared.

The exam season has always been a very serious affair in that institution. The exams are held in the gym where hundreds of tables are lined up five feet apart. To avoid plagiarism each row writes a different exam. Therefore only the person sitting in front or behind me or two rows down is writing the same exam as mine. Two pens are allowed on the table. No matter what the circumstances, a student is not permitted to leave the table until 60 minutes have elapsed. It can be quite maddening to watch other people write and write and write, filling up pages when your own brain has frozen.

That’s what happened to me on that night. The exam paper was placed on the corner of my table waiting for the start buzzer. I was already hyperventilating by the time I turned the paper and realized that there was only one question: What is a risk? Eeeee? Eeeee!Eeeee… EeEeE... EEE@#@**@!!?

After 6o minutes, I got up, handed in my copy and left. The moment I stepped outside I puked in the snow bank by the gym door. I was pretty bummed out.

A week later, all the results were posted but mine. Next to my name was a note, the teacher wanted to see me. Doomsday! I was a nervous wreck by the time I reached his office. “Hello… you wanted to see me…?” He turned around and studied me for a while. “Ah! I was wondering who it was. Gutsy! I must admit, that was a hell of a risk! Here…” he handed me a copy of my exam paper. In the top right corner, in bright red felt pen: A+.

What is a risk? “This is a risk” had been my answer, followed by eight blank pages.

Diving in Open Water

Some years ago my grandmother passed away. She had done so at a respectable age, had said the mourners at the time. There was an important age difference between her and her children. Within a four year span, she had three babies to care for, at a time when menopause should have been her biggest concern. I imagine the generation gap must have brought a wide difference in expectations on the children. Although my mother always conformed to was what was expected of her, she was none-the-less a very resentful submissive.

Shortly after my grandmother’s passing and burial, my mother started emancipating. She attended classes, started travelling, she even considered the possibility of meeting someone new, without success. She assumed that in time, I would also yield to her and demonstrate obsequious deference like she had done to her own mother.

Years later, during a particularly tedious phone conversation, my mother declared that her mother’s death had been a blessing to her; a true deliverance, that on that day, her life had changed for the best. She was finally free to live her life without having to justify herself, without feeling judged, criticized or guilty. In fact, according to her, there was nothing more freeing, more liberating to a woman than the day her mother passes away.

“Well… I’ll be looking forward to it. Hopefully it will happen sooner rather than later.”

“That’s not at all what I meant. You are distorting everything I say. Why are you being so hurtful? You ungrateful girl, I have done nothing but love you since the day you were born,” she said.

As Shakespeare wisely said “Me thinks that the lady protests too much”. Anyhow, I suspect that she might be right and that perhaps the same applies to boys with their fathers. Fortunately, I won’t have to wait years for my turn to freedomhood, therapy has in great part, already freed me from this emotional burden.

The Pruning Shears

A few months ago, my father decided to find his ancestry, to build the family tree. At best of time, this endeavor would be fastidious and time consuming. In his case, the challenge is exponentially increased by the fact that my father was not only a bastard child who was later on adopted by his mother’s husband, but also by the mere fact that all but my father have already passed away, leaving very little information to start with. Fortunately, my father is very meticulous if not very patient.

Last week, my father called. He was thrilled by the progress of his work. He had managed to retrace both his biological and adopted father and their families, along with his mother, grandmother and so on all the way back to the native land.

Several had somewhat interesting deaths for lack of interesting lives. Most had married young, had large families. Many women had died in labor, many men at war. Poverty was everywhere. As my father pointed out, life was very hard back then.

All that was left for him to do was to put all the information he had gathered neatly on paper. He explained that starting with himself; he had built the tree by pairs of ancestors along with their children. As soon as the task would be completed, he would send me a copy. I could even, he had said, add my own name to it, if I wanted to…

The Other Girl

Last time I visited my parents was about three years ago. On that occasion my father’s girlfriend, Christine, decided that it was time for me to be brought up to date with my father’s friendships. What was the reasoning behind it, I cannot fathom. She had decided that I would meet them all on that day. My apparent lack of curiosity didn’t seem to deter. Kindly, she provided me with the come about of each friendship in great details. One of them was particularly odd. It was about Mark and Magda.

