Didn’t want to write this morning, except for the sunrise it was n awful morning. I woke up crying again. It was too cold to get out of the mummy bag n I was in pain; achy, sore, feeling like I had been punched repeatedly in the left arm. My back was wet from being alternatively hot n then cold. It had rained all day n even though I had some sheltering, everything was wet n damp. I had found some shelter, but it had its own set of problems, but at least it kept out the bitter wind in exchange for a few new set of problems; among them my mouse friend. We sort of have n understanding. He gets the crumbs at night as long as he leaves me alone; n brings no friends. So far, he has been good. He munched away all the frozen carrots that went bad when I learned how little u can carry that doesn’t freeze in the Winter. He so far has been polite, but I don’t take anything for granted these days.
I finally got up after crying, messing up the warm spot I had, n could no longer stand the pain. I read my kind of writing can b “self indulgent,” I remember they said the same about Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, n Elizabeth Wurtzel who wrote Prozac Nation, a memoir she wrote in 1994. I loved all these women n never found them self indulgent; they helped me grow up n navigate my chaotic childhood; living w a mother that was volatile, abusive, n took pleasure in making things as difficult as she could for me—I wasn’t wanted. I spent most of my childhood thinking I wouldn’t survive it. I read all the time looking for answers, there were few authors I related to in such a personal, intimate way; their interior lives, feelings, mirroring mine. It wasn’t self-indulgent at all—it was survival.
I read some of the Classics in school, but it was these women among others that spoke to my personal life. I needed the secrets, the storms, the bad parts; the hellish pain. I found little solace in most of the authors n artists that told me how wonderful their lives were; family was great, their mother loved them, or they wrote stories of others, oftentimes too obscure to relate to my home life. It’s only been recently can we even accept all mothers don’t love their children.
I babysat as a girl, the mother had a step-son she hated. He was abused, but it was accepted in some ways—he wasn’t hers. I couldn’t accept this even though he was often w his own mother when I babysat his little step-siblings, but when I saw him, I made it a point to b kind. He was sweet, w sable brown hair, soft brown eyes, n a quiet manner that bespoke a pain he was hiding, even so young we both somehow knew—kindred spirits trying to survive. Back then we didn’t have a name for it. Divorce wasn’t as common then, but even though it wasn’t accepted in many ways, kids were just a byproduct; thought to b fine w all of it—not really part of it. “Blended families,” were great! I was always confused about this because to my childhood mind if u couldn’t make the original family work how is it better again? It wasn’t for me. It wasn’t for the little boy I babysat for. I was told how selfish it was of me when parents just weren’t happy to complain about anything. I learned my happiness was of no concern. Most of the time I was the parent listening to my mother force me into a therapist role. She would talk n wail for hours about how she hated being a mother, how hard it was. It was easy for me, she would say. “I wish I was your age again!” “what do u have to complain about?” I’ll give u something to complain about, she would go on, if I persisted. I learned being quiet was the best way to ward off the blows.
Sylvia Plath spoke of the same, Motherhood was difficult as n Artist, but she created out of the pain. My mother refused to do anything but gossip on the phone to her friends. I tried desperately for her love by having compassion for her, but all her friends treated me the same. She often told them lies about me; namely I ruined her life. I was difficult, like my Grandmother, she often said. I thought I was better than her! I never did, but it didn’t matter. I wrote about my pain even then; keeping journals, writing poetry. I know today her temper tantrum’s were because she was spoiled; she had grown up wealthy n just didn’t want to do the work that she had to. My Grandmother went through hell n back w her, literally! My Mother often shoved n hit her, but she told her friends it was me that wasn’t good to my mother not her. Her lying was frequent even back then, but hard to defend myself from. She wasn’t going to b told what to do! She had so much, but nothing mattered; it was all a game to her. I was usually scrambling, terrified, trying to do a good job to keep it together, but it didn’t matter.
Girls could babysit young back then n I did all the time trying to earn money for things I needed. There were always kids at our house; my mother babysat her friends kids all the time. It wasn’t like today’s, “Play-dates,” scheduled, planned; kids would just show up. It was much more informal. A sort of back n forth relay. Most of the women like my mother, “Welfare mothers.” Welfare mothers were different than other mothers. My mother didn’t care about cleaning, cooking, or being a “good mom.” We didn’t do mom/daughter things or anything together. She hated being a mother—it ruined her life. I spent my childhood being her parent, her therapist—feeling bad I prevented her from her dreams.
