+I HATE IT THAT MY MOTHER WAS SO SICK – AND SO MEAN TO ME!

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If I didn’t know my mother was the way that she was, I could read these words she wrote in 1959 so differently.  I HATE it that my mother was so sick!  This piece is one of my favorites of all the words she wrote.  And, again — do YOU see a severe child abusing mother  in these words she wrote?  This, the healing power of that place, of that mountain, of that homestead — for my mother in ways I can never know — and for me as her victimized survivor.

Were such moments as this one (below) only rare ones in which my mother was lucid and perhaps ‘her self’?  And yet even if she was IN one of ‘these moments’ in a split second, without warning, she often-usually exploded at me as a child – violently – I rarely saw it coming – and I never understood why.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

°<>°<>°<>°

December 26, 1959 Saturday

*Notes:  Nice clear day, colder, no snow.

Temperature had dropped today and snow was drier and crunched beneath your feet.  I like it better this way and you don’t get damp and wet-cold when it is colder like this!  Today I said ‘heck with fussing around the house take a Holiday’.  All of us went outside.  The children are so happy to be outdoors and to have Daddy home.  I decided for the first time to go off on my skis alone for awhile. Such enjoyment – nice to be off awhile by myself and I wasn’t at all afraid to ski over to the embankment overlooking the creek alone.  The snow was just perfect – dry and powdery for skiing.  Every little way I had to stop and gaze around at the beauty all around me.

Every time I get outside here it makes me feel so silly to worry over the little daily happenings in the bit of civilization we’ve brought up to this remote spot with us.  We are but tiny ants really so insignificant – perhaps if I could see OUT of our trailer and hut I could feel this all day but I feel so shut inside the place – without windows to capture the view, even in part.  The view of the water of Kink Arm is ever changing as the sun sets.  One moment one of the lavender splendor and the next wreathed in rose.  How close I always feel to God here.  Mrs. Bockstahler referred to this place as ‘Celestial Heights’ in her recent letter and it truly is a heavenly spot.

It was a new sensation and a very nice one to make the first tracks across the white stretches of unbroken white snow in our fields.  Smokey following close behind so contented and happy that we two were alone on a walk.  These moments are never to be forgotten.

As I got further away from our hut and the children’s voices became fainter and fainter the moose trails became more and more frequent.  As I got to the bank where I could gaze down on the still-rushing unfrozen creek down into the valley spread out below and Thomas’ homestead so tiny below me and hear their sled dogs howling echo and reecho amount the hills – the tracks were very frequent and places where they had bedded down the night before were all about me.  In one place the moose droppings in its trail were still steaming.  I looked about me but no moose in sight.  As I absorbed the stillness and beauty about me I was once again entranced and dedicated my life to our homestead forever more – such love – no, something I can’t even call love – surged from within me – such a kinship for this strange unknown land that one would expect would frighten me and upset me by its mere isolation and coldness – instead I feel such at ONE with this place – everything about it appeals to me – oh, for words to be able to fully express the way I feel.

I only wish I never had to leave it, not even to return to the log house [in Eagle River] which holds no appeal to me.

As I skied back I kept telling  myself I would find a way to remain here and watch the days now grow longer – the sky grow brighter until the snows melted and spring came again to our beloved Mt. regions – how can I leave, how can I tear myself away again – and how will I ever know a moment’s rest until this beloved land is truly ours – all ours.

I skied down below the flat land and crossed the mountainous hills below our place where it’s still heavily wooded beneath our clearings and the high Mt. peaks are almost obliterated.  I like the wooded regions but once again was glad that Bill chose the open valley above to live in.

I came across one spot that made me smile and chuckle aloud.  Signs before me showed a moose had hurried down the Mt. – perhaps rushing from Smokey’s bark – the snow was so deep and all it looked as if the moose had slid on its stomach and the prints were far apart.  What a sight that must have been!

I would like to become more familiar with the cold quiet of the Alaskan winter days  and have the time and opportunity to discover the secrets of the wild life around me. Study their tracks, their habits, etc.

In some spots my foot slipped out of the skis so my leg sank to the ground beneath me – the snow came clear to my waist and it was quite a feat to get back on the skis.

I have become so unused to outdoor exercises and so unaccustomed to manipulating skis so that by the time I came out on the road I was truly quite tired – but that nice kind of tiredness that always comes from good outdoor exercise – and such a thrill to know I had not even been off our land!!

Down at the log house I remember trying to ski about and feeling rather silly as I was in view of all my neighbors and could scarcely go 100 feet without being on someone else’s property.

As I came down the road I could see the girls playing on their snow castle.  Sharon came running down the road holding her big blue balloon that Santa sent and her long blue and white stocking cap askew with the long white tassels bobbing up and down – that Grandma in California had lovingly knitted for her youngest granddaughter to keep her warm on the long Alaskan winter.  Such a sweet  sight and it came to me that she was everything a child should be and so completely absorbed in her own activity and so content with her childish play

It sounded so good to hear Bill about the place.  I wish we could all be together for this period – like other homesteaders.  This place needs a man about.