Mark, he had met on some ship, Magda was Mark’s wife. My father had met them years earlier, before they were married. Magda was about my age. As a child, she lived nearby my old boarding school. She never had a father but had adopted mine as hers. As a matter of fact, my father apparently gave her away on her wedding day. Even her two children considered him as their grandfather and call him so. How sweet! I recall my father mentioning his “grandchildren” during innocent conversations about birthdays and Christmases. As if it wasn’t enough, Christine was jubilant by the fact that we - Magda and I – were apparently absolutely identical in every aspect. We could be sisters. I was a little numb by the time we arrived at Mark and Magda’s home. We were sitting around the kitchen table drinking coffee. I was sitting directly in front of Magda. I was very quiet but she had much energy, she was chatty and bright, even funny. That we looked identical was an understatement. Not only could we have been sisters, we could have been twins, down to the same crooked front tooth, except reversed like looking at oneself into a mirror. When we left, she was thrilled to have met me at last, and wished for us to meet again. I was not.

Who was she really? Had I demonstrated more enthusiasm, what could have been the outcome of this meeting?

A Moment with Oracio - 2

Last Sunday was gloomy. The weather was capricious. It was a perfect day for domesticity and idleness. Clementine was slowly starting dinner; Oracio was taking a nap on the couch while distractedly watching the kids. They were sitting on the carpet playing with one of these annoying toys which make a sound every time a button is pushed. Suddenly the phone rang. It was an unknown caller. Nobody bothered answering it. And then it rang again, and again, generating the same disinterest. A few minutes later, a bulky policeman was standing in the window looking through the glass panel. Clementine almost cried in fright. Oracio promptly got up and answered the door expecting the worst.

“Someone has called 911. We tried to call you back but nobody answered. What’s going on here?”

“Huh…” Biiip. Slowly all eyes turned to Bango who was still chewing on the phone. As if on cue, he looked up and produced the most impish of all smiles.

Ground Control to You Captain

My dad has been obsessing for years about his last name. More recently he has spent hours on the phone with me voicing his frustration at having been given a name which he didn’t want. My father was born out of wedlock. In 1937 in a very religious Catholic town, being a bastard was not good. Twelve years later, my grandmother managed to secure herself a husband who was willing to adopt the bastard and give him a name, thus a chance in life. So far, it all seems rather straightforward. However, for some obscure reasons which he cannot himself quite explain, he feels diminished by this change of name which occurred over sixty years ago.

Before we go any further, let me remind you that only recently have I told my dad about the molestation I suffered as a child and since, he has been meticulously avoiding any mention of the subject. My desire is not to spend every conversation debating these matters but surely an acknowledgment would be in order.

Last week, my dad called. He was beside himself. He had been doing research on the family tree and the matter of the name keeps coming back to haunt him. He had apparently contacted whichever government agency responsible for name-change, and was appalled at discovering that should he be twelve years old today; his mother would not been able to change his name without his approval. He had been going at it rather hectically for about forty minutes by the time I finally lost patience.

“For heavens sake, are you a complete idiot? Who cares what name you have now? It is no big deal.” Of course, this outburst was not to go down well. You see, in spite of all appearances, my father’s love is highly conditional and volatile. One of the golden rules is to never, ever annoy him, in which case he would abandon you for however long, until he forgot about your misbehavior. But my days of begging for my parent’s love and approval are over. All I want is peace now.

“You don’t understand, today they would not be allowed to do it.”

“Put things into perspective. They probably did what they thought best for you at the time. You can’t compare the two periods. Children had no voice back then; life has changed in sixty years. You are no worst than all these women who had to change their names because they got married. Move on, there are more important issues to deal with in life.” My father is used to more understanding on my part. For a moment it took him aback, for a moment only.

“Have you any idea of the torment I suffer?” yelled my father. My blood curdled in my veins. I find my parents so utterly unreasonable and egotistic.

“Let me help you put things into perspective, dad. If I was starting school this year, you would all be in jail and I would be living in a foster home. Because if thirty years ago sexually molested children were unheard of, now-a-days the symptoms are pretty easy to recognize. You may have spent most of your time away from home, but it does take away your responsibility in this matter.” I was livid. “And just in case you can’t quit remember you selfish bastard, since then you have had two children who still bear than name. Does it not count for something?” It was obvious he was not expecting it and quickly changed subject.

How can these people be in any way related to me is a mystery. I am so tired of them all. I guess I may finally be ready to let go of them.

