+WORD WARRIOR NEWS: THE MIRACLE OF AN INTERVIEW IS COMING UP THIS SATURDAY

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It seems like such an amazing ‘gift’ that the most significant eye witness to 45 years of my mother’s life will be doing an interview with my very smart and savvy daughter this coming Saturday.  It seems like such a gift because IT IS such a gift!  My daughter will be the ‘fair witness’ to JV’s account.

JV knows things – lots of things.  I spoke with her briefly yesterday to let her know that my daughter is willing to interview her — and to listen to all that JV has to say about my mother.  JV seemed very relieved that she would not be trying to say what she wants to and needs to say to ME.

I also asked JV if she wants to read my mother’s letters, and she does — ALL OF THEM — including the letters written back and forth between my parents in the summer of 1957 while my father went to Alaska ahead of his family and mother and kids stayed in Los Angeles.  I am hard at work on a ‘proof’ of those letters now.  JV will do the interview, we will print of all the letters and send them to Alaska for her to read (and very hopefully to make notes on), and then probably have a second interview with her afterward.

I was dismayed to realize after my ‘edit-proof’ on letters from August 1, 1957 when Mildred arrived in Alaska until the following March 31, 1958 that those 8 months of letters fill over 150 pages!  Lots more work to do here, so best get to it!!!

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+OUR RIGHT TO QUANTUM HEALING – ALLOWING THE MIRACLES TO HAPPEN

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I have heard it said that such a thing exists as QUANTUM HEALING.  I am not going to bother searching around online for all kinds of information about this miracle.  I believe it exists, and I believe we can all access it.  I also believe I am smack in the middle of such a process now.

Perhaps because it is in my nature to force positive change when I think I need it within myself, and perhaps especially now at this point in my life where I literally feel I have an important job and mission to accomplish that can contribute something good and useful to understanding what severe infant-child abuse looks like – from within and from without – and perhaps because I also personally feel I am under a time pressure to outrun the cancer that has visited my body so that I can complete this job before I ‘move on’ from this world — I do not wish to ‘mamby-pamby’ my way through or around any obstacle that appears in my pathway.

I am blessed with the resources that I need at this point in my life that help me not to get sidetracked, bogged down or waylaid in my efforts.  I just spoke to my ONLY real friend in town here about the work I am doing (she has known the entire process).  She wisely suggested that I ask my daughter to do the telephone interview about my mother with JV, my mother’s long-term Alaskan friend.  I am too emotionally involved, and too emotional.

As I spoke with my friend about the kinds of ‘things’ about my mother that JV has to tell, I suffered through wave after wave of ‘goosebump attacks’.  I also dissolved into sorrowful tears.  The recognition and experience of the deep, deep sorrow and sadness happens because I profoundly recognize what a terrible, terrible tragedy this story truly is that I am ‘in line’ for telling.

It is, however, my nearly unending sadness over the suffering of my mother that prevents me from wanting to complete this upcoming interview with my mother’s friend.  It is the suffering of my mother that will interfere with my ability to allow JV to say what she needs to tell me.  As my friend pointed out today, if I ever once ‘fell into’ the tears that I did today as I talked to her while I talked with JV next Saturday, she has no doubt that JV will not wish to continue to tell me the truths that she knows about my mother.

The wise solution presented this morning by my friend would allow my very compassionate, intelligent, invested but objective, extremely fast typing, sensitive daughter to complete this telephone interview with JV.  I will ask my daughter this evening, find out her response, and then call JV and ask for her permission to do ‘things’ this brilliantly safe and effective way.

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So, given this presenting obstacle, the ‘rules’ of quantum healing dictate that a better alternative exists.  It is my job to utilize my resources to find exactly where these obstacles are, and to find more resources to find my way around them.

I have also come to realize that when we consider the quality and nature of the darkness that can infiltrate a human beings body-brain-mind-self — an my mother was infiltrated by this darkness through trauma as a developing infant-child — it could be said that conditions DO exist in the world involving the potential for harm that seem beyond where any ‘rational’ human can pursue, follow, explore or ‘know’.  The degree of infant-child abuse that my mother was perfectly capable of perpetrating falls within this sphere and realm.

