Crispy, crunchy bits on the floor
Remnants of what was once me
Speak in sequestered voice
Whispers for none to hear
Memories masked in flimsy gauze
Distort into moaning miseries
Slices of soul oozing through my eyes
Trek along determined trails
Hollowness hails each morning
Darkness so deep that no light gleams
Heaviness haunts my limbs
Paralyzes rational thought
No hope, no light
Nothing but everlasting midnight
Covers my heart
Entrapped in cement, I wail
So many times, obstacles arise in our lives that at first appearance, seem insurmountable. There’s a temptation to give up, to walk way with downcast shoulders. But after a few steps, we turn around and take another look.
A stronghold appears, low enough to give us a boost, just enough to get started. We rush back, reach and grab, pull ourselves up. And when we bend our heads back, we see another and another. Bit by tiny bit, the top gets closer.
When I was a young teen, my primary goal was to move away from my dysfunctional family. I’d dream up a plan, but then millions of obstacles filled my mind, all convincing me that escape was impossible.
Until my family moved to California.
You couldn’t go online to research thangs back in the mid-sixties, but my new high school showed me a way out. Prominently displayed outside the counselor’s office was a notice about state scholarships for deserving, low-income students.
That possibility opened my eyes, lightened my heart, and put a bounce in my steps. All I had to do was maintain my straight-A grade point average to qualify. I knew I could do that, and if faced with a challenging class or grumpy teacher, I’d double down, study harder.
Every night after finishing my many household chores, I’d remove myself to my room and study, as late as I could. It did disrupt my sleep, but the window for escape kept me energized throughout the school day.
When it was time to apply, my counselor, on my request, submitted the paperwork. She cautioned me that I most likely won’t get the scholarship, telling me that I wasn’t “college-material”.
When the letter came, congratulating me on being a recipient, imagine how thrilled I was! It would pay full tuition to any college in California. I would still need money for room and board, books and other necessities.
There was a complication, however. My parents would only let me attend whatever college my brother chose. He’d be there to protect me, watch over me. Considering our rocky relationship, that’s the last thing I needed or wanted.
Since neither of my parents had gone beyond high school, they had no concept of how large a college campus was, how easy it would be for me to avoid my brother.
A huge obstacle overcome.
Over my next fifty years of life, I’ve attacked every roadblock presented, with determination despite struggles. Each time I succeeded made me stronger, made me who I am today: wife, mother, published author and more.
I’m sure more mountains will arise before me, but I will fight, climb, crawl, claw my way up and over.
When my mother slipped into the depths of dementia to never return to her former self, I didn’t cry. In fact, I struggled to control my glee, to hold it inside whenever I spoke to my siblings or was around my dad.
Finally, after years and years of manipulation and emotional abuse, her voice was silent, her disapproving glare gone. Never again would I hear all the ways in which I had disappointed her, how I was not the daughter she wanted. How she never cried when I left for college or when I got my first apartment, never moving back into her house.
I’d never be chastised for not cleaning my brother’s room, for not wiping down each leaf of every houseplant, for not standing by her side and learning how to cook. For not dressing in the girlie clothes she’d sewn for me. For looking and acting like a boy. For being uppity because I loved learning, reading books. Real books, not the household tips magazines she skimmed through and kept piled up next to her chair.
She’d never be able to guilt me into calling, having her over for dinner, for taking her “shopping” which was really an excuse to pawn through discount racks while she lectured me about my faults.
I didn’t cry at her funeral Mass. A friend, sitting near me, commented about that. I shrugged. How do you explain how wonderful it felt to have the black clouds not just lifted, but blown away? How do you tell someone how freeing it is to no longer have to listen to her tales of woe, of all the injustices done to her over the years, of course, by me. Not by my siblings.
Never by them, for they were perfect and I was not.
When the Mass ended, my sister yelled at me, accusing me, in front of the few who were in attendance of never loving our mother. I walked away.
There was a time when I wanted to love my mother, when I yearned to feel her arms around me. A hug. A nice, warm hug to greet me in the morning and to put me to sleep at night.
My sister knew that love. So did my brother.
That’s why they cried.
While my mother was disappearing, my father became a kinder man. He smiled more. Laughed more. Was easier to be around.
One day as I was leaving after visiting my mother’s body, lying in a hospital bed in their front room, my dad opened his arms wide. I froze, not knowing whether it was some sort of trick.
I couldn’t tell by his face what his intentions were. Was it a real invitation for a hug? Was it a trap? Since I became a teen and my body changed, he’d looked at me with what I later learned was lust.
