looking at/in the mirror of my past

It is pretty eerie and slightly odd to look at how the past is repeating .. how I am once again thinking and saying pretty much the same things ... wanting to write about the same experiences that haunt me ...trying to make sense of how I am and who I am. I would like to say I didn't see things as clearly then as now, but the writing says otherwise...

The first part of the June 28, 2008 entry could have been written today.

06-28-08 10:04 am - part 1 of 3

Maybe I am going a little bit crazy. Or maybe I am just finding my way out. My way to seize onto hope once again and to live a bit longer until the next time I am back to here. Maybe I can keep finding hope until it’s a good time to die—a bit older, having met and loved grandchildren, left sometime worthwhile behind again.

So I am imagining that I learn how to write more eloquently the nightmares of my past, that I find the voice to speak the words to tell them of their impact, how their footprints have weighed into my soul.

But those whom I remember and value won’t just be my children, my brothers, my parents, the friends I’ve loved, the people I have liked and enjoyed, those who have loved me or even just liked me a bit, they will also be the strangers in the news, people who die never having been known, children who are innocent, characters in imaginary stories told by other people whom I come to know through TV — who in a real way give me pieces of hope I can string together to live one more moment over and over again.

Maybe I am a bit crazy. But I feel more known by these storybook people than anyone, maybe even me.

So I imagine that I find the way to accomplish the impossible, to clean out my home, to rid myself of all the extraneous, to step into the light. I write it in my poetry, in my stories, in my memories and who is to say what is real.

The second part was a letter I wanted to write to my brother Raimond:

06-28-08 10:04 am - part 2 of 3

My letter to my oldest brother Raimond:

The piece I have been avoiding is how I came to see myself above my bed, floating, looking down on you flattened and pressed against me, pinning my arms to either side while I strained uselessly to free myself. (Even then when I slipped a hand out then the other you grab it out pinning them over my head. I said you tried to kiss me and I stretched my head and neck away to avoid you. But what I forgot even after I remembered was that I pressed my lips tightly, and I clenched my teeth together to keep your tongue out of my mouth. And it still appalls me that that happened. And I still cannot see past the blinding panic to where you backed off and I found myself pressed up against my bed’s headboard with my knees wrapped by my arms held tightly to my chest, while you spoke to me, trying to calm me down, to assure me, while I stayed as still as possible so you would not change your mind until you finally left. I also leave out the tickling. Your useless attempt to engage me into an agreement to let you touch me. I always said no. What I don’t know and may never know is what happened in that blinding panic that led you to let me go. And I have no idea how long it took. You pretended to like me and I really wanted that from my oldest brother who always teased me and criticized me and called me names. I wanted it to be real that you liked being with me.

I have wanted it to be true all my life – that certain people to want me in their life as I am for who I am and it is never true. Maybe because I don’t find the right people, or maybe because no such person exists for me. Maybe because I am broken. Maybe cause I always was.

Anyway I look at it, you have left your footprint in me and I can’t seem to erase it or fill it in. I cannot seem to make it not matter anymore.

I forgive the child you were who had no idea of the consequences. And I disrespect the adult you are that is still as selfish and as insensitive as you ever were. I know this because of that Christmas where you put it to our parents to choose you or me, unfairly. And even though you backed down because Rich intervened, they did choose and they chose you. And that $1000 they gave me that Christmas did not make it otherwise, though I know in my heart my mother tried to balance the books. She wanted to, because she wants to be fair, but you cannot balance infinity. You can’t change preferring one child more than the other, no matter how much you try to hide it, when the truth is that you have a preference. Maybe preference is the wrong word. When you wish your child were different, you negate who they are. Maybe, my burden is that I cannot avoid seeing it.

I see your actions that Christmas as taking back the power you thought you had lost when you were out-ed. You were afraid and you, true to your character, a bully. And when you felt in control you relented.

What is most disturbing about you is that you seem to have no remorse for your actions as a child. You want this story hidden forever. The one promise I will make you is that it will be told. One day your children or maybe your grandchildren will know.