After the dream I had a few days ago that clearly alerted me of the powers of spiritual assistance, protection, guidance and healing that do exist right along with the darkness, I am experiencing my journey of working with my mother’s story for publication differently.

There is a saying, “Going where angels fear to tread.”  Only through the appearance of this dream I wrote about a few days ago did I gain a very real understanding (and again, I am not Catholic) that the archangel Michael, or St. Michael – San Miguel — exists, and that he is not afraid of ANYTHING on this earth.  There is no darkness, no realm of horror or of human deprivation and suffering that can possibly prevent this angel from assisting people to understand and to heal from.

In addition, the ‘guardians of the gates’, or Cherubs – Cherubim that were also referenced in my dream are also allies for this good work of trying to understand the powerful, and yes dark, roots of trauma, abuse, neglect and malevolent treatment of infants and children that can lead to deeply disturbing changes in development that can create infant-child abusing people like my mother was.

In my own very human way this entire ‘job’ or ‘mission’ that I am pursuing is big, big, big, bigger than I am.  The fact that I cry from the center of my soul for the pain and suffering MY MOTHER experienced in her lifetime would be mystifying to me if I did not understand that these pictures are so much bigger than any of us who experience them personally.

My mother did not, for instance, CHOOSE of her own free will to pick up a broom and bash my little girl head and body with it.  Something else — call it ‘impulsivity’ or ’emotional dysregulation’ certainly contributed to her thousands of acts of violence.  But the picture is SO MUCH BIGGER.  It came down the generations — and for a reason.  That this ‘reason’ is so difficult to detect within a story of lack of reason doesn’t mean that finding the reason is impossible — or that it isn’t critically important.

In my own process of moving forward I have to accept changes in my course as they present them.  Now I see that I have to create a ‘homesteading process’ and a ‘historical homesteading story’ separately from the book that is the chronicle of my mothers disturbed — and very disturbing — madness.

I am preparing myself to recognize this fact, that I cannot create a ‘one volume’ that can accomplish what I hoped it could.  At the same time, the expose of my mother’s potential for terrible child abuse is paramount.  I have nothing for anyone to sue me for.  I will change the names of every ‘character’ my mother writes about to protect the privacy of the innocent (even though, as my last post mentions, I have to walk past my own ‘bitterness’ to do this).

What LINDA wants is not what is important here if what I want is not a part of the bigger picture of the good that come out of my work with my mother’s words.  Gaining clarity.  That’s what I am after.  And because St. Michael is there to fight the war of light against darkness, as a very real spiritual entity (and who am I to argue this fact?), nothing short of my own physical annihilation prior to my completing this task will stop me.

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In case there are readers who are unfamiliar with my ‘story’, here are some links to read (warning:  may trigger):

*Age 3 – THE TOILET BOWL

*Age 5 – THE BUBBLE GUM

*AGE 6 – FIRST GRADE — NIGHT ON THE STOOL

*Age 9 – BLOODY NOSE

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+FEELING BITTER – BITTERNESS AS A STATE OF MIND, A STATE OF BEING: “NO THANKS!”

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The word ‘bitter’ came up in some comments recently.  All the time I’ve been out working this morning on my adobe project I have been thinking about this word and about its corresponding ‘state of being’ or ‘state of mind’.

Looking at the definition (see below) I see that the origins of this word are connected to BITE, and that the word has been in our modern Enlglish language for a long time (since before the 12th century).  This is not a new word, and does not apply to some distant, remote intellectual concept or idea.  I suspect that the feeling of bitter, and the experience of bitterness are primary and fundamental to the human condition.

I am trying to imagine at what age a child might be capable of feeling bitter.  I can’t imagine that it is a feeling that is even humanly possible before the age of three, perhaps four.  What developmental stages must a person have completed before the potential for feeling bitter becomes active-activated?

This looks to me to be one of those comprehensive emotions that involves thoughts as well as very real emotions in the body – as they are processed through the right emotional brain.  It’s a tough one, one more than I can begin to comprehend today.  I will just say that I am ‘thinking about it’.

