1049 TWINKLE TWINKLE—REVISITED 43

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Imagine Grandma Ella’s mental torment after her daughter and son-in-law flee the apartment, carrying their lifeless bundle, wrapped in pink.  Imagine endless minutes, dragging into hours—imagine Ella pacing, pleading with God to be merciful—until finally, her son-in-law’s key turns the tumbler in the lock.  Ella runs to the door and blanching white as milk, she stands perfectly still, clasping both fists, prayer-like, beneath her chin.  The front door to our apartment swings open.  Jennie and Jack stand framed in the doorway.  The dull glaze of their eyes tells all. As two pairs of grief-stricken eyes lock into my grandma’s tormented stare, instinct alerts Ella to the fact that far from being over, the anguish has just begun, and every fiber of her being electrifies.

When Jennie's legs move woodenly across the threshold where grief awaits after shock wears thin is the powder pink blanket still draped loosely in her hand?

Fifty-five years after Sudden Infant Death Syndrome stole her child, my mother, nestling with me on my patio swing, expresses how she’d watched her mother’s face darken from chalk white to beet red.  And while I listen, utterly rapt, Mom describes Grandma’s fists beating her chest while shrieking this agonized refrain:

“Oy Gudt!  Gudt! It’s my fault! Why didn't I check on her?  It’s all my fault!”

Jeannie, crying—grasps her mother’s shoulders, attempting to reassure her to no avail—“Ma! The doctor said it’s no one’s fault.  Ma! It’s not your fault!”

While my small, up turned face plays anxious witness to the alarming nature of heart-piercing torment on all sides, my left hand takes hold of one long, dark, shiny braid, which I’ll hold against my cheek, while my left thumb (always my left thumb) slides reassuringly into my mouth.  Now, with fingers tucking the curl at the end of that sweet smelling plait, comfortingly, under my nose, bewilderment, expressed in my eyes, remains fixed on scenes of mental torment, just like this one, which will take center stage in our lives for quite a long time.

For weeks, the braid on the right side of my head swings in synchronized motion with the upward tilt of my woebegone expression, which spins from Mommy's face to Daddy's to Grandma's, to each person, who walks into our apartment, and thus does the sponge-like mind of a vulnerable child soak in anguished devastation, sucking human spirits dry of joy.  At night, I'll be awaken in my junior bed, which sits at the foot of my Grandma's sleigh bed, by sobs, barely muffled into her pillow.

Had a camera snapped my image, month after month, I’m sure a photo album would show my left thumb in my mouth while the nails on my right hand scratch intensely into the crook of my left arm; however, here’s something no photo can expose:  Little by little, an anxious sense of insecurity will drill a hole into a frightened three year old child's high spirited, vulnerable mind.  And from that fateful time forward, the self-confident nature of this blue-eyed, dark haired, little girl will have sprung a serious, secret leak as frowns enmeshed with the darkly pervasive Spector of death.

As this torturous time extends over months, imagine me lying on the living room floor, or curled up in my favorite spot, under the octagon, Chinese table in our front hall, sucking my thumb, twirling the curl at the end my braid, listening to my mother plead for answers—what happened to our baby?  At three could I ask:  Where did my baby sister go? Why did Janet 'disappear'? Where was God?  Why couldn't the doctor bring her back?  Why is everyone crying?  Why can't Mommy get out of bed?  What reassuring words can comfort a frightened child when a mysterious 'disappearance' combines with heart-wrenching declarations of personal guilt on the part of one of three primary caregivers?

Then, after several weeks—when an additional crushing weight is unexpectedly foisted upon my mother—what impact might another sudden lightening storm lay upon a three year old's psyche, which has been swerving away from 'centered' during this crucial stage of emotional development?  How might fearful traits, filtering into core strengths, influence invisible changes in my relationships from then on?

Over time, as compassion melts into empathy so that I am unable to sense one from the other, what change will take place in the relationship that I'm actively developing with myself?  How might the overwhelmed, undeveloped brain of a small child employ her defense system to dismiss excessive fears about her self worth as weeks and months go by?  And what of my need for reassurance that goes unmet?

*As I grow to be an adult, how might subconscious fear, coupled with empathy, weave into the fiber of my parenting techniques?  Thank goodness, I'll feel curiously compelled to attend parenting classes where my think tank will begin to absorb the importance of listening and speaking skills.  And if the knowledge I absorb, eagerly, is made available to help everyone I love—well, how can that be considered a bad thing—especially when the plans I conjure up prove creatively successful?

