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Once an inexplicable fear of irretrievable loss burrows deep within the psyche of a highly impressionable child, any situation that hints of mystery, may signal warnings of danger. When bolts of fear flash through the subconscious, anxiety shatters clarity as fast as a card table's collapse scatters a 500 piece puzzle all over the floor.
It's important to note that fear need not manifest itself in tragic proportions. Growing up in a house where conflict resolution is determined by he or she who yells loudest, longest, will suffice. Once levels of hierarchy are established and life settles down, a volatile, emotional environment may seem calm...for a while. You know what I mean: The calm before the storm … waiting for the other shoe to drop …
*Upon reflection, insight suggests siblings, who experience dissimilar emotional experiences, will develop character traits, which react to stimuli with different degrees of hypersensitivity to emotional reactivity. Thus, situations, which develop into hot spots for one may be seen as 'matter of fact' to the other—and vice versa.
Though, as mentioned in part one of this story, many of these early memories are my mother’s, portions of this detailed portrait of my childhood has been gained by browsing through family albums and reviewing a wealth of home movies, which had been proudly shot by my dad.
On countless occasions I remember sitting in the living room with my family in anticipation of great fun while Dad set up the movie screen, threaded the film through our Kodak projector, and turned off the lights. I remember sitting in the dark, listening to the clickety-clack of film running through the projector and laughing, along with everyone else, at my antics, playing out before us, on that screen:
Here I am, bigger than life, dancing around in our living room, prancing in the park, wading in the shallow waters of Lake Michigan, tickling my baby sister, Lauren, pulling up her shirt, blowing raspberries on her tummy, giggling as she gurgles, laughing as she laughs, learning to roller skate—stand up, fall down, laugh at myself, stand up, fall down, laugh at myself—on the sidewalk outside our apartment complex—and in many of those albums and movies, where we see Lauren's adorable, little monkey face mimicking everything her big sister chooses to do, we also see white gauze bandages, rolled up and down my arms from my shoulders to my wrists.
Though festive birthday parties with all the trimmings, wind through the projector, Dad didn’t film our countless trips to doctors' offices or my hospitalization. There are no shots of the medicine cabinet where my collection of prescription salves and tars line the shelves. No movies show me crying through sleepless nights, while Mom, lying beside me, tries to soothe the burning nature of my itch, which drives me close to crazy and just won't quit, no matter how deeply I scratch. Since eczema is a hypersensitive skin condition and as my scratching had commenced before Janet’s short life and death, no one will connect the severity of this malady with subconscious anxiety in serious need of release—for decades. Upon reflection, this condition had manifested itself as my Achilles’ heel—a weak spot, signaling times when I feel sorely confounded, fearfully disturbed, deeply disappointed, or worried of failing in some ‘imperfect’ way to the point that I can't stop itching to get out of my skin until my fear of frowns has been identified.
Here I am, bigger than life, dancing around in our living room, prancing in the park, wading in the shallow waters of Lake Michigan, tickling my baby sister, Lauren, pulling up her shirt, blowing raspberries on her tummy, giggling as she gurgles, laughing as she laughs, learning to roller skate—stand up, fall down, laugh at myself, stand up, fall down, laugh at myself—on the sidewalk outside our apartment complex—and in many of those albums and movies, where we see Lauren's adorable, little monkey face mimicking everything her big sister chooses to do, we also see white gauze bandages, rolled up and down my arms from my shoulders to my wrists.
Though festive birthday parties with all the trimmings, wind through the projector, Dad didn’t film our countless trips to doctors' offices or my hospitalization. There are no shots of the medicine cabinet where my collection of prescription salves and tars line the shelves. No movies show me crying through sleepless nights, while Mom, lying beside me, tries to soothe the burning nature of my itch, which drives me close to crazy and just won't quit, no matter how deeply I scratch. Since eczema is a hypersensitive skin condition and as my scratching had commenced before Janet’s short life and death, no one will connect the severity of this malady with subconscious anxiety in serious need of release—for decades. Upon reflection, this condition had manifested itself as my Achilles’ heel—a weak spot, signaling times when I feel sorely confounded, fearfully disturbed, deeply disappointed, or worried of failing in some ‘imperfect’ way to the point that I can't stop itching to get out of my skin until my fear of frowns has been identified.