This feeling and/or state of being is NOT one of well-being, joyfulness, or of peace and calm.  It sounds like one that can eat a person up alive — like a cancer.  I would guess that crashed hopes, disappointments, betrayal, perhaps retained childish fantasies of a perfect world, inability to tolerate ‘any more pain’, confusion about how to resolve conflict (i.e. ruptures without repair), along with a sense of powerless must all contribute to the complexity of ‘bitter’.

While I was working outside today before it got too hot and I had to retreat inside for shelter, I was thinking that this word, ‘bitter’, makes me think of ‘soul sickness’.  Of course I don’t really, actually KNOW what soul is, I can’t make logical sense out of this idea that came to me:  Bitterness can be healed through informed compassion and forgiveness.

It would seem to me that ‘bitterness’ would create such an imbalance within a person that vast amounts of life force would be removed from the actual LIVING of a person’s life because the life force would be all tied up in the dead-end condition that bitterness creates.  Of all emotional states of being that I can imagine today, it strikes me that this one, feeling bitter, might be one that needs to be on the absolute top of the priority heap for removal and/or transformation.

Talk about a ‘monkey wrench’ thrown into the gears of a person’s ongoing life, ‘bitterness’ could do that.  From an autonomic nervous system, and vagus nerve system, and stress response system perspective — bitterness to me would take its place when all other responses to trauma, threat, challenge (as well as growth) have proved inadequate and completely ineffective and useless.

The antidote to bitterness must be in taking actions connected to clearly identifying the ‘problems’ at the heart of the bitterness — and then finding active ways to try to gain new confidence, competence and ‘coping resources’ to be able to move off of the ‘stopped dead in your tracks’ state of bitterness that solves absolutely NOTHING.

I have been searching and searching inside of myself today trying to find any ‘sore spot’ within me where bitterness might lie.  I honestly can’t find one — which is some ways amazes me — and makes me curious.  How could I have experienced 18 years of terror and abuse as a child and NOT feel bitter?  It feels like a miracle, a gift — something that was spiritually given to me that I take completely fore granted.  I don’t think it’s something I avoided by myself!  Which leads me today to realize how grateful I am for this gift, and how I wish to say, “Thank You” to Creation for its absence in my life.

It must be some kind of mercy that has been shown to me — and on a ‘soul’ level, I know it’s not something that I either earned or deserved.  That’s what’s so special about gifts.

But this does not mean I am not vulnerable to ‘bitterness’ in the future.  I hope I can pay attention, be wary and vigilant — so that if ever the tiniest shred of bitterness appears within me, I will be able to either root it out or pray it out!!

Bitterness is NOT ‘a keeper’!  I am a big fan of things that are constructive (rather than things that are destructive).  I don’t want bitterness in me, in my relationships, in my life.  Perhaps I learned this lesson because of how SUPER bitter my mother was, and saw its potential for harming others.  Maybe I was ‘helped’ to be free of bitterness myself because I SO DIDN’T WISH TO HARM anyone else — and as a side benefit, I don’t have to suffer from it either!  Hey!  That’s pretty cool!

(Maybe I see being bitter like being bored – a waste of time!)

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BITTER

Etymology: Middle English, from Old English biter; akin to Old High German bittar bitter, Old English bītan to bite — more at bite Date: before 12th century

1 a : being or inducing the one of the four basic taste sensations that is peculiarly acrid, astringent, or disagreeable and suggestive of an infusion of hops — compare salt, sour, sweet b : distasteful or distressing to the mind : galling <a bitter sense of shame>
2 : marked by intensity or severity: a : accompanied by severe pain or suffering <a bitter death> b : being relentlessly determined : vehement <a bitter partisan> c : exhibiting intense animosity <bitter enemies> d (1) : harshly reproachful <bitter complaints> (2) : marked by cynicism and rancor <bitter contempt> e : intensely unpleasant especially in coldness or rawness <a bitter wind>
3 : expressive of severe pain, grief, or regret <bitter tears>

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In case there are readers who are unfamiliar with my ‘story’, here are some links to read (warning:  may trigger):

