Like many people, I have scars on my body and soul. These scars on my physical body can be seen, but only if I decide to show them to you. They are concealed under my clothes and unless I walk around naked, you will never see them. You will never even know they exist unless I decide to tell you about them. Whether I tell you or show you, my scars are there and have a story to tell about who I am now and who I used to be.
The scars on my soul are less easily dealt with because very often they show themselves before I am able to decide if you should have access to them. These soul scars show in the way I deal with people, situations and the world in general. The wounds that caused the scars were dealt to me starting at the beginning of my life. My parents, two extremely stubborn and mean spirited people, engaged in doing what they knew how to do. My mom told me she never bonded with me as a newborn, my cries for love and nurturing were met with dismissive acts of rejection and physical pain. I cried, she hit. My great grandma Tina told me, that when I was a small, crawling baby, she witnessed my mother kicking me across the room in a fit of anger. My mother doesn’t remember this and dismisses this bit of family history with her usual denial and aggression. Even though I don’t actively remember this particular incident, I have plenty of memories of physical abuse that would corroborate this story. My mother says I was an extremely obstinate child, always pushing the envelope of her nonexistent patience, she would say to the tiny me, don’t touch that or don’t do that. Then I would defiantly touch it or do it, forcing her to brutalize my body in whatever manner was available to her.
My father was completely absent, enraged that my mother would dare to divorce him and so has spent the past fifty plus years pretending my sister and I never existed at all. I never even knew he was anyone until I was about seven years old. For whatever reason these parents decided it was time we girls spent a day with this stranger and his new family at a picnic. I remember asking my sister, who are these people and why are we here with them. She points at our father and says, I think that guy is our real dad. I can remember vividly my head spinning with this statement and utter, absolute confusion set in at that moment and has never left me. I asked my dear sister, she being fourteen months older than I, what are we supposed to call him. I had to go to the bathroom but could only sit on the ground in pain, not knowing who could take me to pee. She and I decided to call him Hey You. Finally I worked up the courage to ask Hey You, can someone please take me to the bathroom. He never corrected this moniker placed on him, nor did anyone else ever help either of us to understand what in hell was going on here. We saw this family a few more times before I turned nine, then never again until I sought him out, sister by my side at twenty one years of age. It was Father’s Day and we invited him to lunch. As soon as he sat down with us, I blurted out where in the hell have you been? He then proceeded to spin a story about our mother and the monumental bitch that she was and still is, and how she prevented him from seeing us all those years. Fact was on his side with this interpretation of events, my mother vehemently denies this story and says with utter conviction that he was the abandoner and that she had nothing to do with it.
Two people, two stories, two abandoned children. No one wins. These parents will both go to their obstinate graves each believing their own stories, not caring about the collateral damage caused by their carelessness, their selfishness and their respective hatred of one another. What continues to amaze and disgust me about these people, is how tenaciously they have both clung to these lies for fifty plus years. Apparently there is no statute of limitation on their need to be right at the expense of their offspring. Since there is no relenting of either side, I am left to assume they are both world class liars and losers, and you know what? Neither of them care one bit about what I or my sister, feel or think. To this very moment in time, there is not a speck of remorse for the behavior or consequences of their actions.
One of the most devastating results of their actions is the fact of what and who we ended up with, our adoptive ‘father’, the predatory pedophile. My mother married him soon after she divorced dear old dad and proceeded to spawn my unfortunate brother with this deviate. My sister and I were toddlers at that time, so he was introduced to us as our real father and we never knew any different until the fateful picnic with that family. Even then nothing made any sense to me so for all intents and purposes this man was the real deal to both of us. As a young child, I was sure that every dad came into his childrens’ bedroom at night to rape and sexually torture the kiddies. I was equally sure that all moms beat and brutalized their children every single day, for any reason whatsoever. I would watch ‘The Brady Bunch’ and think to myself, why don’t they show the molestation and aggravated assault and battery that I was sure was happening to Greg, Marcia, Cindy, Bobby, ect…. it wasn’t until I was a bit older and able to spend time with friends and their families that I understood this doesn’t happen to everyone like I originally thought. What a revelation!
As soon as I was old enough to get that what went on in my house was wrong, I started to run away from them. As early as thirteen years of age, I would routinely climb out of any available window and go to a friend’s house and ask if they would hide me. I spent many a night in someones closet or under a bed, unbeknownst to the parents of these friend’s, a runaway crouching in fear, being helped by benevolent children who understood I needed help. Always being found by the police and dragged back to my abusers, deposited back into the hands of hell until I could find my next opportunity to run. Which I always did. I fought like a caged animal, I considered suicide, I started with the uncontrollable hyper sexuality of an abused child, the sexual light switch having been turned on way too early to ever be controlled. The recipe for disaster cooked up by useless people, simmered on the stove of my life until I was twenty eight years old. The entire fifteen year period of my hapless existence could be a best selling book all by itself.
Rumi once said, “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – See more at: http://www.thinkinghumanity.com/2015/06/8-things-to-remember-when-everything-goes-wrong.html#sthash.9990qiax.JHVVjvsh.dpuf
If this is true and I suspect that it is, I am a wonderously light filled human. I have so many scars both internally and externally, I feel I must be nothing but light. However, the reality is there is no awesome light without awesome dark. There is this tremendous battle in my soul of lightness and darkness, warring eternally inside of myself. I can be unbelievably cruel and hateful one day and the next day the most compassionate and helpful of human beings. I often feel useless, unloveable and discarded, conjuring up horrible left over feelings of shame and degradation, which I can’t help but to spill over to people in my life. Once I realize I am feeling these dark emotions, I attempt to pull back up, like a plane in a deadly fatal down spin, I will ferociously pull back on my steering wheel urging my vehicle back up into the graceful clouds where I spend several days riding this euphoric high. Feeling loved and useful and appreciated and remembered. These scars are the speed bumps of my soul, I glide along on a smooth and even road which lets my guard down, only to hit these obstacles at seventy miles an hour, where I come crashing back into my reality of aloneness.
For the most part, nobody knows the depth of my anguished journey. My scars remain hidden unless I choose to show them to you. I ride along on the rollercoaster of life, screaming in pain or laughing in joy, depending on which turn is in front of me. My life goal is to master these emotional scars so I control them, not them controlling me. My physical scars are much easier to deal with. The right article of clothing placed over them takes care of the situation, once properly placed I can forget about them until the end of the day when I remove the item. Easy cheesy light and breezy. Unfortunately not the same with the internal damage, it has a mind of it’s own, and it will do what it wants unless I am paying massive amounts of attention every single second of every single minute of every single day. I wear my heart on my sleeve and try as I might I can’t hide my pain very easily. It takes a monumental amount of effort to pretend everything is okay on the days that it isn’t. To some degree, each human has been scarred by their own existence. My fondest wish and eternal prayer is that we each treat one another with great respect and reverence for the unseen, internal and external scars which may or may not be readily apparent on any given day.