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Once an unidentified fear of inexplicable, irretrievable loss burrows deep within the psyche of a highly impressionable child, any situation hinting of mystery may signal insecurity to emerge. 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 subconscious 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, an emotional environment may seem calm—for a while. You know what I mean: The calm before the next storm—so you walk on eggshells—hoping the other shoe won't drop on your head—and thus do you smile, work toward success, and above all—make no waves by being as good as good can be.
*Upon reflection, common sense suggests that siblings, whose experiences are dissimilar, will develop character traits that differ in hypersensitivity to that which stimulates each one's emotional reactivity. So situations, which feel like hot spots for one may be seen as 'matter of fact' to the other—and vice versa.
As you may remember, many of these early memories are my mother’s, and while that's true, I'd like to add that portions of this portrait of my early childhood were drawn from browsing through family albums and reviewing a wealth of home movies, which had been proudly shot by my dad.
On countless evenings, I remember sitting in the living room with my family where we all waited, anticipating 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— each time I hit a crack in 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. We see no shots inside 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 commenced before Janet’s short life and death, no one will connect the severity of this malady with subconscious anxiety, seriously in need of identification—for decades. Upon reflection, this condition had manifested itself as my Achilles’ heel—a weak spot, signaling times when I'd felt sorely confounded, fearfully disturbed, deeply disappointed, or worried of failing in some ‘imperfect’ way to the point that I'll itch to get out of my skin until—my fear of undeserved guilt has been identified—after I move to the desert and decide to go into therapy, because I can’t for the life of me figure out why I feel so angry at certain members of my family.
If you think the last few scenes too melodramatic—please think again. Whereas melodrama makes much ado about nothing, nothing is more dramatically terrorizing than the inexplicable death of a beloved child, grandchild, sibling—followed by unidentified, unrelieved, undeserved guilt in need of release.
When my baby sister fails to reappear and depression engulfs my entire support system, the depth of this tragedy 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 can't get out of bed, others cramp up and bleed. Why? Because in the realm of mind-body-spirit, everything is connected. And what if a child’s smile hides sadness and fear, itching to free itself—from what? Go figure. I mean seriously, even the best of parents can’t read minds ...
As weeks drag into months, 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 vice, 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—thank God, one day I'll come to comprehend that which a small child can not: We can be surrounded by love and feel utterly alone.
In truth, I'll not have become invisible in the nest, though that 'feeling' will seem real until I learn 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 actually mourn? *Thank goodness answers to questions, as dark as these, will be revealed 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 spotlight a pair of subconscious fears, which, had darkened my trains of thought, concerning my self worth, thus narrowing my decision-making capabilities 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 hold her breath, waiting 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, frightened 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 quite a while may pass before this strong, spirited man feels like swooping up his delighted, little girl, who squeals with glee each time she’s 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 daddy’s strong, protective embrace.
Thus will my father become my hero and best friend.
As our future unfolds, Dad's only son will be born prematurely, too early to live more than a few days. 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 edge of the pier, flails around in the deep end where dark, swirling waters cause so much confusion as 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 other situations, this personal strength—that of placing the needs of others before my own—will prove my undoing.
I write NGU on the black 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 and friendship, makes much more sense than looking back with a mind full of regret at having closed a door, unnecessarily, when opportunity to embrace change for the better knocks, again and again. If we don't learn from history in time to make necessary changes—history repeats itself—and time and again, I listen to sad tales where people on both sides hold each other accountable for the pain that leads toward their relationship’s demise.
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 does not 'work', over the long run. Why not? Because if we can't muster the clarity to face painful truths, which eventually emerge, then we may remain blind to designing a simple plan when others recognize need for change. *You see, if one person feels the need to grow in bright, new, expansive ways, while another shrinks back inside a tunnel, where swirling confusion abounds, both may find themselves deeply bewildered at feeling alone, each time they come together ...
Now you tell me—can a child of three possibly fathom a train of thought as complex as that? In fact, it will prove quite taxing for my mind to put my 500 piece puzzle together once my sons are grown, and I have time to re-raise myself. Gosh, I'm getting tired being three! Time to move this story along—so let's revisit what happened in the aftermath of Janet's death …
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