Today I know she didn’t want to work on her dreams; things like acting lessons, dancing lessons, or some other outlet for her wanting to b a movie star or some other type of performer; it would just happen—she would b discovered. Things just came to her, mostly because she had been so spoiled. Shocked, when she finally had to go get a real job in her 30’s. Then she refused to b home at all! It was always about money, n I learned to go without most things, but it never mattered. So much was done on purpose I later learned—deprivation part of the game! By then, I had managed to leave for college after she tried to prevent me in violent ways I’m only now coming to terms w. My little 1/2 sister left alone all the time w her new boyfriend. It hurt to leave her. I often felt like my 1/2 Siblings mother n became the brunt of their own rage n trauma. I wanted to take her w me. She often wet the bed, sucked her thumb, n needed everything to b “Strawberry Shortcake,” a little plump dolly n her friends that mirrored the gang my 1/2 Sister later joined—her “Family.” By the time we recently talked she had already sided w my ex, had from the beginning. I was too late. “Your sister doesn’t want anything to do w u either, he told me right before the divorce. I was often in pain she would always refuse my invitations.
My Mother had dyed her hair blond in High School like Marilyn Monroe; she looked so cool. My Grandmother went to Beauty School, back then so glamorous n serious. She had started her own business n had her own Beauty Shop for awhile. I loved going there watching her do hair. So beautiful, running her own Creative business. Her wooden desk, n elegant sable color w crystal knobs n a glass-top, she would do her paper work on. She was like a Fashion model; tall, beautiful, w exquisite taste. Her uniform, pressed, A-line, stockings n pretty white shoes. She had gifted me the beautiful desk, but it was another piece of furniture stolen, along w so much else recently.
They were both so glamorous to me. There was Doris Day, when my Mother danced around the house singing, “Que Sera, Sera, (Whatever Will Be Will Be.)” I was named after Rhonda Fleming, all these years later I finally looked her up n saw the resemblance. It was wild because I had never looked her up. Movie star dreams were like the dreams of singing; all gone when it was decided by courts I was not allowed to see my Father; a gifted musician. With each move we made into worse n worse apartments the dreams faded. I was not allowed to talk about my family as we glued together her beautiful China trying to salvage the things the movers would break. She had Hummel figurines, lovely bric-a-brac, barrels of sweater twin-sets, in every color. Large boxes of pretty jewelry n hats, gloves n shoes to match; all kinds of things n upscale housewife would have, but left my Father a year after they married. I couldn’t imagine doing that today after being married 20yrs. I know today most of it was all a lie. Her reasons for leaving, like so many of the other lies she told were stories she demanded I believe—lost in her own fantasies. The lies she continues telling today, I’m only now able to know n heal from.
Her dreams like the song; White Rabbit, (One Pill Makes You Larger.) After she accused my Father of Domestic Abuse, she had to have her “Nerve pills,” pills that became a big part of the way she coped. Pills that increased along w her violence. Pills that left her glassy-eyed one minute n raging the next. To b followed by the mania of leaving it all behind. Everything was always in the past. At first, I thought a way to cope w the constant moves n new boyfriends, “Let it all go,” she would sing, “Que Sera, Sera!” but as time went by, she would demand I stop crying, “it’s in the past!” she would rage, yell, n start beating on me, or smashing n throwing things, often laughing after raging. Cast-Iron frying pans, hammers, nails; her favorite were knives. We were always moving on from some past she was leaving n didn’t care about. Before I could get stable in school we would move again. School was important to my Grandmother not my Mother.
My fingers cold, it’s hard to move them. My toothbrush frozen from the day before; remains of the water icicle’s formed on the bristles. Mud cakes my boots; my hair in knots from pulling my hat down all the time trying to keep warm. I want to rage, scream; I had worked so hard. I have to pee. I feel the warmth starting to stain my underwear making me more angry, but knowing even as a girl no one cares. It’s ur fault they would always say—ur Welfare! It’s self-indulgent to complain, to bitch—to believe ur not guilty. It was self-indulgent to read the Authors I did; always self-indulgent, “selfish,” I was told by my then best-friend. I was never suppose to have pleasure. Even my Sexuality was suspect. I learned recently I was a “Whore,” even as a girl before I had even had sex, which wasn’t until I was 23yrs old—my first real boyfriend I was engaged to. Things too “Confessional,” to talk about, but I’m finding now I will continue to write, to talk, to “Rage against the Dying Light!” I liked the confessional ones anyway, more real to me.
