A Semblance of Safety and Ease

In spite of the big brouhaha in my office, I find myself distracted by other, more mournful, things. I've been pondering the way my life has unravelled for me these 53 years. There are at least a couple of issues that keep leading my thoughts back to the past, distant and near. I'm tired and, at some point along the way, I began to get sad when I'm tired. Maybe it's the onslaught of breast cancer treatment. Maybe it's just that the years are wearing me down a bit. I'm also anxious. Whenever I have to go to Houston, I get apprehensive and a little nauseated the week before my appointment. The fact that I recognize it means it's mighty big anxiety; because of my history, anxiety and worry feel normal to me. Other people have to point out to me that my voice or body language betray my state of mind. Finally, I've been editing old entries. Many of them deal with my difficult childhood which led to my troubled youth. Looking back carefully is never easy.

Lately when someone mentions an old movie or an old song, I remember how deeply I tried to crawl into any semblance of safety and ease I could find there. One of my annual rituals was watching "The Wizard of Oz." When I was a little girl, I could block out all of the violence and terror and dread while I accompanied the Cowardly Lion (my favorite character) along the Yellow Brick Road. I could never understand why Dorothy wanted to go back. "There's no place like home" didn't have a positive meaning to me.

There were a whole collection of movies--White Christmas, Abbott and Costello movies, The Thin Man series and television programs--I Love Lucy, The Dick Van Dyke Show. I wasn't particularly discriminating. I had no vision of what sanity looked like and yet I hoped to find it someday. I thought maybe those diversions could be real, that my own life could be sophisticated, carefree and gentle. I thought maybe my life could someday be a place where I could just take a deep breath and settle onto a comfy sofa without the constant stress of threats, two families living under one roof, of violence and uncertainty. How could I have imagined that which I had never really experienced myself? I dreamed as I entered those make-believe worlds.

I read other people's posts and rediscover that my life resembles no one elses I've ever known. On some level, I always keep it a bit of a secret from myself that my childhood never really existed. My parents said many times that I was born an adult. My dad marvelled at the fact that I was able, at two, to answer questions like an adult. (Of course, my dad was never a very good judge of what constituted adult behavior.) My mom, to this day, comments with some puzzlement, that, even though she tried her best, she was unable to help me fit into the role of being a normal child.

It sometimes makes me a little angry that she still can't see that my survival depended on being able to successfully juggle various realities at a very young age. I had to find my way through school days without betraying just how distracting my home life was. It was imperative to perform well and fit in; it was my only escape. At home, disappearing seemed to be safest, but entirely unattainable. It was a very dangerous thing to misunderstand whose priorities came first. My dad was the child; we were there to serve him. Sometimes I'm a little jealous of my mom's reminiscences. I don't have any memories of innocence.

I continue to take some pride in the fact that no one can see what I've survived. The only hint is a small hesitation when people talk about their childhoods and ask about my own. I pause while I scramble to find the appropriate response. I don't lie, but I don't tell the truth, either. I've shared parts of my past with therapists and a couple of friends. Their responses lead me to believe the truth may be too much to bear. It may be confusing to people who have always only seen the cheerful adult they know. I don't see much good that can come of either of those possibilities.

I'm still trying to sort it out alone. I struggle to find meaning out of all of that chaos and all of the nightmares to follow, my father's suicide and my own battle with cancer. I can't find any. I may never understand why my path has been so formidable. I discourage the tendency to feel sorry for myself, but I have the courage to look back with sadness. After all, I do have the luxury of a comfy sofa and some time to take a deep breath.