Coleman lamp to fill – already dark although only 3:00 in afternoon.  Baked mince pie – all came in cold and hungry – good meal – then sat down at table in hut to try out some of games in Treasure Chest of games Mrs. Eklund sent us.

Girls put on Chinese kimonos Carolyn sent and looked so cute sitting there.  We played checkers and then BINGO.  It was fun and even Sharon was able to do her part – calling out to Daddy the scorekeeper.  I had that number – her face beaming.  Being together – how very nice!!!

+’FREE OF ALL ARCHETYPES’ = ‘DISSOCIATION WITHOUT HAVING AN IDENTITY’

+++++++++++++++++++++++

I have not escaped thinking about some information I posted yesterday in two different posts.  Some of that information was about Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and some was about the human psychological archetypes.  I need to take a minute and tie these two batches of information together from my perspective as a survivor of terrible and long-term infant-child abuse.

Kristalyn Salters-Pedneault, PhD says about BPD that ‘splitting’ is ‘very common’ among people with this disorder.   She is talking about my mother.

Splitting is very common in people with borderline personality disorder (BPD), and it leads people with BPD to view others and themselves in “all or nothing” terms. For example, a person with BPD may view one family member as always “good” and another as always “bad.” Or, a person with BPD may see themselves as “good” one minute, but shift to seeing themselves as all “bad” or even evil the next.”

When Joshua David Stone writes in his book, Soul Psychology: How to Clear Negative Emotions and Spiritualize Your Life that

The true self-realized being uses this archetype as its main theme but is not identified with it; such a self-realized being lives in a state of consciousness as the Fair Witness or Observer, free of all archetypes.” (page 263)

he is writing about me.

++++

While the psychologist Carl Jung’s writing about human psychological archetypes is far too complex to describe in this post, it is enough to know that seldom does any human being escape the operation of one or more of these archetypal psychological patterns from operating in their ‘psyche’ at any given moment.

Around the time of our birth is one of ‘those times’ when archetypes are NOT playing their roles across the dramatic expression of our life.  Obviously, we have to grow a body-brain before we can DO much of anything.  It is during the earliest months and years of our lifetime that we grow and develop the physiological circuitry and pathways in our body-brain that we will use to express our self for the rest of our lifetime.

When Stone talks about this Fair Witness-Observer NON-archetype he is describing a state that I believe we are born into.  From that point we develop our body-brain that will eventually be able to express a self along with all the complexities of life that a self is capable of.

Yet, when severe abuse like my mother did to me happens – exactly BECAUSE she had SPLITTING so entrenched within her own physiological body-brain-mind-self – I as her victim did NOT get to develop my own body-brain-mind-self as I would have done had I not been forced to grow up within such an unbelievably toxic environment.

We have all seen film footage from one story or another where someone breaks through a brick wall and finds within it human bones.  Dead or alive?  Yet I KNOW because I have psychologically been there that growing up with a BPD parent who has no choice but to SPLIT their entire world into insane patterns related to GOOD versus BAD results in our own psychology being sealed behind a massive brick wall.

Brick by insane brick my mother severed my own connection with myself in interaction with the world every step throughout my infant-childhood.  As a result I DID NOT get to move off of my born-into condition of being at dead center without any psychological archetypes of my own!  I stayed, as I described yesterday, in that place-of-psychological-origin:  Being an Observer-Fair Witness which by definition MEANS there are no archetypes present.

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The Wickipedia entry for Carl Jung and archetypes lists the following:

++

Jung outlined five main archetypes;

  • The Self, the regulating center of the psyche and facilitator of individuation
  • The Shadow, the opposite of the ego image, often containing qualities that the ego does not identify with but possesses nonetheless
  • The Anima, the feminine image in a man’s psyche; or:
  • The Animus, the masculine image in a woman’s psyche
  • The Persona, how we present to the world, usually protects the Ego from negative images (acts like a mask)

Although the number of archetypes is limitless, there are a few particularly notable, recurring archetypal images:

++

Yes, there ARE more, and the exist within the human psychological realm like constellations of stars in the sky.  They ‘come into being’ when certain human patterns of  feeling, thought and action repeat themselves TOGETHER within a psychological constellation that is recognizable enough to be named.

OR – they do not.

I bring this up today in part because I had a very bad sleepless night last night.  I could not name exactly what triggered my ‘state of being’ THE ONE WHO CRIES AND DOES NOT SLEEP.  Yet I also know that what was triggered resulted in me tumbling into this one of my ‘nameless identities’ that is part of what is called my Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID).

Because my mother had such control over me and my life, I was not allowed to develop ANY identity during the first years of my life.  The physiological circuitry and pathways did not develop within me that would have allowed even ONE solitary LINDA to come forth.  I was always, consistently and overwhelmingly the CONTAINER for my mother’s BAD split-off self.

The first step as I understand it that a human being takes from birth to becoming a self with identity is to have its FEELING states recognized by its caregivers and mirrored back to it.  These early interactions BUILD the circuitry and pathways within the body-brain that allow a fully developed psychologically whole human to develop so that the human archetypal patterns of existence can go out into the world, interact, and form an individual’s life.

