In Dec. of 1943—
I was born to a family whose adoration made me feel like the sun rose and set with my smile.
In July of 1946—
My father’s father (my beloved grandpa—the only grandpa I’d ever known and loved) died, unexpectedly right on the spot where he'd gasped, clutched his chest and fallen to the ground of a massive heart attack at the age of 52, leaving every adult who’d supported my spirit’s sunny connection to emotional safety utterly shocked and devastated by grief. Six weeks later—
In September of 1946—
My baby sister Janet was born, and for reasons that I couldn’t fathom, everyone thought she was so adorable that a little black cloud seemed to push the sunshine of their love away from me toward her, which made a good little girl feel BAD—Hmmm ...
In November of 1946—
(On my parent’s 5th wedding anniversary to be exact)
My healthy baby sister could not be awakened from her nap.
The unimaginable horror of Janet's sudden death coming close on the heels of Grandpa's demise left every adult who’d supported my spirit’s sunny connection to emotional safety utterly shocked and so devastated by grief as to have missed the fact that the undeveloped processor of a wide-eyed, dark haired, little girl was absorbing pure terror in an unprocessed state while she'd wandered around an apartment crowded with people, many of whom she did not know, all of whom were crying and wringing their hands, day after day, and the most terrifying aspect of everything that proved too traumatically complex for her undeveloped think tank to comprehend was this: During this lengthy, deeply confounding period of time, her not-quite-three-year-old think tank could not fathom why people she'd loved had disappeared into thin air, and as she had no clue who might be next—maybe Mommy. Maybe Daddy. (Maybe even herself—her brain's absorption of traumatized terror grew so overwhelming as to have swallowed the self assertive portion of her intelligent voice, which got to feeling so insignificant as to have felt little reason to express her needs with clarity intact, and as her needs seemed to matter so little (when compared to the needs of others), they were repressed along with the sweet, little girl's self-assertive voice inside a tightly zipped pocket, secreted within her subconscious, leaving the people pleaser portion of her brain to walk through each next stage of her life feeling very much alone and deeply conflicted most especially when she'd anxiously, quietly, had not yet developed the inner strengths necessary to fend off predators, who’d instinctively sensed that unhealed wounds made her easy prey—and to think that this bone chilling, unprocessed feeling remained lodged between my subconscious and conscious awareness ever since early childhood until insight spoke clearly to me, today, offers my intelligence sound reason to call forth it’s positively focused power of imaginative thought to place that key insight into my intuition's open hand so as to empower my conscious awareness to identify my lifelong sense of inner conflict by unlocking the door of the escape room, thus liberating the self assertive portion of a little girl’s voice to flash forward toward adulthood with one wave of my mind's magic wand, thus offering the people pleaser reason to cough up her self assertive voice free of anxiety so as to save her spirit from feeling devoured by predators, lurking close by, licking their chops in hopes of feasting on the unhealed wounds of her heart. (Oy! Can today's insight driven, intuitive train of thought, which had undermined my peace of mind for more than seven decades, really be mine?) Thank goodness, I've been inclined toward mining the dark side of my mind for insight until this key insight to unlock the escape room so as to liberate my peace of mind was clearly mine!
OMG! Is it possible—even probable—that once my self assertive, inner strengths feel free to blend seamlessly with the people pleaser portion of me, I’ll be WHOLE, suggesting that the main root of my lifelong inner conflict has actually been revealed!
Holy smokes! Is it possible that today’s stream of consciousness is my very own, deeply personal holy grail that will quell anxiety attacks, which had functioned to alert my intelligence to mend the split that had separated my people pleasing traits from the self assertive portion of my voice, thus severing my spirit's mindful (mind full) sense of self in half?
I mean, think about it: My self assertive voice has been stalking my mental well being with need to heal the wounded portions of my self esteem, which had felt imperfectly unlovable since the age of three when my fear of not being good enough to warrant the love of imperfect human beings made me feel so alone as to imagine myself either super human or wounded prey to evil closing in—like Superman, but with this difference. Superman's xray vision see chunks of kryptonite, separating him from his inner strengths, whereas my kryptonite, having been buried subconsciously, could only be felt each time anxiety spiked to signal my smarts of the fact that my assertive voice, lodged in my throat, would continue to cause me to choke until such time as it felt free to blend, like a smoothie made of healthy ingredients, with the people pleaser portion of my think tank in a manner that proves to wholesome to my mental health as to fortify my spirit to stand strong on its own in defense of my honor and guilt free innocence of having condemned myself so bad as to have sentenced my peace of mind to solitary confinement for life. OMG—Having railroaded my undeveloped thought processor into the hot seat, at the age of three, I've been deserving of an insight driven parole hearing, forever! Whew!