He’d touch me, inappropriately, when I got near. I’d learned to sidestep, to take roundabout ways, to hide in my room until he was somewhere, anywhere else.
It creeped me out. And it only got worse after I married. By then he knew I had become a sexual being. His looks became more suggestive, his comments more lewd.
So, when I didn’t want his hug, he asked why. I couldn’t say the words. My feet felt glued to the floor, my brain stopped functioning and my heart thumped so loudly I thought I was going to drop dead right there.
Only when his arms dropped and a despondent look came on his face did I have room to scoot past and escape.
I wish I could have told him why. But I’ve never been one to confront others. I was an emotionally and physically abused child. I’d worn the bruises of confrontation. Why would I want to do that to others?
Not too many years after my mom died, my dad remarried. And then he had a stroke. I visited him in the hospital, out of duty, not of love. I never sat by his bedside. I never touched him. If he was awake, I’d talk to him from the other side of the hospital room. When I left, I’d simply walk out.
This “new” dad was jovial. He laughed and smiled. He nodded a lot, as if he understood and agreed. His wife placed him in a home, then asked me to visit.
Once a week I steeled myself and walk into the home, pretending that I really wanted to be there. I only went when I knew his wife would be there. My dad had his own room. Even though he couldn’t use his hands, I still feared his touch. Even though he couldn’t remember what he’d just eaten when the empty dishes sat in front of him, I still worried that he’d hurt me with words.
His condition worsened. He had more strokes, leaving him more and more disabled. He still terrified me. I was in my fifties, but still impacted by how he’d treated me throughout my childhood and into my twenties.
At some point his wife called for a family meeting at the hospital. The Hospice contact was there. She explained that he was near death. Might go that day or in a few months.
When the meeting ended, she told us to go to Dad’s room and say goodbye.
I went into the room. I stood by his bed.
My right hand rose. It neared his arm. It got close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin.
And then I started trembling.
I walked away.
And I’ve never regretted not telling either of my parents that I loved them, for that would have been a lie.
I’ve never regretted not crying, for having them truly gone, was such a tremendous relief that there are no words to adequately describe.
Both have been gone for many years, but what they did to me has never left me. I still carry it in my heart. Writing about it helps.
So it is with no regrets that I put into words, once more, why I am the way I am. A person who refuses to regret the feelings that I hold even though I’ve tried to excise them from my heart.
There’s nothing wrong with having no regrets.
Walking along the beach,
I found a shell.
an ordinary shell
it is perfectly formed
six rows of ridges
ruffles
completely round
except for where it joined
its twin when still whole
the shell feels surprisingly cool
and light
as if it’s soul’s mate
disappeared long ago
as I stare out at the Pacific Ocean
I wonder where this clam
might have lived
and how it got to this spot
on this very day
in time for me to pick it up
Years ago, my family moved
to California
a long journey
I felt the hollowness
of forced abandonment
like the clam
I was not in charge of my destiny
that power lay in my parents’ hands
I was an ordinary person
no great beauty
smart, but lacking common sense
or so I had been told
my parents picked the city
the house, even the school
all I did was move in
confined by their overarching rules
until I went to college
for years I drifted through life
swept by the tides
working at one job, then another
until marriage grounded me
now I stand with feet in the damp sand
rejoicing in the gifts given me,
such as simple clam shell
held in the hand
Alone
In the middle of a crowded room
Silent voices scream for recognition
Fear
Twists guts into compressed clay
Paralyzing limbs, numbing throats
Degradation
Fills the ears of the emotionally injured
Ruining scarce moments of hard-fought joy
Depression
Carries sinking hearts into oblivion
Erasing memories of happiness felt
Hands
Reach out, begging for salvation
Yearning for one sign of love
Answers
Arrive in rain-soaked clouds
Pouring down tears of understanding
Compassion
Clears the night of unmasked terrors
Awakening remnants of esteem, long forgotten
Joy
Blooms in multi-colored bursts of words
Spoken, thoughts shared, kindnesses felt
Light
Seeps into the crevices of the heart
Obliterating shards of self-doubt
Happiness
Explodes in multicolored bursts
Opening souls to welcoming voices
Surrounded
Encased
Enfolded
Alone no more
Growing up in a dysfunctional family
I didn’t want to marry.
Ever.
While my dad never hit my mom
That I saw
He dominated her.
Controlled where she went
The money she spent
The meals she cooked.