The Weight of Evil

Sometime last year, at the worst possible time of my life, a friend of mine e-mailed me the link to the website of a company where my brother works. My brother and I have rightfully lost touch years ago. Still, out of curiosity I checked it out. Why I did so I’ll never be able to explain, but somehow I’m glad I did it. Never-the-less it came as a bit of a shock, in part because there was a picture of him posted online. The sight of it really threw me off. Oh, his curriculum was the one of a successful man no doubt about that, but his picture told a completely different story. He looked like a loser. He looked like a man completely defeated by life. He was not only unsightly in every possible ways but what emanated from him was discomforting. He looked lonely and off. Not a happy person. Definitely someone who’s emotions has been trampled several times over.

I looked at the picture for the longest time. This was the face of my molester. A queasy feeling at the pit of my stomach sent my anxiety level fly off the chart. I guess I never realized that I was dealing with years of repressed memories rioting their way out of hiding.

After a while, I printed the picture and showed it around the office. I wanted unbiased opinion and since they were unaware of the blood connection, it was easy. Their impression was the same as mine.

I printed a picture of myself and placed it next to his. The difference was flagrant. We didn’t remotely look related. There was a gulf separating us. I looked a generation younger; there was a glow, vivacity, life, joy springing from mine while his was devoid of soul.

Both my brother and I were molested. I don’t know who hurt him; it’s not my story to care about. All I know is that he is the one who molested me. It affected every aspects of my life, shaping it in ways that I would not have otherwise chosen. Still, I carried my cross, often with difficulty, always with courage and integrity. It was not an easy task. There was much repression, but with me the molestation ended. With my brother, he became in turn the molester himself.

I believe that in retrospect, I was protected from the worst. I believe that it is not so much the calamity that we are subjected to which destroys the soul more, but the one we inflict upon others.

It Must Have Been Karma...

But it’s over now. Last weekend I was strolling along the beach, enjoying the fine weather when someone started waving in my peripheral vision and calling my name. It was him. I couldn’t suppress a rolling of the eyes.

“Oh! I knew that soon or later I would come face to face with you. Only I had hoped it would be much later.” He apparently didn’t grasp the contempt in my voice for he carried on all smiles and enthusiasm.

“How have you been? It’s so nice to see you, you look fabulous”

As fast as my mind works, I couldn’t come up with an insult based on so little information “Hum… thanks.”

“Do you have five minutes so we could sit down and chat?”

“Not really. Five minutes is asking much from me.”

“Please…” Sigh.

“What the heck.” We walked to a log on the beach. I sat a good yard away from him. At once he started creeping into my personal space, missing the point entirely.

“I just wanted to tell you how much I miss you and how fabulous it was to have you in my life. It could have been so different, could still? I have such fond memories of you, of us. You’re an amazing woman.”

“We are so utterly disparate once again. Unfortunately, my last impression of you is one of a man without principle, a liar and a cheat.”

“You don’t understand. Things are different now, I’m different, I’ve changed.”

“Really. Let me guess… you realized how stupid you were with me and you’ll never do it again.”

“I said I was sorry. Doesn’t it count for something?”

“No.” Although he tried hard to control himself, he lost patience, got up, wished me all the best, and left. I’ll tell you that, he’s got a way about swift leaves…

I doubt I’ll hear from him again, there is something terribly wounding about looking into the sunglasses of a loved one and see but your own begging eyes looking back at you.

A Moment with Oracio

Oracio is a dear friend of mine. At the outset, he appears to be a slightly aloof and distant personage who imposes respect. But he is also gifted with limitless wit and intelligence. Therefore, it is with delight that I watch him deal with the many surprises life threw at him: children.

Last Christmas, Oracio had a nasty car accident. No one was injured but the car was beyond repair. It was in many ways a blessing. It had become quite an ordeal to load two children in a two-door sports car. Resigned to upgrade from bachelor wheels to a proper family car, Oracio went shopping. When he finally set his mind to a particular make and model, came time to choose the color and sign the contact. Before leaving for the dealership, Oracio kissed his two-year old daughter for good luck; the previous car had been a lemon.

“Daddy is going to buy a new car today. What color should daddy buy it?”

“Yellow?”

“Hum. Well. I’ll see what I can do.” Yellow? Hardly part of his regular color palette.

“And what color would you like it to be?” asked the salesman, “With the options you chose, there are two cars readily available, a black one and a light grey/sage with a tint of goldish yellow…”

I never thought Oracio would look so distinguished in a yellow car…

The Apple

A few weeks ago, I was talking on the phone with my dad. He was telling me how disappointed he was that my brother and I both live so far away from home. Little does he know that home is precisely where I live but of course, he meant by that to live in the same city as my parents. He could not understand why both his children had chosen to move far away and keep contact to a bare minimum, if at all.