As I’ve been thrashing my way through angry dreams, night after night, while my inner strength of self assertiveness has been attempting to guide the people pleaser to stop feeling like wounded prey, my subconscious wanderings have grown loud enough to awaken Will, who remembers my crying out in distress changing to anger, though I do not; on the other hand, I do remember vividly painted scenes from my dreams that seem to be so unrelated as to make little sense, though my therapist assures me that everything in a dream is logically connected, suggesting that once my subconscious wanderings are astutely interpreted, my brain's intelligent capacity to heal psychologically continues to strengthen. So, the fact that those deeply complex dreams continue to invade my connection to peace of mind, night after night, makes me wonder if, perhaps, my soul's personal quest to seek out the holy grail is still a tad beyond my thought processor’s current mental grasp—geez! While the brain is in the process from healing from trauma, life remains deeply confusing!
I have no photos to post of Janet, because my mommy's brother, thinking to help my mommy recover from a lengthy depression, had taken it upon himself to throw them out after our baby’s death. Boy! Was I glued to the spot when Mommy’s zombie-like, dull-eyed spirit suddenly leaped back to life so inflamed was she with the raw intensity of fury, which having been in desperate need of unleashing, aimed the explosive extent of itself directly at my uncle, scaring my spirit almost to death until Mommy’s natural reaction collapsed on her bed, releasing another heart wrenching outpouring of sobs as if her brother's behavior had seemingly depressed her mind and spirit more than ever before! Boy! Just as I didn't want to make my mommy too sad to get out of bed, I sure didn't want to ever cause Mommy's fury to lash out at me! So, I’d remained glued to this spot or that spot, eyes and ears riveted upon everything the adults were saying and doing unless I was seen wandering anxiously, aimlessly from room to room, taking in every grown up reaction in sight, thus offering my brain a fast forward rendition of every level of empathetic grief while my sunny side, quaking quietly with fear, continue to darken and my anxious, unprocessed state of mental confusion continued to heighten as days became weeks and then months of relentless grief ... but I'm getting ahead of myself—
Two weeks after Janet’s funeral, I turned three. For months in the aftermath of our baby’s terrifying disappearance, everyone in my little corner of the world—most especially my beloved mother—was seen walking around our apartment in that wooden legged, zombie-like state (and if mommy had so much as felt like leaving her bed, at all, I’d want to wipe dry the silent tears streaming freely down her sleep deprived cheeks—so achingly did I long for her arms to wrap lovingly, protectively around my three year old insecurities, like Daddy’s did, every evening when he'd come home from work— Hhmmm—whatever could I do to make my deepest unmet need come true?
Maybe if I was a really, really, really good girl, in fact the best in the world, my exemplary behavior would inspire Mommy’s sunny side to smile back at me, so I'd been as good as gold while smiling as bright as a sunbeam, but nothing I did or said inspired Mommy's smile to reappear, so one day, just like Mommy‘s eyes had dulled and her smile had disappeared (along with Janet, whose angelic presence had been carved into her headstone), my hollowed spirit caved in, dulling my eyes and drooping my shoulders for lack of energy until my sagging smile, feeling to heavy to hold up by myself, had seemingly died, too. The doctor told my daddy to get my mommy with child, ASAP. Daddy listened up—
In April of 1947
Mommy, being fertile, conceived.
While I scratched till I bled
In December of 1947—
I turned four, and one month later—
In January of 1948—
My parents brought my baby sister, Lauren, home from the hospital
OMG! Lauren looked exactly like Janet!
OMG! What if Lauren was Janet, come back from wherever she'd been!)
OMG! Maybe if I was a really, really, really good girl, causing no frown to appear on anyone's face, ever again, maybe my grandpa would come back—or—
Maybe if I made a mistake or did anything bad or disappointed anyone, people I'd loved would begin to disappear again, and maybe, the day would dawn when I'd be left all alone—or what if everyone I'd loved stuck together but I, having been bad, had been left out in the cold looking in—you know, kind of like the sad story of The ragged Little Match Girl—who, holding the way to ignite warmth in the palm of her hand, had no clue how naturally she'd fired up love in everyone's hearts while repressing the anxious chill in her own!
OMG! Over time, my defense system repressed the key to my inner conflict along with bouts of high anxiety so deeply inside my subconscious that my itch to get out of my skin deepened until I'd awaken at night crying for Mommy, who'd lay down on my bed in hopes of comforting me—and thus did the pleaser-smile-by-day-and-cry-for-the-loss-of-her-self-assertive-voice-by-night ...