They screamed obscenities
At each other
Daily
The anger rubbed off on me
Both parents calling me vile names
I cried.
I swore that I would never be trapped
In a hate-filled relationship
With any man
Thinking about marriage
Weighed me down
Sinking into the floor
My shoulders ached at the thought
Of a man not letting me
Be me
I dated some.
Saw nothing of interest
Not even a spark
Until I transferred to a different office
And a blue-eyed man
Smiled.
He didn’t talk much,
But he showed patience
Helping me learn
When he asked me out
My stomach flipped
Could this be?
I yearned for his touch,
A sweet kiss
He didn’t disappoint.
My vision of the future
Changed to include his
Warmth
When he proposed, I rejoiced.
Before I would have run,
But not this time
Marriage is a weight,
But not always one of
Pain.
He taught me to bear love,
To cherish times together,
To rejoice.
Many years later
I gladly carry marriage
And will until death.
The burden is worth it.
Some scars are invisible but powerful nonetheless. Because they can’t be seen, no sympathy is offered, no concerning questions asked.
But what happens when you are told that your scars will be easily seen? Do you have the procedure or not?
That’s the choice I faced when I investigated cosmetic surgery after losing eighty pounds.
The scars on my arms would run down the backside. They might fade with time or they might remain as deep red lines. I didn’t care. I hated the flaps of saggy skin that smacked the water when I swam, so loudly that I could hear the whump, whump as the bags smacked the surface, despite wearing earplugs and a cap.
I believed that if I could hear it that clearly, then so could everyone else.
I hated the way my arms looked in short sleeves: huge bags of quivering flesh. I was embarrassed, humiliated and my self-esteem suffered.
The surgery would remove the bags. I chose self-esteem over scarring.
After recovering from that operation I investigated additional cosmetic surgery to remove the roll of skin that had pooled around my waist. Even though it was always hidden under my clothes, unless I wore an overly baggy top, the bulge was visible.
Once again the surgeon said there would be scarring, most likely a deep red line that encircled my waist. My response? I told her that the only one who would see it was my husband. The benefit of the operation would be clearly visible: no roll of excess skin.
Granted my scars are visible, but the surgery removed the psychological effects caused by extreme embarrassment, by my disgust of my body.
After recovery, every time I looked in the mirror, I was shocked. Who was this woman looking back at me? She had no flabby arms, no roll of skin.
My new identity was hard to embrace. Months went by and I still did not recognize myself, did not connect that reflection with who I was now.
Two years later I am still surprised. The scars are there, but they are badges of honor, not of shame.
I wasn’t permitted to have a voice, to express opinions until I went away to college. My father was a bully who saw nothing of value in me except for the possibility of marrying me off to someone with a bit of money. My mother rejected me because I had no interest in being her. My brother was often a friend and playmate, but he could also be cruel. My sister was much younger, and due to some health issues, the apple of my mother’s eye.
When I learned about middle-child-syndrome, at first I believed that I had fabricated the ways my family treated me. That I had exaggerated it all, that none of the punishments and constraints had ever happened.
There is a possibility that my memories are distorted, but not to that extrent. I know that I was a victim of both emotional and physical abuse. Those things happened.
Because of my low position in the family, I felt that I had no voice. That nothing I said or thought mattered. This was reinforced by laughter, taunts and even commands to keep my mouth shut.
And it wasn’t just at home that I felt powerless. My teachers seldom called on me and so when they did, my mouth seized up and no words came out. My classmates laughed each time and my teachers would give me a look of derision. I learned to sit low in my desk and to keep my thoughts to myself.
It wasn’t until a kind high school math teacher saw something in me that no one else ever had that I began to speak. Anytime someone was needed to solve a challenging problem, I was the one he chose. At first he let me work in quite, but after a while, he insisted that I explain the steps.
It was hard, but I spoke.
Because of his support, eventually I began using my voice in my Spanish class. I tried answering questions in my English class when called on, but somehow I never got it right.
There was an incident in Spanish 4. My teacher criticized my ac cent. I responded in a stream of fluent Spanish that got me kicked out of class for a week. After that he called on me with great regularity. By speaking up I had earned his respect.
When I went off to college I was beginning to develop a voice. I could speak up in some classes, but not all. I managed to major In Russian without demonstrating a mastery of the language. I loved to show off in math, but then the department chair told me I was wasting my time majoring in math. He left me both speechless and distraught.