I think of my recent Yoga practice, trying to revive my shallow breathing, my hyperventilating; overcome again the fear, shame—guilt. All bundled together, a monster stalking me; all my fears again come to life—only now it’s a nightmare! Love going deeper, I’m told, but I didn’t really want to go deeper. I had been doing so well. So well, in fact; I was set to have most of my dreams come true after so many childhood ones were destroyed. I had meant my goal of retiring at 50yrs old. I say retire, but it was the end of the grind of the Corporate career, which I liked, but things like n hour commute was getting to me. I was fortunate my Day job had turned into a successful career as a Communications Manager n Graphic Designer, but I was looking forward to doing my own Art work. I finally had my own Art studio/Graphic Design business n had made good money off my first job, along w a part-time job would b much easier. I had been really excited about having n easier schedule.
I started a Yoga practice again after not being able to move my body without pain the last 6yrs. Trauma-Focused Yoga, stretching the Psoas, unblocking my Sacral chakra—releasing the trauma. My arm felt like someone had repeatedly punched it. Think about the sensations that come up, I was told by the lovely Yogini. I thought of my ex-husband thrashing about in his sleep, often hitting me on my left-side. “I don’t snore!” he commanded, admonishing me, when I asked him about it. His reality usually eclipsed mine, at times his words as violent as the things he did. I usually felt like a child after a lecture of his.
The snoring, he refused to do anything about was so loud I rarely slept. It often sounded like a train. My sleep was always fitful; snoring, doors banging open; the TV blaring. He worked Second-shift; I never knew most of the noise was deliberate until after I learned he was divorcing me on the first Police report after he had me violently arrested.
My God, I thought, it’s true as I struggled to get out of the mummy bag w the little energetic push I got from the insight. It was enough to get me moving. As I got my gear together, I started to warm up. For so long, I told myself he was just difficult. Men are difficult—they are Men! I was told often by his longer married women friends. They were mothers n wives w a capital “M,” they all knew! Women in the kitchen, Men in another room. I think today how he was always “The Man!” but I needed him to b, n had in good faith married him to b a “Husband!”—he was neither!
The sexes didn’t mingle or hang-out. I missed “hanging-out,” something they didn’t really do. Parties were different than the ones I went to when single. I thought some of it was because they were all so much older. I was told it was being a “Good wife,” no flirting, no real talking to men; more implied than overt. Why don’t men talk to me anymore? I would say. Because “I would kill them,” he would joke. My Sexuality slowly disappeared along w so much else. I knew at the end it wasn’t a joke n got worse as the years went by—all deliberate. Subtle threats I internalized about all his tough friends that would help him! In the beginning just guy stories, but got more sinister as the years went by. All their collusion was done on purpose, I was just a whore after all!—anything sensual was slutty!
I had read about abuse, but could not see how bad it was or that the abuse they talked about was physical n not really the kind I was enduring. My Mother hit me, but my ex didn’t. Not until the end did my ex raise his fists to me, one time almost squeezing me so hard I almost passed out. His violence was also carried out by others more than willing to do it. He never did repairs like other guys, we always called someone. I would often research repairs; how to do them, pricing, what it would entail, n he would pick up the phone n call someone. He would then take all the credit whenever someone asked or he would spend hours bragging about work we had done on all our properties. I never got any credit. His other abuses followed the same pattern.
The silent bullying n abuse from his group of male friends. Their subtle slut-shaming. Comments about what I wore were common. It came to feel like inspections, in the same way my MIL often checked me over wanting to buy what I was wearing, but also it was like there was always a problem w how I dressed. She was blind n made that the excuse for it. Looking close, touching—inspecting. It was often intrusive. His brother the worse. I would call it a subtle form of Sexual Harassment/Slut-shaming today. I’m not sure why it still seems to most people u only get Sexually Harassed at work. I usually dressed Classic, conservative, anyway. It mostly confused me.
You don’t! until ur out, understand the full extent of the abuse, they say. How is that possible? I had thought then. I think now about what I had put up w, all the abuse I had taken. What I thought was Masculinity, but was actually brutality. The silent, deadly kind, that isn’t a beating, but slow death n destruction over time to make it look like “You did it to yourself!” “Even your Father didn’t want you,” he would sneer! I had no idea, I didn’t know my father. It was obvious he didn’t want me, right? He left, he was n abuser my Mother always said. Just like she was now accusing me of along w my ex-husband—both conspiring from the start. They both knew exactly how to do it.