When that doesn’t happen, like in my case, something ELSE happens instead – and that something else has at its core the same non-archetype Fair Witness-Observer state that we are born with.  I believe that if ‘experts’ took a good, long look the roots of Dissociative Identity Disorder this alternative pattern of ‘being a person’ would become clear.

How this infant-child abuse pattern leads to DID for people who ACTUALLY have separate, definable identities operating is well beyond me to understand.  That is NOT my condition.  I simply dissolve into a non-identity state that is primarily unnameable EMOTION like I did last night without any clear and definable identity to process it.

My part in the ‘mess’ is to find ways as soon as I can to ‘pull myself out of it’.  Much of the abuse and horror of my childhood happened at night (and this is especially true because during the years we lived in Alaska ‘nighttime’ itself has a different meaning because of the extremes in daylight hour shifts).  But also because my mother’s insane splitting-related abuse of me happened from the time I was born, when laying down was ALL I could do – the laying down trigger is perhaps the most ancient one I suffer from when something happens that causes me to ‘dissolve-dissociate-disorganize-disorient’.

(This state is also tied for me to the thousands upon thousands of hours of being made to lay in my bed, alone, immobilized and unable to escape or to ‘do’ anything throughout my entire childhood — but suffer and usually — not sleep.)

This is all I want to say about this today.  It is not laying down time now, and there are things now that I need to do now in the daylight.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

+HOMESTEADING ‘TEASER’ STORY FOR EBOOK VERSION OF ‘MILDRED’S MOUNTAIN’

++++++++++++++++++++++++

The following homesteading story will probably be a free ‘teaser’ for an ebook version of the book of my mother’s writing, ‘Mildred’s Mountain’:

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°<>°<>°<>°

December 15, 1959 Tuesday

*Notes:  More of same work today at the log house as yesterday: iron, wash, vac and teach.  Had the water cans all filled and everyone ready to go when Bill got home.  Loaded Jeep and all – then to Market for groceries and on the road at 6:00 P.M..

*Little did we know – didn’t get HOME until 1:30 in the morning!!!

Tuesday night.  What a night!!

I had planned for us to eat dinner when we got back to the homestead – so that we could leave the log house earlier.  As it turned out we never had any dinner unless you could count a cold sandwich in front of the fire at the half way point on our road at midnight.  No, we had no dinner.

It took ages for Bill to load the two-wheel trailer.  We couldn’t even get the Jeep up the first tiny stretch of road we usually go up.  Snow was so deep it hit the underneath part of the Jeep – oh, it was cold and clear.

Finally we all loaded onto the trailer but only for one minute – Bill insists we get out and walk up that first steep hill.

My, the snow was deep.  It had snowed quite a few inches since Monday morning.  It was all we could do to climb up the hill – then back into the trailer again.  I had brought two blankets and we made a kind of tent out of them and sitting close together we were quite warm – so the snow from the overhanging branches and trees bent over from their heavy burden of snow – didn’t fall on us directly.

All was slow but sure until we hit that one miserable hill that has given Bill so much trouble.  He tried it four times with no luck so then we all unloaded and Bill told us to walk ahead.

Even John who adores Alaska – tonight was fed up.  Says when he’s grown he will move to a warm place.  Linda felt ill she was so cold.  Sharon and Cindy never complained once but I could feel Sharon’s body trembling and Cindy tried to warm her feet over the fire – No dinner – and 1:30 A.M.

Still couldn’t get it up!!  Over and over he tried – oh, such grueling work for so late and cold a night.  Thank goodness for the moon light which helped lighten the road.

We waited and waited – hoping and praying – not wanting to turn back and yet dreading the thought of going ahead – a half mile up the mountain at this hour.  The snow was deep and even though the children were warmly dressed they were not dressed for sub-zero weather or to go hiking up a mountain in deep snow – already cold and no dinner.

Our baby kittens were up there too and we had to feed them.  Bill thought if given time he could repair the tractor which a part had broken on in the struggle to get it up over the frozen earth.

I decided we’d wait and see.  I gathered sticks and wood from the brittle alder trees and Bill poured a small amount of gasoline on them – soon we had a crackling fire.  I got the two blankets and spread them in front of the fire.  The high banks on the road sheltered us some.  I got bread and ham out of the trailer and chocolate bars, donuts and coffee (which we carry with us).

For a few minutes it was nice but really lent little heat and warmth – but psychologically it seemed cozier and gave them a bright glow to warm their hearts.  They ate and it diverted their minds from themselves.

After a quick bite to eat Bill went back and worked so hard.

Such a long time – we had no watch and couldn’t tell how long but I knew it was past midnight.  I remembered seeing Thomas pass us at the foot of the mountain on his way home at about 9:30 and I knew he was home and asleep.