After college I got a job as a customer service rep for a major furniture store. Day after day I had to answer the phone and be polite as irate customers yelled at me. I had a script to follow. Without those written words, I would have been mute.
My next job was with the federal government. I had to go out in the field and knock on doors, demanding back taxes. I was terrified the entire time I held that job. I found excuses to hang out in the office, but I couldn’t do that every day. As time passed, as I gained experience talking to total strangers, my confidence grew.
It was still challenging, but I did what I had to do.
I had dreamed of being a teacher since I was quite small. When I had my first child I had no idea of what to do with him. Our city’s recreation department had an inexpensive parent-child education class that gave me ideas of activities. As a participant, I also had to teach the little kids at least once a week. I enjoyed it! Sitting on the floor with adoring eyes gave me the power to speak, to sing, to dance, to laugh.
From there I earned my elementary teaching credential. When I stood in front of my third-grade class for the first time, I felt at home. I loved being the one helping them learn. I felt a deep responsibility to take them further than the curriculum asked and that meant helping them to find their voices.
Helping them helped me as well. We grew together.
I discovered that I knew things that many of my peers did not. I led workshops and spoke up at trainings. My principal considered me a mentor and I took that role seriously.
Being a mentor at work gave me the strength to take active roles in my church, in my kids’ activities and even to initiate a summer educational program. With each success, my voice grew louder and stronger.
I’d like to report that my voice is freely used, that I have no problems speaking up, but that would be a lie. When in a crowd, I tend to sit back and listen. When with strangers I revert to my childhood silent self. But when I am with friends, I look for opportunities to add something to the conversation.
While my voice is not loud, it does appear in comfortable situations. I am still reserved, but I am no longer afraid of sharing opinions and thoughts. I love hearing what others have to say, but I also want them to know what I have to say.
I found my voice. And I love that.
Until recently, I’d never given much thought to how many times those words pop up.
For many of us, it began when we were quite young. “Being considered” to acceptance into a private elementary school. In some religions, you are “considered” for participation in Holy Sacraments.
You’re “considered” when applying for a scholarship, job or internship. Same when trying to get your first credit card as well as when purchasing a car or home.
Admittance into the college of your choice requires a waiting period while you are “being considered”.
Over and over throughout life we sit around, waiting impatiently, as our merits are being weighed. Are we smart enough, talented enough, skilled enough? Even though physical appearance is not supposed to be a defining characteristic, it is if your skin color isn’t right or you weigh too much or aren’t “manly” or “womanly” enough for whatever image the college/job/internship wants to project.
At my age I thought I was well past “being considered”. I’m a retired wife, mother and grandmother. I’m not trying to join any clubs or organizations. I have my routines that are familiar and comfortable. I’m not looking for adventure. I just want to be accepted as a write.
This week I received a welcome email from a literary magazine that I’d been longing for. A story I’d submitted was “being considered” for publication, contingent on my making the recommended edits.
Of course, I made the changes and resubmitted the story, knowing full well that it will still fall into the category of “being considered”.
Ever since I began sending out stories, I’ve sat, with baiting breath, hoping to “be considered”. It’s what every writer dreams of. Knowing that someone, somewhere, sees value in what you’ve written and wants to include it in some type of publication.
So, I won’t complain about “being considered”. Instead I will count my blessings as I wait, with fingers crossed, for the next word.
I did not grow up dreaming of my future wedding. In fact, I swore that I’d never marry. Growing up in a dysfunctional home, one where my parents seldom spoke civilly to each other and to me, my impression of marriage was quite bleak.
On top of that, I didn’t read romance novels or buy teen magazines that offered dating advice. Wearing a fancy one-use dress didn’t appeal to me. Walking down the aisle while everyone watched terrified me.
I didn’t want to be beholden to someone like my mom was to my dad. She had to beg him for money and then turn in receipts to show where the money went. When I got older, I understood: my mom would have spent every dime. My dad had that privilege.
If he wanted a “new” car, he’d buy it. When stereos appeared on the market, he bought one of those. He replaced car after car, stereo system after system. Too bad if my mom needed new shoes. I was embarrassed the first time I saw her wearing shoes she’d retrieved from a dumpster.
Arguing was a sport in my house. My mom yelled at me. My brother and sister did as well. Mom reported any behaviors she found disagreeable to my dad. When he came home from work, he’d yell at me or beat me. And then he’d lecture my mom for being such a poor parent.