If you think the last few scenes I've drawn are melodramatic—think again. Whereas melodrama makes too much of nothing, nothing is more dramatically terrorizing than the inexplicable death of a beloved child, grandchild, sibling—followed by undeserved guilt.
When a baby sister fails to reappear and depression engulfs an entire family, the depth of this tragic horror may cause everyone involved to hold oneself insensibly accountable, and as penance must be paid when the wrath of God casts down a lightening bolt, which proves strikingly impossible to fathom, misery erupts in a variety of highly visual, visceral ways. Whereas some over-achieve, some depress; some 'act out'; some can't eat; some over eat; some cramp up and bleed. Why? Because in the realm of mind-body-spirit, everything is connected.
Over time, I'll come to feel as wretchedly vulnerable and emotionally raw as my lovely mother, my strong father, and my vibrant grandma, who is the most religious of us all. Day after day, we four remain locked, together, inside a cage, where, upon awakening each morning, the devastating awareness of every parent’s worst possible nightmare bites another chunk out of our hearts—and though I've no clue as to why my heart feels broken beyond repair—thank God, one day I'll come to comprehend that which a small child cannot.
In truth, I'll not have become invisible in the nest—though that 'feeling' will seem real until I learn to think so deep as to reflect back with a growing sense of objectivity, which precedes clarity. And with clarity, concerning fate and reality, my broken wing will heal.
When a baby sister fails to reappear and depression engulfs an entire family, the depth of this tragic horror may cause everyone involved to hold oneself insensibly accountable, and as penance must be paid when the wrath of God casts down a lightening bolt, which proves strikingly impossible to fathom, misery erupts in a variety of highly visual, visceral ways. Whereas some over-achieve, some depress; some 'act out'; some can't eat; some over eat; some cramp up and bleed. Why? Because in the realm of mind-body-spirit, everything is connected.
Over time, I'll come to feel as wretchedly vulnerable and emotionally raw as my lovely mother, my strong father, and my vibrant grandma, who is the most religious of us all. Day after day, we four remain locked, together, inside a cage, where, upon awakening each morning, the devastating awareness of every parent’s worst possible nightmare bites another chunk out of our hearts—and though I've no clue as to why my heart feels broken beyond repair—thank God, one day I'll come to comprehend that which a small child cannot.
In truth, I'll not have become invisible in the nest—though that 'feeling' will seem real until I learn to think so deep as to reflect back with a growing sense of objectivity, which precedes clarity. And with clarity, concerning fate and reality, my broken wing will heal.
At three, do I grieve for Janet and yearn for her return? Do I feel the need to pay penance? For what loss do I mourn? *Thank goodness answers to questions, as dark as these, will be mine once I choose to dive so deep into my mind as to peel away defensive layers and watch the light at the end of this tunnel illuminate two hot spots of fear, which had darkened my sense of self. As insights collect within my mind, like swarms of fireflies flitting through a dark night, I’ll pinpoint a pair of subconscious fears, which, had darkened my trains of thought, narrowing my decision-making abilities for many years.
*When Fate shatters crystal clear peals of laughter into shards of abject devastation, how may the mind of a little monkey face mimic her caretakers’ dark plunge into hell? What might an energetic three-year old make of the fact that life at home with Mommy and Grandma has changed in confounding ways, but Daddy still goes to work? (Daddy must to go to work!) After spending all day with Mommy and Grandma, Annie will wait impatiently for her Daddy's key to open the lock on her heart, which lies, heavily, within her chest, beating as fast as that of a small, scared bird, whose wings are too injured, to focus on anything other than the unraveling of her nest, which had once felt so safe and secure from harm.
Though it may be quite a while before this strong, spirited man feels like swooping up his delighted, little girl, who squeals with glee upon being tossed high in the air, Annie's daddy, who always wears his heart on his sleeve, will hold his wounded, three year old child close to his heart, as soon as he returns to the dismal apartment at the end of each day—day after day—week after week. And thus, amidst all of these fearsome changes, one thing remains constant: Annie feels safe and secure, nestling within her big, strong daddy’s protective embrace.