How he could even remotely be surprised by such a fact is beyond me. Are we not invariably similar to our parents? Don’t they say that the apple never falls far from the tree? I mean we got our family values from them.

As a child, I understood that my dad had to work, and that his work took him away from home. Still, he was not home. Sporadically he would spent a few days with us, but most of the time, he was away. To us, he was doing something, somewhere, with other people whom we didn’t know. My dad certainly had both advantages and disadvantages in this situation. He could only call home when he reached a port, but then again, much depended on the time of day, on his workload or mental disposition at the time. I don’t believe for a moment that my father ever forced himself upon calling us when he was tired, irritated, in a bad mood or in great need of sleep or further time off for himself. He chose the periods of interactions between us all depending on his own needs. I remember times when my mother would wake us up in the middle of the night because my dad wanted to say hello to us. Was it really for our own good? Doubtful. When my father was home, there was the discomfort of having a clumsy and irritable – stranger – giving orders and making new rules, which added confusion to our already miserable lives. When he would come home, he’d be bringing bags of toys and goodies and later on money, becoming an instant favorite to my mother’s great damn, and as we were slowly adjusting to his presence, he would leave again.

So what did my father instill in us? That nothing last more than a few days? That unless it is fun, fun, fun, there is no point in doing it? That continuity is but an abstract concept? That love is something you must earn? That a family is these people you think about but never get to spend real time with? That when love and affection comes your way, you’d better be in a good mood or the connection might get cut off? Or simply that it’s still easier to stay on the outside and avoid being hurt altogether? I wonder how he expected us/me to be so utterly different from him? Because he is getting older and he would like to be surrounded by his loved ones, not to be left to feel so alone? I know the feeling.

My mother on the other hand, was a paranoid narcissist with a deep inferiority complex. She did what her duty required by getting married and having children but she resented the world for it. In her mind, everything rotated around her, everything was about her, and you were either on her side or against her. If you were deemed to be on the wrong side, you were never to be forgiven. Her memory to this day is perfect and perfectly adaptable to her needs. I can spend fifteen minutes on the phone with her and be reminded of every ones of my failing moments. She has innocence in her scorn and disdain. It always takes a few seconds to realize the full atrocity of her speech. She lives in a world of appearances. As long as we looked normal and acted accordingly, the rest mattered not. That her children may be emotionally crippled, that her husband may be totally disengaged, that her family be but a farce had nothing to do with her. She was so utterly terrified at the idea that others might have to come first from time to time, that when my parents divorced, she refused alimony; she could not bare the thought of having to spend that money on us. Instead, we were left to deal directly with my father who, of course, was never nearby when we needed him. There was simply no room for us. Not in her life, not in her heart, not in her house. A few years ago, my mother started complaining of solitude. She felt neglected by her ungrateful children, we had responsibilities towards her and she demanded we moved nearby to fulfill them. As you can imagine, it is downright out of the question. After several months of gentle persuasion, she eventually got a cat. She went to a local shelter and took an older one whose previous owner had recently passed away. She kept it almost three weeks and brought it back. She was berserk. The cat had the unfortunate misconception that it was all right to roam around the house. Freewill had been that poor cat’s downfall. A few months later, I went to visit her. She had bought a stuffed cat. It sat motionless on a designated chair. She even bought a stuffed child which was standing against a wall; back facing her and rubbing its eyes as if it had cried. She felt surrounded, she was contented.

As you can imagine, my mother’s legacy was no more glorious than my father’s. The mere fact that we made it both alive is a miracle in itself. That we chose to never have anything to do with one another, quite predictable. How could my parents believe for a moment that they could sow emotional aloofness, neglect, indifference and think that when the time comes, they would harvest love and affection?

Sadly enough, we all have to live with the choices we made.

The Flu

Although last week it seemed as though I was brought to my knees by a perfectly banal migraine, it turned out it was rather the peak of a full blown flu. Since I have gone through all the hellish symptoms from fatigue, muscle pain, dry eyes, nausea, fever, to a vicious stomach flu, which, oddly enough, reminds me of my last Mexican holidays, but that’s another story. Still, the point here was not to gross you out, but to advise as to the reason for my prolong silence. The simple act of looking at the computer screen sends me rushing; wobbling really, towards the bathroom, in a fun game of hit and miss.

So bare with me and I’ll make another attempt at connecting in a few days.

The Migraine

For most women, the twenty-eight-day cycle involves, amongst other, an episode of PMS. For me, it’s migraines. Although I will not go as fare as to pretend that the former does not affect me, I will say for sure that if it does, it goes unnoticed in the torment caused by the latter.