If you ask why I'm drawing this self-portrait with such precise detail, I’d say:  As children’s personalities evolve, it's often difficult to differentiate between traits, which are innate and those acquired, experientially.  One day I’ll choose to stop sucking my thumb; however heightened levels of anxiety will cause me to itch to get out of my skin, throughout most of my life.

*Though the intensity of my bouts with eczema will prove to be in direct proportion to how frightened, disillusioned, or disappointed I’ll feel behind the shield of my ever-ready-to-please-and-solve smile—that fact will remain unidentified until my need to dive into self discovery offers me reason to question why our defense systems erect defensive walls, behind which we keep scary secrets from ourselves.

In another self-portrait, which hindsight allows me to conjure up, today, we’ll see a snap shot of a self-reliant little girl, who, having been taken to the library, weekly, will have learned to keep herself contentedly entertained with novels.  And curiously, from a very young age, her favorite authors will focus primarily on character development.
Too bad I didn't develop an interest in photography, because somewhere within the darkroom of my subconscious, an important negative will not develop into a recognizable photograph until insight illuminates the main root of my anxieties, several decades down the road.  Once this negative has been held up to the light, we'll clearly see my habit of rarely verbalizing any personal problems, concerning my diminishing sense of self worth, which might cause a downcast expression to appear on a loved one’s face, and that picture will come clearly into view when we review the series of posts entitled: BULLY FOR ME.

Whenever fear of disappointing another strikes my heart, denial will smother my cries, thus highlighting the adoption of my inability to articulate the depth of pain I hide—from myself—inside deep pockets of my mind.  (If you've not yet read the series of posts entitled: FIRST KISS, we'll review them, as well.)

Once I’m finally able to differentiate my pain from that of my parents, I’ll consider myself fortunate, because it’s impossible to follow one’s heart until we do not fear flying solo.  *As you shall see, I'll have lots to learn about relationships, which grow enmeshed vs. those that grow close, in that the latter offers each person space to think so clearly as to make decisions—based in self trust—though those decisions may be considered 'unpopular'.  *In short,  my ability to develop a secure and yet separate sense of self will be delayed until my vulnerabilities are identified, and I can recognize my need to free inner strengths—which childhood confusion had tied into tight knots of anxiety.

As LIFE evolves and circumstances change, the emotional climate within each home takes on a uniquely different atmosphere for every child.  *With depth perception, it becomes apparent that siblings, who share the same parents in the same house, are raised in dissimilar emotional environments.  The deeper I dive into self discovery, the more I come to understand why it's easier to offer children roots than wings.

*Whereas one child in a family may have reason to grow up feeling enmeshed or smothered—at the other end of the spectrum, another child may stand separate and observant—while a third acts whiny or openly rebellious, feeling parched for affection.  Then there are families where each child is consciously encouraged to develop such a sense of self trust that, with each step taken toward adulthood, they feel so safe as to openly discuss their discouragements, fears and differing opinions without fear of being severely chided when they don't conform or agree.  In order for children to develop a deep degree of self trust, they must be kindly guided to confront and work through their fears and disappointments in such a supportive environment as to approach long-range goals in a step-by-step, brainstorming fashion until success in various aspects of life has been achieved.  As these children begin to make their way into the world, they'll return to a home in which their fears are aired in an environment where emotional safety is consistently assured, suggesting that each one's instinctive connection to self confidence grows ever more bold, year by year, for this reason:  When role models consciously tame their own impatience and tantrums by way of embracing creative methods of self control, anxiety quells, all round.  When anxiety quells, logical solution seeking plans are discussed.  And thus does common sense suggest that children—emulating adult role models who learn to approach problem solving with patience intact—will develop the ability to carve out open-minded channels of thought whereby brain storming toward creative solutions relies upon insightful decision-making skills, which grow practiced, over time. (Whew!) 

*As there are healthy and unhealthy ways to offer love, receive love, and feel loved, pockets of insecurity, exacerbated by confusion, give rise to anxiety, within each of us, one and all.  It’s often said that love is a many splendored thing, and that proves true until the mind swirls into a maze, dark with confusion.  Then, rather than feeling grand, love swerves off course, and unresolved anxiety makes life feel crazier by the day!

If today's train of thought rings a bell, I hope you'll stick around, so I can show you what Annie chooses to do when each of her adorable babies turns two, and then in a flash, she finds herself raising a passel of ‘independent’ t'weens and teens—and when, at that time, her voice feels sorely unheard—guess who consciously decides it's time to go on strike!

Hey!  I just realized that I've been developing some portion of my voice for most of my adult life … and perhaps an insight as classic as that proves true for you, too :)