We looked around at the weird shapes the snow had made out of fallen logs, etc.  We were in the ‘ghost forest’ and it was not beautiful as it is below and above.  Our place is a beautiful sight in the snow – each tree lovelier than the other.  But here in the alder forest it was cold, bleak and disheartening.

It took all my time to keep the fire burning and get the children to walk around – keep moving and all.

Just as I wondered if it would ever make it we heard a roar and there was “Oliver.”  The rest of the ride up the Mountain was a nightmare.  Wet and cold we sat – not caring any longer if the snow fell on us or not.  It no longer mattered.

Sharon, exhausted, fell asleep in my arms.  It was all we could do to sit up on the steep hills – the boxes, oil, water cans all fell backwards – almost pushing us out of the trailer.  And me with the heavy child asleep in my arms had to keep all thoughts of staying in trailer.

On each hairpin switchback Bill had to plow the snow over and over and push it off into a corner – back and forth – and it’s no easy job to back up with the trailer in back of him – and no easy job to remain in the trailer.

Slow, oh so slow we crept through the deep snow homeward.  Finally we reached the upper hills and there sat our Palace – and such it seemed to us that night.  Warmth awaited us – soon we’ll have a wood fire blazing and cocoa heating on the stove and our cold, wet clothes off.

1:30 A.M. – Could it be possible that it took us six and a half hours to come 15 miles from the log house in Eagle River?  No wonder Sharon fell right back to sleep.  The others now had a second wind and babbled and laughed – having quickly recovered from the ordeal.  Now they were home.

Bill refused to go to bed – oil to pump and then he’d leave.  He said if he ever laid down he would never wake up for 10 hours.  He would go back to the log house – clean up, eat, get a cat nap and go to work – to work for 12 hours.

“Oh no darling you can’t – You’ll be sick! – Please come to bed and rest.”

His mind was made up.  I went to bed and was asleep in minutes and never woke up until 10:00 A.M. when children woke.  He’ll stay at log house Wednesday night – and I hope sleep well and then come up here Thursday.

P.S. When we got home – two gigantic moose stood, as sentinels, on the hill behind our house – they just stood and stared and watched us.

Bill said to me, after I queried whether now he wished he were back in California.  “No, even with all this tonight – I feel more alive here than I ever did back there in that smog.”

++++

+WORDS FROM MY MOTHER’S CHRONICLE: WHERE IS THE CHILD ABUSE HERE?

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Now, would you ever say that these words sound like they were written by a severely child-abusing mother?

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°<>°<>°<>°

December 7, 1959 Monday

*Notes:  Our Family Is Never Bored!

The children spend many happy contented hours now working on various Xmas projects.  Cindy has made individual baskets for each member of her beloved family made out of egg carton sections, each wrapped in aluminum foil with a pipe cleaner handle and a marshmallow (how hard they’ll be by Xmas) and a lollypop in each one.  They’re secretly hidden and each day Sharon teases to see hers – it’s a constant thing to talk about, to whisper about and to be excited about for Xmas is coming.

Our Xmas books – we buy two each year — has grown to quite a collection.  These are taken out during the first week of December and read each day until Xmas. This year John and Linda can very expressively read them aloud!  It thrills me to see the younger two – eyes wide with wonder – listening in rapt attention to their older brother or sister read the magic words to them.

Yes, Xmas is coming.

No mention is made of money – we all know – it just isn’t there.  We will do what we can but the days of borrowing money for Xmas presents that we can’t afford are over!!  There will be Xmas presents though.

I’ve bought at half price knitting sets – with yarn and tiny needles for two girls and a needlepoint set for one – I hope John will get his skis and Grandma will buy his boots.  The girls will get a flying saucer from Santa to share and a tea set.  The 5¢ and 10¢ store and ingenuity and imagination and love will make a Xmas – you just wait and see….

What is important!!

More and more every day I realize what’s really important in life!

Being together – being a family unit and being loved and loving – these are the important things.

Health – to be healthy and well and to know that the ones you love are well.

(I hope my loved ones never suffer – how terrible it would be to see them hurt or sick – how terrible to ever think they might need me – and I wouldn’t know).

How thankful I am to be here writing this and know our family is safe and together on this night –

Dearest God in heaven above, I thank you for our family and our homestead and for the opportunities we have here to create a home for our loved ones in a land such as this.

I am content tonight – tomorrow we will plan and work for our future but I intend to fully enjoy each day as it comes – to work hard but to be content to wait – material things are really of such minor importance.  I feel we already have what really counts and must never lose it in hurrying and working too hard to get THINGS.

I see so many people – even up here in Alaska – doing just that, living in far too expensive houses – beyond what they can really afford to pay and working so hard to live there and meet the payments that the house as beautiful as it may be, holds no happiness for the occupants and they live separately in it.

No, no – never – we’ve had our share of money worries – no, no, no.

I’ll be content with less – Bill and I are so close now – never, never to be apart mentally and spiritually – nothing is worth that!

Our little hut and trailer mean more to me if we can be all together and happy and close here!!

The other – I pray God – we’ll be content to wait for.  If we can manage fine – if not, so what!?!?