Yesterday was one of those days. I am at work and there is no way I can go home. Suddenly a pain rip my head like a sharp letter opener through a tin envelop. Oh shit, a migraine! An aura of jagged light appears to the left of my peripheral vision. It’s going to be a nasty one. In no time, my field of vision has shrunk to the size of a pencil, everything becomes blurred, my computer screen glares at me; it feels like pin needles in the eyes. I feel nauseous. My head pounds to the rhythm of “We Will Rock You”. The lyrics cycle with each surge of blood in my temples. I try to massage them where the pain seesaws, a vain attempt at bringing them back to health. I feel my shoulders slouch and my mouth open like a panting dog. The noise around the office increases exponentially by the minute, my neck is getting stiff, I can barely move my head, not that I would even if I could, my lower back is starting to hurt and a film of cold sweat is forming between my shoulder blades. By then, I know I have about five minutes left in me. I get off my chair and sway towards the bathroom until something scorched right through my stomach and then, I break into a race. I get to the bathroom and threw up. Usually I feel much better after that, not this time. I get a bottle of cold water from the distributing machine and put it against my forehead. Swallowing hurts. I look like a sleepwalker, there is only one hour left before I go home. Obviously no more work will get done today. I sit down at my desk and watch the minute hand go around the clock.

When I got home, I fell into a blackout, the unendurable crest of pain, the electrical sawing, buzzing, drilling pain that must come from my neighbor’s apartment, as it would be impossible for the mere cranium to erupt with such force, impossible, alas true. For an hour or two, I laid on my bed without opening my eyes to the pain of the street light, unable to get up and close the blinds or kick my shoes off. Exhausted, I eventually lost myself to sleep.

This morning I called in sick.

Manmade Misery

The other day I was at Old Navy. I had found a bunch of fun clothes for Billy, Marco’s daughter, my elected niece. I was in the line up, waiting for a cashier to free up. Nearest to me, there was a woman who had been monopolizing the cashier for what it seemed like forever. Out of curiosity, I started listening in on their exchange. Her purchase amounted to something like $42.50. It turned out that the process was taking a long time because of insufficient funds on her credit card. It is so humiliating when that happens. The one time it happened to me, I ran out the store, mortified. But it wasn’t the case here; the young woman wasn’t the least fazed by it. Actually, after her card was denied, she produced another one, and another one, and another one until finally one got approved. She must have gone through fifteen credit cards. In her hands, she literally had a deck of credit cards ready to be tested for funds. I was stunned. Can you imagine the burden, not to mention the anguish she must be facing every month when the statements start coming in. Then again…

The Neighbour

I live in one of those charming older apartment buildings where the suites are bigger than in the newer ones, brighter, sunnier and have nice hardwood floors. Of course, it also means that the walls are paper thin and badly isolated. Fortunately, for the most part, the people living in the building are very quiet, all except my next door neighbour, Sandy.

Her apartment is adjacent to mine. We share a common wall which separates my bedroom from her living room. To minimize the impact, I positioned the head of my bed against the opposite wall. Never-the-less, she is loud. When I say loud, I mean earsplitting loud. She has no concept of what it entails to live in an apartment building and no consideration for others what-so-ever. Recently she started working from home; therefore, precluding us from any possible relief, save perhaps for the fact that she travels quite often. Everything about her is loud. She has a shrilling voice; she speaks loud, walks heavy, slams doors and blasts her stereo system to the max.

As of late, she switched her answering machine for a voice mail. Until them, I could have written down for her the name and phone number of every callers. I know more about her life than I do about my own friends. I can tell by the pattern of noise she makes, whether she has just met someone new or just been dumped. She doesn’t seem to realize that the noise in the building reverberates in every suite.

To make matter worse, Sandy is also sexually – enthusiastic -, but far from monogamic. Her performances would make Harry believe that Sally wasn’t all that good an actress after all. Sandy is the real deal, the triple x kind of vocal deal.

Worst still is her TV which is connected to a surround sound system. When she switches it on, the walls vibrate. Sometimes I can’t even hear my own TV, two rooms away. Over the years I have tried leaving gentle notes on her door asking for her to move it away from the wall, perhaps even consider lowering the volume, to no avail. I have tried knocking on the door, but she can’t hear it. Eventually I resorted to banging on the wall with both fists, sometimes screaming at the top of my lungs. It sounds rather uncivilized but it works, at least temporarily.