*Age 3 – THE TOILET BOWL

*Age 5 – THE BUBBLE GUM

*AGE 6 – FIRST GRADE — NIGHT ON THE STOOL

*Age 9 – BLOODY NOSE

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+WORD WARRIOR NEWS: MY BROKEN, BROKEN, BROKEN MOTHER

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I just spoke on the telephone with a woman in her mid-80s in Alaska, JV,  who other than my mother’s mother, maintained the longest relationship with my mother of Mildred’s lifetime.  I visited with JV last when I visited Alaska last summer.  It had been about 38 years since I had seen her.  Now when I talk on the phone to JV that visit certainly helps.  She and I can ‘see’ one another now.  And I am grateful beyond words for JV — as an amazing woman — and for the friendship she had with my mother.

I needed to talk with JV about the issue of what my mother says in her letters about her.  JV very reasonably said, “I have to see what she said about me.”  I assured JV as I go through my next edit I will pull out all the references to her and to her family my mother makes and print a copy to send to her.  JV, out of all people on earth, knows exactly the entire context for the entire story of my mother, and probably knew her better than anyone ever did.

JV and I made an appointment for a telephone visit a week from this Saturday, on the 17th of July.  She would have spoken to me this coming Saturday, but I have to prepare myself for this conversation.  JV is not a writer, but she wants to tell me what she knows.  I will be sitting at my computer and will document everything that JV has to say.

JV is the last person, other than the hospital personnel in the emergency, to speak to my mother before her death.

Here is one thing JV told me tonight that will give you an idea of the kinds of things JV knows and wishes to tell me about my mother.  Long after I had left home, after my mother and father’s divorce, my mother had rented a very expensive two bedroom apartment that was beyond her means to keep.  She charged all kinds of expensive furnishings for it, even though both JV and her husband tried (as they did probably hundreds and hundreds of times during the years they knew my mother — 1957 to 2002) to warn Mildred about her actions — to no avail.

During this period Mildred was becoming increasingly paranoid of her grown children, JV says, until it reached the point that my mother wrote “666” on her forehead and on her hands “to protect herself from the devil and from her children because the devil had taken them from her.”

When I talk, as I did in my earlier post today about the seriousness of Borderline Personality Disorder, I am thinking about how even this one single action of my mother’s had roots in the entire spectrum of illness that had swallowed my mother whole from the time she was a little, little girl.

JV told me tonight that many times she knew there were things mother was doing with her children (meaning in particular with me) that were terribly, terribly WRONG.  There was no talk of ‘reporting’ abusive parents to authorities back then in the late 50s-early 60s.  JV did her best to intervene, and talked with my mother — and every time this happened my mother broke off contact with JV for a long, long time.

JV wants to tell me these stories.  I think in the year that has passed since last summer when she and I and my youngest brother visited, at which time I gave JV the ‘handle’ on my mother that Mildred was not simply ‘eccentric’ but was severely abusive and severely mentally ill — JV has been thinking about our family’s situation.  She wants to help us to heal, and I explained to her tonight that the potential for healing with this story is far greater than ‘just’ for the Lloyd family children.

When I mentioned earlier today in a post about the dream I had last night about fighting the good fight and causing no harm or hurt, I mentioned San Miguel, or Saint Michael as well as the Cherub image regarding the combined image of the bull and the lion that relates to guarding the gates — of truth.

St. Michael, in Catholic belief, leads the Army of Light against the Army of Darkness.  The story at the link I posted earlier about St. Michael (San Miguel) is a fascinating one — and is specifically about healing.

My mother’s story, and my and my siblings’ stories as her offspring, carry within them the seeds of healing because they present the potential of harm the absence of the ‘light’ creates.  My mother’s mind was dark, no matter how bubbly, vivacious, creative, determined, etc. she might have appeared to others.  JV knows the truth about my mother.  My mother – also – shared with JV (as perhaps the only human being she ever did so with) the awful, dark truth about her own horrific childhood.  It is very possible that JV wishes to share some of those stories with me as well.

I feel like a vessel.  I feel like a tool.  I feel like a conduit or a channel for a story that resonates with others who suffered severe, unbelievably severe child abuse.  But it is NOT just the story that matters, in spite of all the words that the story is crafted from.  What matters are the patterns that exist within the story — and it is my part, my job, my mission, my responsibility, and my greatest hope that I will be able to FIND, identify and clearly point to these patterns in my mother’s life.