°<>°<>°<>°

December 8, 1959 Tuesday 10:30 P.M.

*Notes:  How quiet and serene and peaceful it is.  Everyone is asleep.  Even our two kittens, Dixie and Pixie are curled up in Cindy’s bed.  I don’t approve but haven’t the heart to move them.  One is tucked under her arm with covers pulled up under it’s chin, all the world lie a toy.  The second is on the foot of her bed.

The dishes are done and the trailer is tidy and neat.

Everything looks cozy and cute and serene in the light of the single kerosene lamp I am writing by.

Bill went to bed – absolutely exhausted after a 24 hour ordeal of futile attempts to return here which finally terminated in his having to walk the last mile.  Even poor ‘Oliver’ our faithful tractor found this 10° to 20° below zero weather too cold!

I just went outside for a moment and it’s really cold and really beautiful.  The stars are so close looking you feel as if you could pick them out of the sky and the moon is so bright that you can see all the Mountains and the valley below.

How I truly love this place – no words can aptly describe how I feel about this land we hope someday to own.  It’s really an almost HOLY feeling.  I know it sounds silly but it’s the way I feel.  If only you could see it – you would see what a Shangri-la it is! – and what’s more we have created a home – be it ever so humble here!  It’s quite a grand feeling!!

Time for bed.  Good night!

+++++++++++++

IN MEMORY OF MY BORDERLINE MOTHER:

From Kristalyn Salters-Pedneault, PhD, your Guide to Borderline Personality Disorder You may not be familiar with the term “splitting,” but it is a phenomenon that many people with BPD, and their family members, will recognize. This week, learn how to cope with splitting when it happens.

[Linda note:  IMPORTANT – THIS IS WHAT MY MOTHER DID – What you just read above was from the ALL GOOD side of the split!]


What is Splitting?
Splitting is very common in people with borderline personality disorder (BPD), and it leads people with BPD to view others and themselves in “all or nothing” terms.
How to Handle Splitting
What should you do when a loved one is engaged in splitting? There isn’t always an easy answer — the best way to manage the situation will depend the nature of your relationship with your loved one, the intensity of the splitting, and the impact it is having on the family.

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Divorcing a BPD Spouse
Does BPD mean that your marriage should end in divorce? Some couples do make their BPD marriage work, but sometimes the relationship can’t be saved.

Family Therapy for BPD
Can healing from BPD be a family affair?

Must Reads
What is BPD?
Symptoms of BPD
Diagnosis of BPD
Treatment of BPD
Living with BPD

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

+FROM THE CHRONICLE OF “MILDRED’S MOUNTAIN”

++++++++++++++++

I do not understand this ‘thing’ my mother had about ‘dreams’!  Is this because I have never really had one of my own?  Was this ‘dream thing’ of my mother’s related to her Borderline split between what is/was real and what is/was not real?  Between the ‘darling’ version of her world and ‘scary one’ as reflected in her inability to tolerate the real world with its fully integrated good and bad’?

The following is why I am NOW bending toward this as a title for the book(s) of my mother’s writings:

Mildred’s Mountain –

A City Woman’s Chronicle of Living Her Alaskan Homesteading Dream

OR should I put it this more accurate way:

Mildred’s Mountain –

A City Woman’s Chronicle of Living In Her Alaskan Homesteading Dream

I will have to think about this.  Adding that little tiny word “in” into the title really IS a reflection of my ‘analysis and interpretation’ of my mother, of her life and of her homesteading venture.  My use of the word ‘chronicle’ in the title (as mentioned in last night’s post) is supposed to MEAN that I am doing neither of these two actions in relation to her work – either analyzing or interpreting it!

And yet I do suspect that the way my mother’s brain-mind worked did mean that she was unable to tell the difference!  Was she ‘living her dream’ or was she ‘living IN her dream’?

I do suspect the latter.

++++++++++++++++

°<>°<>°<>°

November 24, 1959 Tuesday

*Notes:  Why do we struggle so hard for our homestead on the Mountain –  Here I’ve had the children out of school for going on three weeks – still no credit for living on our land – Obstacles so great – can we, will we overcome these new obstacles?

Yes, yes, yes – we must but why?  What is it I hold onto so dearly – certainly not – our humble hut on the Mountain.  It’s not this that I cling to so desperately.

No, no, no – it’s my dreams – still so dear, so dear, so bright and untarnished.

I remember when we first filed on our homestead – ah, how great our dreams were then – and still are –

A neighbor of ours was over two years ago when we were living at the log house and mentioned our homestead claim.  I felt like a new parent with a brand new baby – beaming and proud – bring forth slides of our lovely one.  But all the neighbor sees is LAND.  “Aha,” she exclaims, “You’re eager to get hold of this land for speculation.”

“No, no I cry!” – but how can I explain our tender, sweet dreams to someone like this?  I try but to no avail.

She puts me down as ‘land hungry.’  How hurt and angry I was – she said, “You’ll never be satisfied with 160 acres.  You’ll want more and more.”

Oh how cruel – and oh, how untrue.