By nature, I am a sound sleeper. The moment my head touches the pillow, I am asleep. So I try to ignore the noise she makes for as long as I can and then I usually pass out. After all, one must choose carefully one’s battles.

Last Wednesday night though, she woke me up. Nothing ever wakes me up but she did. I looked at the clock, it was well passed midnight. I was fuming. I had to work in the morning. I got up and banged on the wall with all the fury I could muster. The music went down right away but she had visitors, so she probably felt compelled to demonstrate some indignation. I heard her shrilling voice through the wall: But I am never here! I am never here! Someone must have told her it was getting pretty late for a week night because she shut up right away. She seemed to assume that we are all allowed a certain amount of annoyance days and because she is never home, she could make them all happen at once.

Last night she knocked at my door while I was cooking dinner. I knew it was here. I was hoping for a confrontation. I had so much on my mind that I wanted to share with her. I opened the door; she was standing there, silent. She stretched to look over my shoulder, and pointed at the TV which was playing in the background.

“You watch TV too!” She exclaimed as though I had ever pretended otherwise.

“Well yes, but you can’t hear it from your place.”

“Well… it’s only because the volume is low…”

I looked at her and smiled. Mona Lisa would have been proud. “Gee… are you always that smart?”

She looked at me slightly puzzled. An awkward silence followed. It seems she was expecting me to say something. I was too hungry to think it through. I stepped back, closed the door very slowly and went back to my dinner.

I have the feeling I am not done yet banging on the wall. Worst still, I have the distinct impression that she has no idea why I do it in the first place.

Previously Enjoyed

I love reading and I read a lot. My choices are rather eclectic as my curiosity is limitless. Given the fact that the local bookstores tend to keep only very recent publications, I usually order online and often I have taken advantage of the used book section. It is always a gamble though if you really care about the condition of the book. I don’t. I hate when a book smells old or dusty, but apart from that, I like a book which has previously been enjoyed. It holds a reassuring element to it: at least one other person has taken the time to buy it, if not to read it. I also like to see what other people do to their books. I am the worst person you should lend a book to, unless you have no intention of getting it back. The first thing I do is break the spine. I also fold pages to mark my place, write on the pages and underline interesting passages.

Some time ago, I ordered a few used books. Two of them arrive at almost the same time with little extras. I was thrilled. The first one was a memoir from Isabel Allende. She has always been amongst my favorites, especially for her earlier work which colored my teenage with romantic political chaos.

As soon as I leafed through the pages of her book, I found a ticket for a concert featuring David Gray playing at Aggams Arena at Boston University on Saturday, October 8, 2005 at 7:30 pm. It was a pretty good ticket too, closest to the performing area, lower level, section 102, G row, seat 22. It was worth $40.00, the second most expensive seat section that night. The ticket had not been used. The stubs were still attached. I wonder why she had not attended. How did the ticket end up in the book? Was it hers? Who was she? What better plans did she have that Saturday night?

The second book was by Douglas Kennedy. A tale set amidst the optimism of postwar New York and the subsequent nightmare of the McCarthy witch-hunts. When I reached page 469, I found a thin and crisp visa receipt for the exact sum of $40.00. It was dated April 26, 2003. I wonder what one may purchase for that exact amount. The purchase had been made at Ace Hardware on West 4th Avenue in Ainsworth Nebraska. Her card had expired three years earlier. Her name was Patricia. As I read the book, I often wondered what Patricia had thought of it. Although American, Kennedy is not even published in the States, how did she discover the author, had she traveled to England?

I love these little trifles which trigger my imagination. They have the same effect on me as flying saucers on others: they are a proof that there are others out there, people living and dreaming and sometimes unbeknownst to them, sharing a piece of themselves with me.

The Status Quo

It has been more than a week now since I have told my dad about my being molested as a child. I have yet to hear from him again. I imagine that it might have been rather astounding news to him. It was for me, but then again, I was the victim at the time. There is little doubt that he must be reconsidering his role as a father and his shortcoming as a protector, however unintentional.

It is hard to deal with that sort of things at seventy. He is part of a generation who didn’t talk about these matters. Let alone consider that they could happen right under his nose, unnoticed. There must be a tremendous amount of guilt involved unless, that is, he really didn’t want to know what was going at home in his absence. But I am inclined to believe that he wouldn’t have let something like that happen or persist. My dad may be quite imperfect, often inadequate, miscalculated in his reactions, but he is not a coward or unjust. He was very loving in his awkward ways.