My mom chased Dad with cast iron skillets, trying to whack him on the side of the head. My brother kicked me in the stomach and squeezed my arms so tightly that he left bruises. My sister would swing her legs back and forth, over and over, striking my legs with her corrective shoes. Between them all, I had bruises over much of my body.
Why would I marry? Why would I ever bring children into the world? It was the furthest thing from my mind.
Until I met Mike.
When my eyes connected with his, my world turned upside down. His face lit up, his blue eyes sparkled and his body posture, casual, not stiff, drew me in.
We became work partners and often accompanied each other out on cases. Both of us were shy and quiet, so there wasn’t a lot of conversation. His calmness, his quietness, was a relief. Every moment spent with Mike was a joy.
Within a month of dating, we were engaged. Six months later we married.
In the interim I had to plan the whole thing, and not knowing anything about marriage etiquette, I was in way over my head. I also had almost no money to buy a dress, veil, flowers, rent a hall and buy food for guests.
Mike helped, thank goodness, but he knew about as much as I did.
I was terrified the entire time, afraid that I would make such a hug mistake that he would change his mind.
I visited a few bridal shops and soon found out that I couldn’t afford a store-bought dress. My mom was an excellent seamstress, so off we went to the fabric store. We picked out clearance fabric and trim, then a pattern that met my requirement’s: simple in style and that covered my upper body. Not too long, not too short.
I discovered a bridal shop in a lower-income area that had a veil that would do. I wanted nothing long and dramatic. No pins to hold it in place. No frills around my head. Pretty much a duplicate of what I wore for my First Communion.
Finding an affordable hall was a challenge. I made call after call until one fell into my price range. It was a dismal place. Very little lighting and a million dust motes. A plain slab floor. Scarred and scuffed pretend wood walls. But it was available and affordable.
I bought flowers; the smallest bouquets possible. Just enough for the altar. Nothing grand or glorious. Food was either made by my mom or purchased in bulk. We sliced salami and bologna, roast beef and cheeses. Made tiny meatballs and spread crackers on cheap tinfoil platters. Deviled eggs filled the refrigerator, and the day before, we diced fruit for an army.
Plastic tablecloths and bland napkins, plates and utensils.
During my free time, I copied songs from the radio onto Mike’s 8-track tape player. That was the music for our wedding.
Mike’s family helped out. His brother bought watermelon to serve as fruit bowls. Jell-O salads were made by his sisters. I know that they bought more, but I was too scared to pay much attention. Oh! And our guests brought food as well.
The reception was more like a family potluck.
Mike and I decided which vows to memorize and attended mandatory pre-marriage classes given by the Catholic Church. He knew Bishop Cummins from his school days at Bishop O’Dowd High School, so Mike asked him to officiate. We both knew Phil Josue, a good friend with an excellent singing voice. We paid for the organist, but it was Phil who brighten our marriage.
I forgot to mention that I didn’t know what kind of fabric bridesmaids wore, so I picked out the most god-awful green taffeta with white polka dots. At the time, I thought it was pretty, but the main reasons I chose if was because it was cheap and there was plenty of it.
Then I made them wear white wide-brimmed bonnets with green ribbons. The best part was that Mike’s sister Pat made the bouquets. They were beautiful.
Prior to the wedding ceremony, Mike told me repeatedly that no one would care what he wore: they’d be looking at me. So I made his side wear white tuxedos with frilly shirts. Poor guys!
When the day arrived, I was a nervous wreck. The evening before my family had descended on the hall, decorating what little we could, and dropping the food off in the hall’s refrigerator.
Standing in the vestibule, seeing how many had come to see us wed, my heart pounded. I grew faint and felt like I was going to topple over. The march started and off I went, fingertips brushing my dad’s arm. He had reluctantly allowed me to marry Mike despite my mother’s objections. I would have preferred to walk myself down the aisle, without the guy who’d ridiculed me and beaten me, but convention called for Dad.
Seeing all those eyes on me, made things worse. By the time I was handed over to Mike, I was seeing spots. Breathing was hard. My mind froze. I didn’t understand a word Bishop Cummins said. When Mike recited his vows and they weren’t the ones we’d agreed on, I tried to memorize the syllables as they came out of his mouth. My turn came, I did my best. We were married. I could breathe.
Walking with Mike down the aisle brought tears to my eyes. My fears receded. I was no longer property of the people who’d mistreated me. I was not Mike’s property either. That was something we’d discussed. I was married to a man who loved me for who I was and who I would become.
While getting married was one of the most terrifying events of my life, when it was over, I was the happiest person on earth.
Words and Thoughts 