Borderline Personality Disorder IS ABOUT PATTERNS.  We can call these patterns symptoms – but they are, to me, so much more than that.  These patterns are the outward signs of an evolutionarily altered being (as Dr. Martin Teicher and his research group describe).  Although Teicher, et. al. do not specifically point to or even mention BPD, I personally believe that in cases as severe as my mother’s was, the signs, the patterns are clearly visible.  My mother was a gifted child, whose body-brain-mind-self was formed within an early environment that was hazardous to her health — and changed her development so that she ended up becoming an entirely different person than who she would have become if her needs had been met from birth.

I am grateful for the gift that JV is going to give me – give us.  I have to prepare for this interview conversation with her.  Any of you readers who understand what I am presenting here and wish to offer prayers that this work be done well and reach those who can be helped to heal from it — thank you!

We are doing battle with the darkness, though I will not call it evil.  We are talking about dis-ease here — and one that we need as much information about as possible.  Mine is an information and fact-finding mission.  Mercy!  I even have to wish myself well on what is coming up next!

I believe there is a constellation of patterns with the severely abusive Borderline psyche-body-mind that can be identified, and I believe the comprehensive story of my mother’s holds a vitally important key that can unlock the mystery behind ‘splitting-projecting’ severely abusive parents.  I am looking for the patterns and I am looking for this key.  I am looking.  I am looking.  I am looking……

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+LAST NIGHT’S DREAM: FIGHTING AND WINNING THE PERFECT FIGHT WHERE NOBODY GETS HURT

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Having been granted (in effect) ‘a stay of execution’ from aggressive, advanced cancer as I mentioned in my previous post, I can think of something I would so much RATHER be doing than sit here at this computer and write this post.

I WANT to be at some beautiful ocean beach with good friends and happy children, watching and listening to ocean waves crashing upon the shore.  I want to walk barefoot on warm slippery rocks as I investigate fascinating miniature life in tide pools there.  I want to lay back in the perfect warmth of a sunny day and watch puffy clouds glide across the sky while below them sailboats slide across the sparkling, glistening water toward the horizon.

But, no.  Here I am with a dream story to tell.  Even here though, I want to change myself from the “I” of the story into someone else – not me – though it was ME in this dream and me who dreamed it.  So I might as well get on with this telling now, because I know I will not rest until this post is written, nor will I be able to move on.  I have work to do in this time I have been given on this earth……

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I was in a small and humble village that was a ‘cross’ between something like a small American Pennsylvania town and a remote village in Mexico.  A man discovered that I contained-possessed a great talent and a remarkable gift.  He brought me to a yard in this town, and soon after our arrival people began to gather.

In the center of the yard people began to clear and level a spot on the ground for a boxing ring.  Part way through the owner of the house pulled a small white object out of the moist black earth in the center of the yard and began gently brushing the soil off of it.

“Oh!” He quietly exclaimed.  “It is San Miguel that watches over you and guides you with this gift!”

I am not Catholic.  I know nothing about Saints, and do not really understand about angels.  What I saw in that man’s hand as he turned, continuing to mutter silently and reverently to himself as he left to wash this little statue, was a figure that looked to me to be part bull and part lion.  (See notes below)

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I was prepared by the man who had found me and my gift, and who had escorted me to this place and called the people to gather, for the boxing ring.  I know nothing about boxing.  Nor did I know in the dream.  But into the ring I climbed and fought with a worthy opponent a perfect boxing match – much to the delight of every man and woman watching.

I seemed to have butterfly wings for feet that could move faster than a hummingbird’s wing.  I could see into the future and perfectly deflect every punch that was thrown my way.  I felt myself to be in a completely different world as the fight progressed, and in the end, after 12 rounds, I won even though not a single instant of pain or violence had actually transpired.

I humbly had been given the most miraculous gift of being able to box through a perfect fight without causing or experiencing any harm at all.

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A week later everyone gathered again to watch yet another match.  All these people were humble and more friendly than I had ever known humans to be.  There was a sense of love, respect and again reverent appreciation for this gift I had been given – to fight the perfect fight.

