Blogging..a little fishy told me all about it and how healing it is just to write down and express your thoughts. Thought I'd give it a whirl and see how I feel towards the end of this self absorbed emotional diddy. Writing has always been a secret passion of mine and have started to write three books..fiction based and hold no real ties towards any emotional baggage I've been carting around my entire life. Life has pulled me in several directions..mostly..the hard road, and have thankfully arrived at the end of each bumpy adventure intact. Physically, at least for the most part, emotionally however, always hide my open wounds well with bandages and gauze, but since meeting my AB/Banda ladies, the wounds have become visible due to my comfort level with you all. I've always prided myself in being able to pick myself up and dust off my britches..to carry on. My story is full of twist and turns that sometimes I even find it hard to believe myself, as I begin to write, I am hoping that it will enlighten me as to how my past has molded my present..and perhaps with this writing journey, will help me solve how to determine my future.
I was born in a small town in the middle of Canada's prairies. A young couple..just out of high school and had to marry immediately due to my mother's condition, expecting a baby(me). My father, the bad boy, who drove a fast car and resembled a nerdy James Dean had caught my mother's heart. She was Sandra Dee, the California born blonde bombshell, from a well to do family with super high expectations of exceeding in life with University goals or marrying well. All of which were erased upon my arrival. I honestly believe my mother blames her life's disappointments on me, as from a very early age, I can remember her crying, or commenting out loud of how her life was ruined.
My first beating that I can remember, was around the age of 4. I recall laying on her beautiful green tweed sofa in the living room sick with the flu. She had to stay home from work with me that day and was talking on the phone to a friend. Before I could move, I vomited all over her precious couch, and remember shaking, not from the illness, but from fear. I saw her eyes flash with rage and she promptly ended her call and rushed over to fling me from the sofa from my arm and onto the floor. She was screaming "How could you! What is wrong with you!" and started to hit me whilst on the floor. I remember curling up and protecting myself from her smacks, and sobbing, repeatedly saying "I'm sorry Mommy". She dragged me into the bathroom by my arm and ran the bath. I can still feel the snot bubbles forming on my nose and the breathless cries amidst the running water. She left me there to go clean her couch. The smell of Pinesol wafted into the bathroom. I sat in the tub feeling horrible for ruining her sofa. After a few minutes, she entered the bathroom again and started to wash my hair. She was rough at first and I flinched when she raised her hand to reach for something on the ledge. It must of shocked her as she started to cry realizing what she had done. Her hardness immediately turned soft and she began to talk soothingly to me, and gently stroking my back with the warm wash cloth...lulling me into a warm calm place of love and tranquility. She wrapped me up in a plush clean towel and carried me back to the sofa where I drifted off to sleep. How forgiving we are as children.
I wish I could say that was my first and last encounter with the duality of my mother's persona, but it's not. Her hot and cold flashes were sparked by even the most miniscule of offences. I grew to fear her touch and tried to avoid any triggering of her moods by being the best little girl I could be. How could a hand that could be so loving and soft, hurt so much? I kept my room clean, my dresses neat and tidy, and tried not to fight with my sister Laura, who was the spitting image of my mother as a little girl, except wild and untamed. My father, the avoider and good time Charlie, saw her mood swings but barely intervened as she would turn her anger towards him. I remember them fighting passionately, and it would be my father being hurt by a swinging vacuum cord or a piece of furniture being launched towards him. He would either leave out of sheer frustration or stick around to comfort her. Seldom did he fight back or if and when he did, would result in her winning anyways as he would be guilted into submission for all the wrongs he has caused her from the beginning. Either way, she controlled the entire family. I am still amazed at which the speed at which she could turn it all off or on. We would clean ourselves up and attend church every Sunday in our best. Her condescending voice still bellows in my mind "Don't embarrass me Jennifer...mind your manners..sit up straight legs crossed like a good girl..." "Good girls always say please and thank you...God is watching you."
I think I may burn in hell for writing all this. That thought has truly crossed my mind, even at 40, her voice is still present.
(signing off for now, but will write more tomorrow as it is late and my bed is calling)
hope it helps somewhat to share it with us - massive love xx
