Hold, then swallow
I find myself being forced-back in memory, and the pain and grief I see is that of a silent child's written distraction. [Oddly enough, I feel nothing, and the intensity of this nothingness is growing day-by-day.]
Recently, a collection of old books from my childhood was gathered and given to the youngest of my children. This box of paper treasure was given to them by my estranged a.mother. [This is a woman who keeps all that is valuable to herself, discarding pieces of rubbish to either the trash-can, or me. She calls these offerings "special gifts", but even a young child knows bits of old garbage when it's packed neatly into a musty recycling box.]
My seven-year-old twins have no sense of the evil that breathes from this box of captured memories, which now sits open on my family-room floor. Instead, they see a box filled with strange titled-books and goodies like chalk and browned (beyond yellowed) pieces of construction paper that were used decades ago, when my Mother was working as a teacher. At first glance, these items resemble something from a simple time-capsue, a picture of sweet innocence, if one wishes to imagine. Only, the smell of the rotting pages reminds me, these inner contents contain the saved remnants of a lonely child's tender, visceral past. Yes, that smell... foul, fetid and above all.... familiar... these are the gifted reminders of a youth I wish she'd let me forget. Instead, she packs them into old boxes, and sends them through my husband, for me and my children to review.
[What makes me sad is knowing after all these years of receiving "special treasures" from my past, not one box of hers ever contained the dress I wore the day they first met and retrieved me. Of all the promises she made about the things I could keep... to this day, she still won't give me the one I most want and need.]
I keep asking myself, "Why does she send these keepsakes to the youngest of my children?". Perhaps she knows only they don't know how harmful it is to have my past sent back to me; perhaps she thinks they won't see what she sends back is nothing but trash.
It's been three days since I opened her box. Tomorrow I will will myself to do what she should have done for her so-called daughter: I will hold it myself, swallow, and then rid myself of yet more pieces from my past. [If only I could will my memory to do the same...]
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Forced Belonging
There may be people here who wonder, what the hell is she here for? IMO, we are all looking for a place to belong and people to belong with. Here, I always find something that I, as an unwanted and rejected child (not abandoned as you) can
claim as mine, too.
I have the boxes of the past... only until recently did I have the courage to face some of them and rid myself of what they
represent: a supposed childhood.
Maybe you wish for baby pictures? So do I, but the three I have only remind me of my rejection by people who were supposed to cherish me as their only "normal, healthy child" and didn't; I was a nuisance. I cherish the
very few pictures I have of my full, biological sister who was injured at birth.
The books, I still cherish as the only escape I had from the reality of just existing in their home; never belonging to them or
their relatives even though the same blood ran in my veins. Pieces of me are in those childhood books.
I threw away a thousand pictures of the man who brought evil into my house and made it incapable of being a home; an
exorcism of things from my past... but like Kerry said, "if only I could will my memory to do the same." He, like my biological
parents, rejected all of us in our family and chose evil instead. The loss of him is no different than purging myself of those
pieces of my past that reside in a box.
And, unlike most of you, maybe: I threw away pictures of ancestors I was not allowed to own as my ancestors; they only
belong to my biological parents. Pieces of who I was supposed to be.
And one more thing I threw away, long ago: I did not WANT to birth a child! I did not want ANY of their blood running through
the veins of MY children. My adopted children (four that I am bonded to) mean more to me than ANY biological child could
possibly mean. THEY are not a part of those who chose to reject me; they CHOSE to let me be their mother while three did
not. I know why,.....they could not.
The scraps of paper with school-forced sayings on them to the supposedly caring mother or father were kept to prove to me
that, yes, you did love us. But my Bmom did not understand all the antique plaques I bought that really WERE a tribute to
"Mother"; she thought they were for her! I cherished them as proof that SOMEONE had a Special Mother and that they do
exist out there, only mine was not one of them. I WANTED TO BE like the mothers described on those plaques! But
I settled for the first man who had a good job and a house, instead of finding the "Wonderful Dad" that Father's plaques
represent. And so, two rejected and unloved adults set out to produce the ideal home that only the female adult really
wanted. Children can NEVER make a marriage right.
Sometimes I want you all to hate me so I can feel better....
IN A WORLD OF WHY,
Teddy
Replacement pieces
Aside from the stench of musty mold I remember from certain quiet places in that old big house, the books returned to me represent titles I'd rather forget than savor:
In addition to the now-cryptic titles, she sent my children pieces of plain cardboard - a symbolic reminder to me of the days she used to buy herself a new pair of pantyhose, leaving the Leggs egg (or other piece of unwrapped packaging) on my bed for future creative use.
Like turning lemons into lemonade, even as a young child I could create fun out of garbage.
The words expressed in this ring so true to me: I think it's so cruel to expect a child to use or show grand gestures of parental-appreciation, especially when the family-secret is: a parent's job is not being done.
[If only more people knew the torture that stands behind the words written by another person.... it's this very reason that certain books and titles will always keep a deep hidden meaning for me.]
TITLES
LADDIE: A TRUE BLUE STORY GENE STRATTON PORTER
I read this book over and over, putting myself in that big family and relishing those traditions; yet the youngest felt she was
a burden since they had already had MANY other children before her who were already raised.... but even so, she blooms in that family, because she belongs to that family.
THE BOXCAR CHILDREN: CHILDREN WHO RUN AWAY from their bio grandfather because they can't imagine him loving or wanting them; only to find him and learn he is a kind older man who loves them and belongs to them. That was MY grandpa, who loved me and I truly belonged to, but was kept from.
Kerry, who bought those books for you? They sound awful... I found my own books in different places and clung to them through the years; those I don't have, I still remember and search for. "Replacement Pieces" for memories that are truly mine.
IN A WORLD OF WHY,
Teddy