But yet – well, how simple if that were the case.  For then I would not struggle for that land.  We would never have climbed through mud, mosquitoes and carried burdens on our back.  Not for land alone – land for speculation.  Time and money is too dear.  Our family and their comfort are too great.  Would we now do what we’re doing just for land?

No, no, no.

We would have relinquished our claim soon after filing.  But we can’t relinquish our dreams.  It’s our dreams that brought us here to Alaska –made us sell our home and leave our family and friends.  It’s our reason for being here and our very reason for homesteading in the first place.

When – if ever – I see that our dreams cannot and will not materialize, then and only then will I give up.

This summer there was a time when our dreams were faint.  We were never together and always worried and tired – “But it is temporary.”  I said.  “We must always remember our dreams and make them come true.”

Our family must always be first – and our dreams for our family – they all center around our homestead and the life we have planned there.

I never want to sell that land or any part of it.  It would be like selling a member of our family.

Yet, Sunday when I saw that glacial ice on our road – standing thick, slippery and full of ridges – so bad even the tractor couldn’t pass over it and we slipped and could have broken our necks.

Can it be true?

Will we ever be able to live there? – all year round or will it always be a continual battle —  wearing Bill out?  And making him old before his time.

The road has always been our trouble from the beginning and yet our land so peaceful and beautiful is always there beckoning us on and on and on –

to our dreams!!

++++

+BEING MY MOTHER’S ‘FAIR WITNESS-OBSERVER’ – I WANT TO OWN MY CHOICE

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It gives me great comfort this morning as my thinking moves forward along the lines established in my previous two posts and in my reply to the comment included with the first of these two posts to find pages coming up in my Google search directly connected to the words “archetype fair witness.”

I never thought about it before these last days as I finished the process of organizing and transcribing my mother’s writings that in some – still seemingly bizarre way — I WAS BORN TO BE MY MOTHER’S FAIR WITNESS.

For all the billions of moments I spent as a child during my 18 years of suffering abuse from this woman, I was at the same time being her witness.

Is that something that happens as a PART of being an abused victim?  Are we at the same time we suffer the abuse being the witness to our perpetrator’s OTHER SIDE?  Do we come, as a direct result, to know our perpetrator’s truest reality (in their body-brain in this lifetime)?

According to this author of this book – I might be right on track:

Soul Psychology: How to Clear Negative Emotions and Spiritualize Your Life by Joshua David Stone

It would be logical and reasonable to accept that I was, along with the mountain and the homestead, an embodiment of what my mother needed for her healing.

I was the projection of ‘badness’ for my mother.  I was badness personified.  Hell, literally, of a place to spend one’s infant-childhood!

Yet because 99.99% of what my mother saw in me, what she blamed me for, what she ‘punished’ me for, had NOTHING whatsoever to DO WITH ME, I WAS the ‘fair witness’ of her literalized OWN suffering from inside her own SELF that she dissociated from herself and associated with me.

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The true self-realized being uses this archetype as its main theme but is not identified with it; such a self-realized being lives in a state of consciousness as the Fair Witness or Observer, free of all archetypes.”

From  Joshua David Stone in Soul Psychology: How to Clear Negative Emotions and Spiritualize Your Life, Page 263

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When, such in cases like mine, a human being is born into particularly a mother’s malevolent world of ‘disturbed psychology’, the tiny growing and developing person JUST BARELY MIGHT be able to develop its own self as a separate being from its abuser.  ANYTHING and EVERYTHING else that happens to that little one belongs to the perpetrator and NOT to its own self.

This means for ME that I spent the majority of my infant-childhood NOT being my own self.  For ALL of the time my mother was verbally, psychologically, spiritually, and physically abusing me I was DOING one thing:  Enduring her abuse so I could survive.  During ALL of THIS time, I was in that ‘non-archetypal’ place that I believe we are born into as new and innocent beings that meant I was ONLY being my mother’s ‘fair witness’.

If there had been some other pattern to my relationship with my mother that would have meant at least SOME OF THE TIME I got to be myself, then perhaps I could have moved off of that point of being at dead center as a nonbeing observer of my mother’s madness.  Perhaps then I could have wondered about what was happening to me.  Perhaps then I could have been envious or jealous of the treatment she showed her other ‘darling’ children.  Perhaps I could have THOUGHT for myself.  Perhaps I could have not only FELT the abuse but been able to associate, connect, and string together all the associations belonging to my ongoing experience of myself in my own life – abuse included.

But I couldn’t do any of that.  I never got the chance to.  It is only now at age 58 that I am discovering this NEW information for myself about how being such a victim of such terrible abuse happened AT THE SAME time I was my mother’s primary, intimate WITNESS-observer.

Being at that ‘place’ of what Stone is describing as ‘being without an archetype’ might be fine and good for a person who has been allowed and able to develop and individual clear and strong healthy self from the start.  To ‘get back to’ that place, or to re-achieve that degree of detached non-participation in one’s life might be a goal towards so-called higher spiritual living for SOME.