As my real world felt way too scary and far too confusing for the brain of an imaginative, sweet, little girl of four to process, Mother Nature stepped in to save the last threads of my connection to emotional security from snapping by packing my think tank off to 'enjoy' an existential adventure that inspired my power of intuition to open the door to the Land of Denial, where, upon taking up permanent residence, my smile's sparkle re-ignited and became so contagious that people were naturally drawn toward such an agreeable, helpful little girl, who'd not consciously worried about being 'left out' of the fold in the cold, all alone—until I was eleven and our family moved from our apartment in the city into the dream house in the suburbs that my father, strong of heart and spirit, had built for his precious family, where my many layered mask of super duper self confidence (which had fooled everyone, most of all ME) forbade me from revealing this sad fact that my defense system could not deny: Annie, who'd begun kindergarten by comforting her crying classmates (and had continued to grow toward becoming a self confident leader in the classroom as well as on the playground), experienced sound reason to feel like a social misfit several months after enrolling in my new suburban school—and thus did the happy-go-lucky, self confident mask, which had fooled everyone who had thought to know me well, begin to crack. (Note arms ba ndaged from itching to get out of my skin in the photo above as well as in next one, below). BTW, stories offering a detailed version of my childhood were posted, several years back, after which a mental block developed that refused to free my memory to pen any story beyond jr. high, which is why I think it best to hold on to our thinking caps and buckle our safety belts as our ride in my time machine jet propels this post from 1948, past six decades of my life, all the way—
To November of 2014—
When Ravi was born—
And now it's December—the month of my birthday—2018
Suggesting that Ravi's innately intelligent, sponge-like think tank has just turned four
And I'm glad to say that, thus far, my grand daughter's pleasing personality and
Self assertive voice suggests that a well balanced little girl, whose age appropriate
Thought processor absorbs everything her adult role models do and say, is not
Afraid to declare that airing her needs, which ring aloud, clear as a bell, is
Every bit as significant as is true when we air ours! And our most significant
Shared need regardless of age, is our desire to feel worthy of unconditionally love
Time and again, while playing with my bright as a sunbeam grand-daughter, my smile’s natural sparkle witnesses the intuitive powers of a four year old child’s well balanced, emotionally secure brain highlighting her vivid imagination, which naturally knows no bounds, suggesting why her positively focused thought processor actually believes that the magic of the mind exists as a matter of fact, and though that's a very good (and quite frequently, a very funny thing)‚ unfortunately, it’s not uncommon for the wounded think tanks of adults to remain stuck in a negatively focused place where their darkest imaginings are believed factual, suggesting why closed-minded attitudes, which shape up during childhood remain rooted in fantasies of one's own making as many adults transition from one stage of life to the next without ever becoming emotionally matured, 'grown ups'—and thus do childish reactions and churlish behaviors cause so much unnecessary trouble and grief throughout our defensive world—hello donald trump)
Did I mention that several weeks after Janet's tragic death, our tragedy worsened immeasurably when my mommy's mother blamed her daughter for our baby's death?
Did I mention how their impassioned fights, secreted from my father, terrified me, anew?
Did I mention that we three watched over Lauren, most especially when she was sleeping, like a trio of mother hens?
Did I mention that six months after my 4th birthday, Lauren fell into a coma, arousing my mother's greatest fear to wail out loud: OMG! Nooo! Nooo! Not again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Did I mention that from the highly impressionable age of 2 until I was 5, a blue eyed, dark haired child, who'd scratched her arms and legs until she'd bled (and been wrapped in bandages), had continued to repress pure terror behind her congenial smile's ever-ready-eager-to-help-and-please-anyone-with-everything attitude, while repressed fear pierced her peace of mind?
And if, between the ages of eleven and seventeen, kids had bullied a child (who'd swallowed her self assertive voice) for having become fat while an adult, who had won my love, had sexually abused me, secretly, repeatedly, well—thank goodness Mother Nature had called upon my defense system (beginning when I was three) to protect my brain's connection to sanity by blocking my conscious mind so as to disassociate completely from every deeply distressing personal experience concerning every emotional or physical assault, all of which remained memorized within the darkly terrified, deeply traumatized portion of my brain, which, going by the name of Subconscious, lies in wait for any stimulus that offers the unconscious portion of my think tank sound reason to re-ignite an unidentified, repressed negatively focused emotional reaction to filter into my conscious mind in an unprocessed state by arousing a sudden spike of anxiety that makes me feel as though a foggy, personally threatening danger is suddenly closing in, severing my processor's intelligence from clarity, because my awareness has been swept into yesteryear's subconsciously disassociated state of a terrified three or four or five year old child, suggesting why there are times when my adult connection to logic is no where to be seen. I still can't read about or watch a movie about or listen to the news when the topic is child abuse or sexual assault ...
So, thank goodness a therapist, who does not practice EMDR therapy (which strengthens my brain's intuitive capacity to heal the traumatized portion of itself from PTSD) introduced me to one who does, and based in the knowledge that my power of intuition has guided my processor to acquire for many years, I've come to see how, during every stage of my life, the overwhelming nature of subconscious fear, lurking behind my sparkling smile's many layered wall of denial, has had a heavy hand in formulating more of my existential decisions than my conscious smarts could have ever clearly conceived on my own, so thank goodness, I've had the good fortune to benefit from the healing effects of EMDR therapy on PTSD—
Did I mention that the younger your processor is when trauma short wires a portion of your brain, the longer it takes to work at peeling the many layered onion so as to heal whatever had wounded your self esteem, which will remain stuck in what feels like a 'bad' place until you come to see that spiking anxiety signals you, repeatedly, to seek out an unidentified self defeating attitude that's still tying your think tank into tightly tensed knots—unnecessarily?
Hhmmm ...
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