My dad was away from home most of the time. He worked hard to provide a good life for his family. His main fault was to believe that my mother was doing just the same. Little did he know that it was not the case. And my mother would certainly not be the one telling him. She probably believed that she was a good mother, that she was doing the best she could, and in some ways, she was. She just was not cut out to be a parent. She could never make abstraction of herself to the profit of others, and she never did. As a result, my dad was kept in the dark about almost anything concerning the family. He is just starting to realize that every time my brother or I complained about my mother, that perhaps there was indeed something really wrong going on.

Years ago my dad had read and cut out an article from a magazine which he carried carefully folded in his wallet until recently. He may still, I don’t know. And now would not be the right time to ask him about it. Anyhow, this article was written by a man talking about his children. He was stating something to the effect that his children had never asked to be born; therefore it was his responsibility as a parent to care for them until they no longer needed him, no matter how ungrateful the children were. It had made a tremendous impression on my dad. It may seem rather trivial right now, but it was as if someone had helped him justify the difficult career choices he had made in life. That clipping became almost sacred and he would pull it out and read it for himself or others quite often. The last time I saw it, ages ago; it was all yellow and torn.

Still, I cannot help but doubt his next move. He asked me several times during our last conversation why I had not told him, back then when it was happening. Clearly, should I have been able to do so, I would have. Realistically however, nobody would have ever believed a four-year old child with an overactive imagination, describing the most horrific sexual depravations. Although… My mother would have killed the conversation with a few nasty words as she often did. There would have been no room for discussion. She would have declared me fallacious, desperate for attention, and jealous of my brother. Worst still, no matter how superb an ally my dad was, the truth be told, he was never home long enough to make a real difference. Soon I would have been left on my own with my mother and my brother and their vengeance. And ultimately what would have happened to me if I had told him and he had not believed me? Was I not better off dreaming of his support than facing heart breaking deception?

I guess the real test is happening right now. Is my dad going to believe his forty years old daughter or will he assume that I have no other ambition than ruining my brother’s reputation? A lot will depend on his partner’s reaction, since there is little doubt that he will eventually share it with her, if he has not already done so. Will she be judgmental like my mother would be or magnanimous?

As you can imagine I have been trained early on to expect the very least from my family. Today is no exception. But it would feel real good to be wrong.

The Secret

Yesterday, I told my dad.

We were on the phone, talking. He spoke about my brother and how much he resented his silence. He could not understand. I told him that it didn’t matter; he had to respect his choice. Still. We were silent for a long time it seems. Perhaps lost in thoughts. Then I heard it, a sob, a deep sob, almost a groan, the groan of a small animal in excruciating pain. It scared me. It scared me because it was me making that noise. My dad listened. I was gasping for air. Oooh dad, if only you knew. Tell me he said. I was crying. Dad, I was molested when I was four years old. I was molested by my brother. I heard my dad cry. It was the first time I ever heard him cry. Why didn’t you tell me, I would have protected you. Oooh God… His voice broke. Why didn’t you tell me? I listened to him cry for a while. I told him everything. He listened. He didn’t doubt me. He didn’t think I was crazy. I needed to know. How come my brother knew about these things? Unless he was really sick, someone had done it to him. Was it him? There was another long silence only broken by my dad’s sobs. All that time I knew something was wrong. Your brother was molested but not by me, it was that guy who coached him baseball. One year he came home dressed as Santa Claus. He had kissed your brother on the lips in exchange for his gift. It shocked me. During all these years, I have never been able to shove away that picture from my mind. We cried together for a while. I’ve wasted my whole fucking life working on boats, away from my family, always by myself. I’ve sacrificed everything because I wanted to make sure you had a good life, that you needed for nothing, and during all that time, you were hurting, all of you. Why? I only wanted what was best for you. I wanted to give you all that I never had. We never had any money, but my parents loved me. What a waste. I’ve lost my family for nothing. Don’t ever doubt that I love you. If I would have known, I would have killed him. I wish you weren’t that far away. We cried for a little while longer.

Dad… I always knew you loved me.

The Answers

There is something absolutely exhilarating about therapy. Whenever I come back from a session with John, I feel as though I am levitating. Everything is a little clearer. I have always felt that way, even in the beginning when things were a little heavier, when there was much more to sort out. The amazing thing about it is: the answers. There is an explanation for almost everything, usually a simple one. One that would have eluded me because of where I come from. All of a sudden, things make sense and when they do, it is much easier to move on. Eventually, there comes a time when you realize that you’re not that – crazy - anymore. Then the therapy becomes more about polishing the corners than rewriting the past.