I had a Yoga practice the past 20yrs, but it was one of the things that went when this all started. The ongoing violence, having had a seizure from being Sexually Assaulted, plus starting Menopause, all contributed to profound changes in my body. I was eating meat all the time after forced on the street deliberately made homeless n McDonalds one of the few places I could get a hot meal along w Stewart’s, until I was banned from Stewart’s n the gang activity at McDonals, most friends of my Mother or ex-husband was getting to b too much. I was Vegetarian n all the meat was making me sick.
I was also unable to work-out, n dealing w all the health problems as a result. I didn’t have major health problems, but Menopause is not easy n being on the street makes it even more awful. I was accused of being crazy, so who cared. It was like being told I was “Welfare,” as a kid. The guilt that I thought was in the past, n I had gotten over, was coming back w a vengeance. I couldn’t move my arm. The Sacral chakra deals w guilt, my new Yogini guru soothingly told me. “Get a job,” my ex sneered in court. Get a job, people told me! homeless people r lazy, want handouts! Get a job abusive cops told me—nothing belongs to u, ur crazy!
I made it to my favorite place now; Panera Bread, thinking of the coffee that will continue to get me going. I was now inspired to write of what was again part of this awakening. I was no longer being abused when I slept. The excuses he used were always the same; a steady drum of denial he likens to Mind-control now. I had a College degree, him n my mother viciously said, but ur not too smart.
I read the news briefly before stopping in horror—grateful to get up. “Man sentenced to death for beheading Pakistan woman,” God! I thought. She is holding what appears to b a little Shitzu, I think of my Bentley; the pain is getting a little easier, but can still b sharp when I see other dogs. The picture of her shows her w her little dog.
What kind of world r we still living in when we have to debate whether it’s ok to “lightly beat ur wife,” or that some Domestic Abuse is Criminal! I thought, as I read the CNN report. Even here in America, the leaders of Democracy! Freedom? I haven’t felt all that Free since I was born. I was once again made homeless, destitute, by the same people! We were still fighting a silent, deadly, unacknowledged—WAR!
I would have never used that term as a young woman. I loved Men—I loved my Mother. I had no idea so much I thought was just Human failing, falling short, was in fact deliberate. Male ego? My back ached like I was being kicked in the back. I remember the King size bed we finally bought thinking it would stop; it didn’t. The waves of abusive memories come flooding back. I weep again; heartbroken. How could I not see so much was on purpose? How could I have put up w so much disrespect? I feel a pain in my ovary. Can u even feel pain in ur ovaries? I remember my Menstrual cramps. You can’t really feel ur Psoas, my new Yogini tells me. I struggle to release mine. It’s so painful, but the pain in my legs is getting better. I’m jogging a little more now. My legs were so weak for so long. You can’t really feel all the pain in n abusive relationship until ur out of it—I know that now!
“Your crazy,” my ex best-friend viciously told me recently. Today I know she was never the best-friend I loved as a sister; she was a cousin too, but today I know she was never Family either. Part of the blended family that was forced on me. The lies fall away replaced by the truth. My practice is going easier, I think; the Sun is coming up. I’m grateful to b up early again; the pain recedes. Yoga teaches u to move into the pain—hold, breath, release; often mirroring the pain in life. I think of the horrific act of this Man n the lovely Pakistan woman whose life was horrifically cut short.
I have the tools n can take it a little off the mat into my life now as Seane Corn, a popular Yoga teacher, tells me. Teachers appearing once again now that I’m again ready. Guiding me along w the nay-sayers that still tell me it’s crazy, self-indulgent—too confessional! It’s my life, I think, n this time I have some experience w it. I rest in child’s pose trying to write today—grateful.
Noor Mukadam, ur life was not in vain. I’m alive today, I can write—she can’t! I ease into the pain liking my new Yoga poses remembering it comes, rises n goes. Hold for a little while—release. Life is temporal, it rises n falls. All in the past, I hear my Mother, Que Sera, Sera; today stronger, I know now I’m Free in ways I never was before, didn’t know before. After the pain, the release—calm, repose. Meaning comes n the still small voice laughs, whispers; “it’s not self-indulgent.” A reason for all beings that grace our lives, even online—Namaste
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