Everyone condemns me for being the ostrich, for hiding my head in the sand. How else could I have survived, You all taught me (through surviving you) how to see the best elements in people, to bring them into the light, to appreciate them. You also taught me how to see the negative and then discount it, render it irrelevant, regardless of the accuracy of that. So chose my husband unwisely. I choose to stay connected with my family, unwisely. I choose friends unwisely. I love unwisely. I hide from the world to be safe and yet I cannot thrive and remain isolated.

That’s what I would tell Raimond.

The final part of this entry addresses the true state of mind I had and have. I feel guilty that I understated the generosity of Phil. We are extremely different people and yet we are family. I remember him as a child and how he was always treated more harshly and critically than his sister. My heart went out to him then. When as young adult he needed help, I offered my home to him, helped him clean up his apartment and move in. No one in his or my family understood. They thought I was weird to help him, and that there was something wrong about it. They were wrong and both Phil and I knew that. I offered him a haven because I could and because it mattered and made a difference to him. Eventually, he moved on and went into the Navy. I feel blessed to have been able to be a part of a good thing for him that made a difference in his life. I feel more blessed by his life-long friendship. I cannot overstate his generosity to me. He allows me to talk freely and I tell him and anything and everything. He tolerates listening to me which can be a real burden at times as I go on and on (and repeat stuff over and over). He visited me more than anyone, even my children (once they left for college). He spent days at a time helping me. It never seems like enough ... because what is enough is way more than anyone could offer.  He has bought food. helped me with wood, all sorts of stuff. It is inaccurate to say I want more as a reprimand for his not having done more and I don't mean it that way ... I may have momentary weaknesses where I feel that about him but it is not accurate or fair. Yes I want more... I will always want more. It is not his short coming for offering what he does, but rather mine for what I need/want -- always more. The fact is that he has been way more generous than anyone who loves me is or would ever imagine being... and what he does has such a significant impact. To say I value and appreciate him in my life is so inadequate to how I feel and to the impact his generosity, friendship and love has means to me ... I have been blessed to have blessed and lucky to have had him as a relative in my life.

06-28-08 10:04 am - part 3 of 3

All I see is hopelessness, because humanity is corrupt and hopeless. There is real evil in the disregard for other people’s lives. In Zimbabwe, there are scores of people beaten and killed and for what? For the continuation of power and wealth, for those handfuls of people who would rather not let go.

When I was listening to accounts of George Carlin’s humor, I could not help but see that he saw what I see, and I wondered how he survived. Then I heard him explain in an interview that he had a great deal of personal optimism and hope. Unlike me, he found his way to latch onto a way to make his way through life. Like me, he remembered fondly his connection and fondness for his Catholic upbringing That made sense. It is not the truth about people that crushes me, it is my inability to self-sustain.

Childhood carved that out of me. I fought really hard and when I was eleven I won that race, I was healthy, lean, and fit. And then Raimond molested me. I may have looked really good at times, but I was on the edge trying my best to overcome how I was, I have always been on the edge, and as I approach success, it becomes all the more evident. I don’t have the means to survive in this world the way I am. I am unsure that I can ever self-sustain.

So where’s my hope today? It’s on the impossible, that I can win over my ADHD and actually clean out my house, that I can write these stories and that it will matter. Poetry. Fantasies, like Ellen.

And of course, there tends to be some evidence of success and the ability to believe grows – after all, I can never know for sure. The odds my parents will make another gesture to help me hobble along gets more likely, the greater the need.

All of my family wants to wash their hands of me. Phil bets on state aid making the difference. He knows he could offer me one weekend a month for 3 or 4 months and that would make the difference now. He knows setting up a checking account and the means for me to sell my stuff would help me move forward. A moment of reprieve.

I understand why he cannot say yes to these simple gestures. They tie him to the inevitability of my failure (as though he might be responsible when he actually wouldn’t be). How could he ever be to blame. He actions show me more consistent kindness than anyone else. He gives me the one thing that brings me frivolous joy –TV, by paying for my Direct TV. He knows more about me than most and still cares. Unsure about Deedee. Can’t say that about the Fritzes nor Oliver, not my family. Unsure about my children.

In truth no one is completely unlike David Mallon, who I believed was a really good friend but I could not match up the total inconsistency of his behavior with me and when I pressed him about, asking if he was only interested in my massage, he answered with this telling question: “What have you to offer me?”