There is also the fact that this person has known you from the worst on. That person is on your side. He wants you to reach your full potential and he will cheer for you when you achieve it. If for no other reason than the gratification it provides him for having done a darn good job with you.

I was discussing my powerlessness towards the novel with John. He helped me realize that one of the reasons I had not been able to write a word thus far, was because it went from being an amazing project to being a job. I didn’t have to impose myself a strict regiment as to when and how many words should be written in a particular time frame. It took away the joy and the pleasure of the action. But it also became potential for failure. Because every time I failed to write the required amount of words, I felt like I was failing my project. And nobody wants to feel like a loser. And the guilt generated prevented me from even writing on my blog. Ultimately, I stopped writing altogether while all I ever wanted was actually to write more.

The moment I understood that, I started writing again.

I read recently a book introduction by a famous Afro-American writer who said that from the time she was a little girl she felt a stranger in her family and her hometown. She added that nearly all writers have experienced that feeling, even if they had never left their native city. It’s was a condition inherent in that profession, she suggested, without the anxiety of feeling different, she wouldn’t have been driven to write. Writing, when all is said and done, is an attempt to understand one’s own circumstances and to clarify the confusion of existence, including insecurities that do not torment normal people, only chronic nonconformists, many of whom end up as writers after having fallen in other undertakings. This theory lifted a burden from my shoulders. I am a misfit; and it seems that there are others like me out there. I have never fit in anywhere. Not in my family, not in my hometown, and worst of all, not in my own culture.

And although my childhood was but a formidable mass of misery and complexes so tangled and perverted that even today I can’t quite understand them all, even with John’s help, it appears that there aren’t too many wounds left that time won’t be able to heal, time and a bit of help.

So if chronic nonconformity is the key to a great writing career, I guess I am still in the running for this Pulitzer Price after all.

The Evil Eye

There is this new girl at the office who started working with us perhaps six months ago. Although her debut seemed promising, she turned out to be a complete disappointment. We had hoped for another bright, pleasant, hard working person, who require next to no supervision. We got the complete opposite. Worst still, her attitude was such that no matter what you’d say to her, or how you’d say it, she would systematically remain mute while looking through you as if you weren’t there. There were no “good morning to you”, no question asked, no reply provided, she simply did not utter a word.

It didn’t take long for our interest to fade away and a certain frustration to surface. As a result, most of her work was divided amongst people who preferred still to work harder than waste time training and retraining her. Because no matter how much effort and patience was applied, she could not remember from day to day what she had been explained. The tension escalated even more as she seemed perfectly comfortable doing the bare minimum while we struggled along.

Of course, we all shared part of the responsibility in this fiasco. There was obviously something we had collectively done wrong to make her feel so inadequate and so un-welcomed. My office is not a bad place generally, but I guess we are used to more assertive people. Let’s just say this was not a period of glory we should be proud of.

Still, it was obvious she was miserable, and this alone was enough to make us all miserable as well. But we didn’t know what else to do without feedback on her part. So we did nothing. We watched the situation deteriorate more and more every day, waiting for her evaluation period to end so that we could all be put out of our misery.

That is, until the day she brought to the office an amulet against the – Evil Eye -. The message was as clear as could be and a formidable sense of shame dawned on all of us. Yet, soon after, changes started to occur. Things became smoother. She opened up, we opened up and even though we were all very careful, a sense of camaraderie slowly emerged.

One night not too long ago, we rode the elevator together. Out of the blue she mentioned her amulet and the fact that the bad vibes had dissipated, that she finally felt good in the office. She was happy that – it – worked, but then again, from the moment she had put it on the wall, she knew things would get better.

“You know, it works both ways” I replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you were convinced that things would change, it made you feel safe, you behaved differently, and you started smiling to people. So people responded to you differently. Perhaps you were your own – evil – all along?”

We reached the ground floor, the elevator’s doors opened and I left. She looked stunned. It had never occurred to her that she might have been partly responsible for her misfortune.

Writer's Block

For those of you who have read my previous postings, you know that on New Year’s Eve, I resolved to start the writing of a novel. Needless to say, it is an exciting project to me, I think about it night and day. Everything is going fine, save perhaps for the fact that I have not yet be able to write down a word. My mind goes blank. As a result, not only do I not feel like an amazing writer in the making, but I feel like a complete disappointment. And each day that goes by without my typing out a few words on the screen, stresses me further. My unexpected fizzle is now encroaching upon my self-confidence. I need your help before I start doubting my ability to write altogether.

How do I get pass that stage?