This second time we all waited a long time for the man who had discovered me – my ‘manage’ to arrive.  Eventually word was sent that he could not come.  Slightly disappointed, the crowd continued to visit – and I woke from my dream.

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I believe this dream came to me in part because of the great conflict I experienced yesterday as I realized that my mother’s written words, eight years after her death and fifty years after she wrote them, still contain the power to hurt some of the still-living people she wrote about.  (see the parallel line of concerns expressed in the comment section HERE.)

That does not mean (according to my dream) that I cannot ‘fight the perfect fight’ in relation to what I hope to accomplish by my work with my mother’s writings.  I was surprised to read information online like what I mention below.  The connections between my mother, the severe child abuse she perpetrated, the deeply disturbed relationships she had with everyone in her life – and my fight against severe child abuse – become obvious in looking at the meaning to me of this dream.

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Saint Michael the Archangel

Catholic Prayer to Saint Michael

Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle.
Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray;
and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host –
by the Divine Power of God –
cast into hell, satan and all the evil spirits,
who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls.

Amen.

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What is a Cherub?

“Cherubim are first mentioned in the Bible in Gen 3:24, where Adam and Eve are expelled from the Garden, and two cherubim are set at the gate to guard it, so that no one may enter.

In Ex 25f and 36f, the Israelites are to make a chest called the Ark of the Covenant, and place on the lid statues of two cherubim, with their wings arching over and meeting in the middle. Aside from the fact that they had wings, we are not told anything about their appearance. It was apparently taken for granted that the Israelites already knew what a cherub was supposed to look like. It is a reasonable guess that they looked like the guard figures already standard in Middle Eastern art, as noted above.

Ancient Middle Eastern art regularly shows the throne of a king or a god flanked by, or sometimes resting on, two creatures. Typically, each creature has the body of a lion or a bull (often the front quarters of a lion, with claws, and the hind quarters of a bull, with hooves, or vice versa), the head of a man, and the wings of an eagle.”

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The Lion and the Bull image:

The Sumerian word lama, which in Akkadian is translated as lamassu, refers to a helpful and protective female god. The corresponding male god was called alad, in Akkadian, šêdu (cf. Hebrew שד šed).[1]

In art they were depicted as hybrids, as winged bulls or lions with the head of a human male. There are still surviving figures of šêdu in bas-relief and some statues in museums. Notable examples of šêdu/lamassu held by museums include those at the British Museum, Musée du Louvre, National Museum of Iraq, Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Oriental Institute, Chicago. They are generally attributed to the ancient Assyrians.[2][3]

To protect houses the šêdu were engraved in clay tablets, which were buried under the door’s threshold.   At the entrance of palaces often placed as a pair. At the entrance of cities they were sculpted in colossal size, and placed as a pair, one at each side of the door of the city, that generally had doors in the surrounding wall, each one looking towards one of the cardinal points.

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+AN INTENSE AND IMPORTANT MORNING

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I suffer no from no illusions about this work I am doing with my mother’s writings.  Three years ago today I started a heavy-duty chemotherapy treatment regime for the advanced, aggressive breast cancer that had been identified.  By December I went through a double mastectomy, at which it was discovered that I had two cancers in my left breast (none in my right, that removal was preventative).

The cancer had been there at least three years before it was discovered.  That means to me that I am now looking backwards in time at six years of having been living under the shadow of the cloud of cancer.  I know that my life has been spared for now because there is important work I need to do.  I no longer have any imagined luxury of wasting time!!

I have two posts that need to be written today, and this is not one of them.  I am outside extending my adobe walkway until the sun is higher overhead and I am – again – baked out of the adobe business for another day.  Meanwhile, I am thinking as my body works to dig and lift and stir and lay this mud into something that looks like landscaping.  I am thinking about the website I mentioned in my last post, specifically regarding their list of potential names for Borderline Personality Disorder because it seems there are many people who don’t like the name it has now.  I am in disagreement, entirely, not only with the entire effort, but with ALL the potential names listed on that website.