But for those of us who endured and survived our infant-childhood while being the victim of our caregiver’s UNSPEAKABLE MADNESS this entire process is as reversed NOW during the times of our healing as it was reversed ‘back then’ in the times of our being so hurt and wounded.

I have to find my own choices to BE or NOT to be my mother’s Fair Witness!

As I discover this new level of deep choice, I am beginning to define my own self NOW as I needed to back there from the time I was born.

So if anyone wants to benefit from the experience of actually being able to converse in the here and now with a person who KNOWS what it is like and feels like to be a Fair Witness, talk to a severe infant-child abuse survivor.

During the time we were being overwhelmed by someone’s abuse of us, we were LIVING life as a Fair Witness-Observer being.    Yes, I believe this does mean that all abuse survivors carry the double-sided injury of being not only the victim of the trauma of abuse itself, but also of being a WITNESS ABUSE survivor on the grandest of scales.

In the end, it might be that having our power of CHOICE removed from us is what hurts survivors the most.  I can’t even say, “I want my power of choice back so that I can choose whether or not I want to be my mother’s Fair Witness.”  I never had this choice from the first of my life.  I am only seeing right now what I missed – and when I get this choice, AS I find within myself what this choice IS and how I can make it – I am moving off of this dead center of being a non-person who was the Witness-Target of my mother’s mean madness.

At the same time, these new insights are helping me to realize how FAIR I have ALWAYS been as I consider what my mother (and my father) did to me.  NOW I want the conscious choice to be FAIR or NOT!  I own that ability to be fair or not to be fair!  It was stolen from me at the start of my lie, at the moment of my birth.  So IF I say, “I want my ability to choose to be a remote-viewing observer of my mother’s abusive madness or NOT to be RETURNED to me,” I am saying that I am claiming what must be a Universal Human Right.  This right was mine from within my mother’s womb!    It is that far back that I have to re-turn to re-claim it!!  Look out!  Here I come!

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+GRADUATION – ON TO THE NEXT STAGE OF PUBLISHING MY MOTHER’S WRITINGS

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I guess in a way it’s time for me to celebrate my ‘graduation’ from the job I assigned to myself to transcribe the complete and utter chaotic mess of my mother’s letters and papers that somehow found their way to me when my mother died in 2002.  I am done.  After working most of this past weekend on two more of her homesteading journals that I found at the very, very bottom of the papers piled here by my computer, I cannot find one more single scrap of paper left to do.

The surprises are over.  Now I am working to fine-tune, tweak, correct spelling and edit format in completion of the process that will finally lead to some form of publication of my mother’s words.  While this is still no simple task, it feels to me to be an entirely different step that could NOT happen until I finally finished sorting, organizing and transcribing her work.

I realized yesterday as I transcribed the last pages that never once in all these thousands and thousands of words does my mother ever write about ME in the same way that she does for her other ‘darling’ children.  That left me knowing that the dichotomy that existed in my mother’s mind between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ let her make the distinction between her DARLINGS and her DEMON child, Me.

What exactly will happen with all this information next I do not know.  Time will tell.  But I look forward to experiencing an every-growing sense both of pride in the accomplishment of the goal I set for myself and a kind of relief in my freedom from this task during these next days ahead.  The work I have to do now is something that ANYONE could do.  It doesn’t even require that I be any more ‘present’ for the task than I would be if I were editing writing that I am completely remote from.

This is unlike what happened to me last night as I worked with the very last of my mother’s letters.  She was describing where we were on the Jeep road of my childhood when we saw our first black bear.  I was actually following that story as I mentally following the startled scared bear as it crashed away from us through the woods when my daughter called me.  The ring of my telephone literally caused me to jump right off of my chair.

No more surprises.  I am glad for that.  I have worn out the plastic carpet protector under my computer chair until it has cracked and broken into little pieces under the wheels of my computer chair.  I have worn the lettering off of many keys on my keyboard.  But I still have work to do here if you should wonder where I am!

I am here working on my mother’s chronicle of living her Alaskan homesteading dream:

CHRONICLE
Etymology: Middle English cronicle, from Anglo-French, alteration of chronike, from Latin chronica, from Greek chronika, from neuter plural of chronikosDate: 14th century

1 : an historical account of events arranged in order of time usually without analysis or interpretation <a chronicle of the Civil War>
2 : narrative

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Planting beside the Eagle River log house, spring 1958 (I was 6, still wearing the infamous turquoise parka with the white fake fur cuffs)

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Main Entry: 1chron·i·cle
Pronunciation: \ˈkrä-ni-kəl\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English cronicle, from Anglo-French, alteration of chronike, from Latin chronica, from Greek chronika, from neuter plural of chronikos
Date: 14th century

1 : an historical account of events arranged in order of time usually without analysis or interpretation <a chronicle of the Civil War>
2 : narrative 1

+THE DOOMED MOVE UP MILDRED’S MOUNTAIN

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Well, in the final throes of digging up ‘stuff in words’ I have (unexpectedly) unearthed the last of my mother’s homesteading journals.  Today, if I was going to name her book I would title it something like this:

Moving Mildred’s Mountain — The Road to a Good Dream is Seldom Easy

An Alaskan Family’s Homesteading Tale

Oh - the road - 1959

“Of the deep wilderness of the wood where you and I shall walk free”

– words evidently written by Mildred around 1933 when she was 8-years-old

SEE: +SOMETHING ODD I FOUND IN MY MOTHER’S CHILDHOOD HAND

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There were nearly more obstacles in my family’s story than a person could count – and moving the mountain to make a passable ROAD was certainly one of the main ones.