And thus will my father become my hero and best friend.
PS As our future unfolds, Dad's only son will be born prematurely, too early to live more than a few days. And when I watch my hero grow sad after his only son is buried, you'll watch me do my utmost to adopt that role, as my own.
By the time I grow up, my brain will fool me into believing myself capable of mending any relationship, which, having fallen off the pier, flails around in the deep end where dark, swirling waters cause confusion enough to pull both people down for the count. In short, I'll have no clue how to differentiate between problems that I can work to mend vs. learning to accept problematic situations, which extend beyond my control, because it takes two to learn a dance as complicated as a tango. In most cases, my well practiced, problem solving acuity will provide me with great success. In others situations, this personal strength will prove my undoing.
Once again, I write NGU on the board at the start of every family education class. (Never Give Up) Never give up on what? On yourself! *Because if you don't believe in your strengths, why should anyone else? I also do not give up on HOPE. Hope that relationships, which began with sweet dreams will not end in a couple's worst nightmare. Don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about sticking with abusive partners. *I'm referring to two people, working to identify defensive walls, on both sides, because making the most of life, where both cups overflow with love, makes much more sense tha looking back with a mind, darked with regret at closing the door when opportunity to embrace change for the better knocks—while misperceiving that others are accountable for your pain. If we don't learn from history in time to make necessary changes—history repeats itelf.
Though denial may be a healthy place to visit in order to move through trying times, moving into Denialand with yesteryear's baggage tightly packed inside your head doesn't 'work', over the long run. Why not? Because if we can't muster the strength to face painful truths, which eventually manage to emerge, then we may not see the need to design a new plan for life when others suggest need for change. *You see, if one person needs to grow in bright, new, expansive ways, while another shrinks back inside a tunnel of fear, both may find themselves deeply bewildered at feeling alone, each time they come together ...
Now you tell me: Can I possibly fathom a train of thought as complex as that at the age of three? In fact, it will prove quite taxing for my mind to put my 500 piece puzzle together once I grow up! Gosh, I'm getting tired being three! Got to move this story along ...
By the time I grow up, my brain will fool me into believing myself capable of mending any relationship, which, having fallen off the pier, flails around in the deep end where dark, swirling waters cause confusion enough to pull both people down for the count. In short, I'll have no clue how to differentiate between problems that I can work to mend vs. learning to accept problematic situations, which extend beyond my control, because it takes two to learn a dance as complicated as a tango. In most cases, my well practiced, problem solving acuity will provide me with great success. In others situations, this personal strength will prove my undoing.
Once again, I write NGU on the board at the start of every family education class. (Never Give Up) Never give up on what? On yourself! *Because if you don't believe in your strengths, why should anyone else? I also do not give up on HOPE. Hope that relationships, which began with sweet dreams will not end in a couple's worst nightmare. Don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about sticking with abusive partners. *I'm referring to two people, working to identify defensive walls, on both sides, because making the most of life, where both cups overflow with love, makes much more sense tha looking back with a mind, darked with regret at closing the door when opportunity to embrace change for the better knocks—while misperceiving that others are accountable for your pain. If we don't learn from history in time to make necessary changes—history repeats itelf.
Though denial may be a healthy place to visit in order to move through trying times, moving into Denialand with yesteryear's baggage tightly packed inside your head doesn't 'work', over the long run. Why not? Because if we can't muster the strength to face painful truths, which eventually manage to emerge, then we may not see the need to design a new plan for life when others suggest need for change. *You see, if one person needs to grow in bright, new, expansive ways, while another shrinks back inside a tunnel of fear, both may find themselves deeply bewildered at feeling alone, each time they come together ...
Now you tell me: Can I possibly fathom a train of thought as complex as that at the age of three? In fact, it will prove quite taxing for my mind to put my 500 piece puzzle together once I grow up! Gosh, I'm getting tired being three! Got to move this story along ...
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