I am also deeply thinking about the amazing dream I had last night and woke up from at five in the morning.  I knew I did not want to go back to sleep.  This dream is important.  I knew if I stayed awake I would remember it, and if I went back to sleep I would not.  Besides, the daylight outside at that hour is not hot and it’s a perfect time to get out there.

So back to the mud I will go — and I will be back here later…..

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+THE ‘BODY’ OF MY MOTHER’S WRITING – GETTING READY FOR THE AUTOPSY

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There are a few minor scattered thoughts remaining for me to clear from my ‘bowling lane’ before I can continue moving through the first edit of my mother’s writings.

The first thought that just came into my mind has to do with this overall process I am engaged in, that of completing my forensic autobiography of my severely abusive infant-childhood.

As a part of this process I began to consider the separated, missed up mess of my mother’s writings that I ‘inherited’ after her 2002 death.  The thought just came to me as a right brain image, really, that when we speak of the collection of all of a person’s writing – be they alive or be they dead – we often speak of this collection as being “the body of their work.”

Perhaps not unlike a verbal archaeologist I have sorted out, organized, ordered and transcribed all of my mother’s words that were left in my hands as they were written on pieces, scraps and shreds of paper.  Now that I have completed the transcription into typed digital format of the ‘body’ of my mother’s writings I understand that:

(1) not only were there holes originally left in this chronicle because letters were never written about certain events in the first place, such as her severe child abuse, and

(2) there are holes in the account because a few important events were communicated via telephone conversation rather than through the written word, and

(3) there are holes in the chronicle because over time my mother chose to destroy parts of letters and entire letters – which of course was her right — and

(4) there are also holes that exist in this body of her work because not ALL of her letters, diaries, journals and notes survived these past 50 years.

In effect, if I look at this ‘body of my mother’s written work’ from an archeological perspective, I can consider the missing pieces to be like bones missing from some ancient body’s skeleton.  The pieces of writing that do exist from her ‘body of work’ are the skeletal fragments that remain.

From this body I am leaving out in the main version of the collection of her work, ‘the body of her work’, any analysis or interpretation.  What will remain is simply what DOES remain of her chronicle of this section of her life.

Two additional words just came to me in relation to this train of thought:  POSTULATE and CONJECTURE.  Neither of these words (in my thinking) are covered by the words or process of ‘analysis’ or ‘interpretation’.

When I searched Webster’s online dictionary for POSTULATE I encountered connections within the word that surprised me:

POSTULATE

Etymology: Latin postulatus, past participle of postulare; akin to Latin poscere to ask, Old High German forscōn to search, Sanskrit pṛcchati he asks — more at pray

Date: 1593

1 : demand, claim
2 a : to assume or claim as true, existent, or necessary : depend upon or start from the postulate of b : to assume as a postulate or axiom (as in logic or mathematics)

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Perhaps if I had a higher intelligence, or perhaps if I could pursue this entire process of working with the ‘remains’ of ‘the body’ of my severely abusive mother OBJECTIVELY I would have already formed one or more POSTUALTES regarding what happened to my mother and what happened to me (and to her other offspring).

Yet, specifically, it appears that POSTULATE is very much about the asking, the searching – and the praying.  Yes, the essence of my own work is happening because I am making a demand, I am staking my own claim for the truth like my parents staked claim to 160 acres of their Alaskan mountain homestead.

But I try very hard not to ‘assume’ anything that might in the end distract me from finding the ‘mother lode’ of truth, as if I am digging into the mountain of what is known and what can be found both within my own living BODY of memory and experience, and within the ‘body’ of my mother’s written words.

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In effect, while I have pieced together the skeleton of the existing ‘body’ of my mother’s written words, I am now pursing the next stage of making sure all the parts of my mother’s writings are as coherent as they need to be without altering the ‘body’ itself.  This might be like dusting off the pieces, or scraping off the barnacles if the ‘body’ fragments had been found underneath the sea.

Then the next stage of this process will be to perform an autopsy on this ‘body of my mother’s writings’.  Although perhaps a rather grim and gruesome image, performing an autopsy of any kind on one’s deceased mother, how else could I add to the body of knowledge I am accumulating in my forensic autobiographical work?