But even above all others the Number One Obstacle our family carried along with us throughout all time and over all distance and to and from every place we lived was NEVER identified, recognized, named, accepted or dealt with:

My Mother’s Borderline Personality Disorder

In the end this WAS what doomed The Dream.  The demise of the homesteading dream happened not because of her mental illness itself but because it WAS never recognized, named or healed in any way.  The family was left ‘playing parts’ on my mother’s dream-stage in a continuing downward spiral no matter how hard our family participated in Mother’s ‘drive’ to move up that Mountain and to find a way to stay there.

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+SOMETHING ODD I FOUND IN MY MOTHER’S CHILDHOOD HAND

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Yes, I am working my way to the bottom of my mother’s papers and just found something that strikes me as being SO STRANGE!

In with my mother’s mother’s college graduation information from Boston University 1917 and masters graduation transcript and information for the University of Minnesota in 1918 I found two very old regular size envelopes with ‘Bureau of Educational and Vocational Guidance, 6 Park Street, Boston, Mass. printed on them.  Neither envelope was ever mailed or addressed – but here is what is written in my mother’s child handwriting – evidently before she even knew how to spell her own name (I am going to correct the spelling here in this text):

On the first one:

and presently upon her breast a baby raised and cried aloud.  Her mother was so surprised she wept upon her golden hair which was upon her breast.  She wept and wept until a bride arrived and swept

On the second one:

a ruined city in my heart.  Of the deep wilderness of the wood where you and I shall walk free as when I rode that day where the bare foot maiden raked the hay.

Mildrid

[actual spelling of her name is Mildred] – ah, my youngest sister solved the puzzle – partly:

“As you point out, very precocious of her to understand the meaning of the poetry.”

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Famous poet, John Greenleaf Whittier:

http://www.poetry-archive.com/w/maud_muller.html

Free as when I rode that day,

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”

The strangeness of these two pieces – archetypal image of the mother and baby – but why with the sorrow and the weeping?  – prophetic?
THIS is what I believe took my mother to Alaska. THIS is what called her to homestead.
Archetypal – prophetic of the HUNGER FOR THE LAND, of the ruined city in the heart – reminds me of her dark rainbow storm dream – healed upon the land?

I would think because of the misspelled words that my mother did not copy these words from some other text, which does not mean that she didn’t know the words from some other place.  Of course the context for these writings will never be known, but they definitely have been saved for a very long time – probably since around 1935 (when my mother was 10 or even from an earlier time).

This looks about like an age eight handwriting – even then the seeds of how my mother’s life turned out had certainly already been planted within her beginning with not having her needs met from infancy forward.  The loss of her grandfather, of her father, and the loss of her mother when her mother went to work to support her family once she had divorced when my mother was five.

Whatever all the combined influences were in her very early years, I can’t help but wonder about these images contained upon these envelopes that have probably traveled 25,000 miles and are 75 years old today, June 16, 2010 when I found them:  The a troubled mother with her infant daughter and the yearning for the healing of the land.

How would it happen that a child this young would understand the meaning of these phrases, “a ruined city in my heart” and “the deep wilderness of the wood where you and I shall walk free?”  I wonder.  I have to deeply wonder.

(And if these are archetypal images with their archetypal figures, whom might the ‘bride’  and ‘the barefoot maiden’ be?)

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This reminds me of something I wrote August 21, 2007 on a little piece of paper that I dropped into the ‘mess’ of my mother’s papers and also found today:

Did Mother have to pay the price for “going on being” by leaving the biggest part of who she was and who she could have been and was meant to be — behind?

(Informed compassion) – Understanding frees me to love my Mother — and then to love myself better — as an extension of her (and Dad).  If we “hate” a parent we cannot help but have that hatred carry over to how we feel about our self.

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+ANOTHER MORE AUTHENTIC VERSION OF MOTHER’S ACCOUNT OF LEAVING L.A. FOR ALASKA IN 1957

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I just finishing transcribing another version Mother wrote about the decision they made to move to leave Los Angeles and move to Alaska.  I like this one better.  There is no indication of when it was written, but I think it was written before the one I posted last night.

It leaves me thinking that no matter how genuine and authentic their ‘dream’ was, my mother’s undiagnosed and untreated severe mental illness did actually destroy any chance our family had to ACTUALLY ‘live happily ever after’, which is something I believe my parents both hoped for when they made this HUGE move.  That tragedy is real, even if I cannot find even a glimmer of it in this piece she wrote:

*Probably written October 1958 about leaving Los Angeles

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