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aziza
Member Elite
since 2006-07-09
Posts 2995
Lumpy Oatmeal makes me Crazy!

0 posted 2007-03-14 11:22 PM


I am not an authority on the subject of mental illness.  I am not a victim of anything - my father was a mentally ill.  He was a child molester.  Maybe this forum is not the appropriate place for such a post - but maybe it is.  Maybe every forum is the appropriate place to bring important subjects to the forefront.  

I think I loved Shirley Jackson’s books when I was young because I realized that other people lived in families a bit like mine.  What I didn’t realize is there is a fine line between chaos and mental illness.  I thought we were just a family living amid chaos – I longed for white bread sandwiches that came in Wonder bread plastic bags and baggies full of potato chips in my lunch pail.  My mother told me that living a life like my best friend Shelby had would bore me.  I didn’t think so.  Shelby got the Wonder bread sandwiches and potato chips.  She also had craft projects on Saturdays and a clean house.  Her family did not fight like mine.  Her father came home and was somewhat intimidating, but he loved his children and showed it when his face lit up.  They went to church ever Sunday and I wanted to.  I was embarrassed to admit all this to my family.  Shelby's family became part of my first fantasy.  I dreamed of being a child among them.  I was attracted to the 'normalcy' of her life.

Our sandwiches were made out of homemade bread and we never got potato chips.  We only went to church for midnight Mass and crafts were something “other people did”.  Our family read a great deal.  We loved books more than each other.  We treated them with more regard than we treated ourselves.  

My mother prided herself on the fact that she raised us to be independent.  We could wander any where – we had freedom.  Or so she told herself.  

I lived in an oxymoron.  What is that?  It’s like a bubble.  One can see out and see the freedom that they are told they have, but they can’t really touch it or taste it.  Freedom is not simply opening a door and inviting others to walk through it.  Freedom is encouraging others to open their minds and not be afraid to see what could be an obstacle.  Preparing children for freedom is helping them gain the tools to overcome those obstacles.  It is teaching them that they have value.  It is fostering confidence.  Preparing children for an independent life of freedom involves guiding them and being responsible as parents.  Children learn from what they see and hear.  We begin learning as infants when we are born.  Already we are processing what is appropriate behavior when we lie in our crib and listen to our families.  Our brains are absorbing everything that we are faced with.  

So, where am I going with this?  Well, I grew up in that oxymoron bubble that I was talking about.  I saw freedom and I could touch it, but I could not experience it.  I was robbed of the very thing that was thrust at me.  I could not be free in a home that imprisoned me with mental illness.  Fights started with an ill-timed giggle or a misinterpreted look.  They escalated to open warfare that could last for weeks.  Inappropriate touching, lack of privacy, midnight visits took its toll on all of us.  Older daughters forgot to watch out for younger ones.  We grew in an atmosphere of surviving while being told how lucky we were to live as we did.  I fought.  I fought the battles I could win - and submitted to those that I had no hope of escaping.  

Yet, we loved each other.  We were proud of each other.  One of my fondest memories is of the nights that my father read “Treasure Island” to my brother and me.  Night after night we shared in the best of him. I loved the early mornings when we would get up with him and share coffee.  Ours was milk and sugar with a bit of coffee when we would plan our day.  That time disappeared when I began to develop.  The laughter left my life then.  I see pictures of me from that time and I see the prison bars reflecting in my eyes.  My parents said I was sulky and difficult.  My family said I was spoiled because I was the baby.  I thought that I would never be able to leave.  I thought that I was not smart.  I was not pretty.  Finally, I often forgot to think and just retreated into a silent place in my mind.  

I was a fighter.  I still am.  I grew up.  I had unhappy years – I was afraid to try anything.  I tried writing a poem but it wasn’t very good so I never did again – well, not for years.  I tried to draw a picture, but I didn’t grasp the concept of shadows.  So I never did it again.  I liked acting, but I wasn’t very graceful.  So I never did it again.  Not in that life time.

Today, I am different.  There was no shattering lightening bolt that changed me.  There was no sudden realization that all would be better.  Honestly, I never thought I had done anything wrong.  What was changed me?  A small man, laden with cancer changed me.  He begged my forgiveness when he had always denied any improper behavior towards me.  Hearing him ask for that forgiveness, hearing his desperation, and then offering him that forgiveness freed me.  I finally tasted freedom.  And I realized that I was sorry he was dying, but – but – he meant nothing to me.  I felt relief that I would never have to wonder about him touching another.  I felt happy.

He lived his hell on earth and he took his children with him.  But you know I never have liked hot places.

I recently posted two poems about being molested by my father as a child.  I have been told that I am strong and brave.  I am not.  I am a fighter.

Alison

[This message has been edited by aziza (03-15-2007 01:10 AM).]

© Copyright 2007 Alison - All Rights Reserved
ivordavies
Senior Member
since 2007-01-10
Posts 739
Chester, England
1 posted 2007-03-15 02:29 PM


"The laughter left my life then.  I see pictures of me from that time and I see the prison bars reflecting in my eyes.  My parents said I was sulky and difficult.  My family said I was spoiled because I was the baby.  I thought that I would never be able to leave.  I thought that I was not smart.  I was not pretty.  Finally, I often forgot to think and just retreated into a silent place in my mind.  "

And isn't that where we all have to go to realize our own potential and take the first steps on our own pathways....


It shows from your words (Our sandwiches were made out of homemade bread and we never got potato chips.) how the normality of living an abnormal life makes the little things stand on an equal footing with the horrendous.

It is exactly this pathway through the trauma that would be so difficult to express in poetry.

Alison, I feel this write will help a lot give people an insight into what exactly can be 'salvaged' if you find the inner strength to do so,

Ivor

miscellanea
Member Elite
since 2004-06-24
Posts 4060
OH
2 posted 2007-03-17 04:32 AM


Aziza,

   You've found the right place.   This is exactly where you should post, I think, because those of us who have had Rainbow bread and potato chips need to be perceptive and caring.  I am thankful you shared your excellently written thoughts.  The father of my son's best friend was found to be a sex offender.   I would never have guessed... I wish I had read this then.

   I have read other stories of yours in the summer.  I enjoyed the movement and humor in them.   I really like your writing style, but even more, the openness with which you share.  Thank you once again.

miscellanea  

latearrival
Member Ascendant
since 2003-03-21
Posts 5499
Florida
3 posted 2007-03-17 06:49 PM


Azzia. I have read most of your writing as time allows.I do not always post. But this has taken a bit of courage. Just know you are in the right place.There are many here who share the kind of life you lived. Just knowing that may help you to understand that here you find love and acceptance.
sincerely martyjo

Larry C
Deputy Moderator 1 Tour
Member Patricius
since 2001-09-10
Posts 10286
United States
4 posted 2007-04-13 12:04 PM


Alison,
Though you label yourself a fighter your words reveal your courage and strength. It also reveals incredible insight. Even your Constructive Critique line reveals your resiliency. I am extremely impressed with your ability to handle adversity. You have proven that "grief without growth is pain without purpose" by incredible growth and purpose. Please write much more and I promise to watch for it and read.

If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane,
I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again.

aziza
Member Elite
since 2006-07-09
Posts 2995
Lumpy Oatmeal makes me Crazy!
5 posted 2007-04-28 03:37 AM


Quite simply, I say "Thank you."

Alison

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