Like any other re-searcher of the past, I will be looking for patterns that appear in visible details that I can POINT to.  Yet no matter how specific, careful and accurate I attempt to be, eventually I will have to TRULY move into a stage that involves CONJECTURE.  Now, if this isn’t interesting:

CONJECTURE

Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French or Latin; Middle French, from Latin conjectura, from conjectus, past participle of conicere, literally, to throw together, from com- + jacere to throw — more at jet

Date: 14th century

1 obsolete a : interpretation of omens b : supposition
2 a : inference from defective or presumptive evidence b : a conclusion deduced by surmise or guesswork c : a proposition (as in mathematics) before it has been proved or disproved

I am not interested at the moment in exploring the connection of CONJECTURE to JET.  There are 18 separate entries for the word, including the references to mining an intense jet-black coal used for making jewelry.

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What this word CONJECTURE makes me think about as a projection into the future when I am ready to move onto another stage of my work, is that eventually I might have to take a ‘leap of faith’ and trust myself to ‘throw together’ my final conclusions as I come to them.  Yes, in the end, this forensic autobiographical work I am doing is destined to end in guesswork!

And yet the word GUESS is not a discouraging one:

1 : to form an opinion of from little or no evidence
2 : believe, suppose
3 : to arrive at a correct conclusion about by conjecture, chance, or intuition

I am carefully searching for what ‘evidence’ I CAN find.  From there I would be most pleased if I could ‘arrive at a correct conclusion’ about what happened to my mother that made her become a predatory mother, an extremely violent, aggressive and dangerous mother toward me – without regret, empathy or conscience – along with what happened to her to create such suffering and misery inside of herself.

To me, this process I am engaged in has merit and value because I believe that anything we can find out about what creates a ‘dis-ease’ has potential to help us find ways to prevent it, inoculate against it, curtail its ‘spread’, lessen suffering and perhaps even to cure it.

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+GROWING UP IN THE MAD BLENDER OF MY BORDERLINE MOTHER’S MIND

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I cannot move forward in my current writing process right now if I don’t stop right here and now to write a post that will clear a pile of mental obstacles out of my way that have been accumulating over these past few days of working with my mother’s letters.

The image came to me a few days ago that I feel like a bowling ball right now sailing down a lane toward a neatly arranged collection of pins that represent the end goal I am working for at this stage of my writing process.  I have been trying to stay on track and not get sidetracked, distracted or bogged down as I go through what is the first edit of the body of my mother’s letters.  I am stuck.

It’s like the lane I have been rolling down has suddenly ended.  Broken, it has disappeared into space.  No, I am not going to let this stop me.  I am going to look at this current blockage (I just wrote ‘blackage’ here) as something I can tackle in words and eliminate.

Where do I start, though?  What is it I ‘have to say’?

As so often happens, I will only know for certain as I write the words that follow next.

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First of all I want to say something about two little, common, seemingly insignificant words in the English language that my mother found a way to leave out of her letters without losing the meaning of what she writes about:  “a” and “the.”

The online Webster’s dictionary lists 99 separate entries for the word, “a.”  It lists 43 for the word, “the.”  My mother’s style of writing did not require either of these words to communicate her meaning in her letters.  Yet now that I have bowled my way through a first edit of her letters covering 1958 through half of 1963, I realize that it is only NOW that I am seeing that I missed – until now – the significance not of her having left these two words out of her letters, but the significance of me blindly choosing to drop them into her text during my editing process.

The English patterns of usage for “the” follow most commonly along pathways related to its use as a ‘definite article’, an ‘adverb’ or as a ‘preposition.’  Patterns of common usage for “a” include ‘noun’, ‘indefinite article’, ‘preposition’, or ‘verb’.

In my commitment to myself to allow the main body of my mother’s writings to remain as a chronicle (the way she wrote them without adding ‘analysis’ or ‘interpretation’) I have tried to be very careful as I roll along down my lane of first edit NOT to alter her text.  By adding “the” and “a” occasionally I have merely been attempting to clarify for ‘outside’ readers the meaning of some of my mother’s phrases.

It has only now finally struck me how stunningly accomplished my mother was in writing without including these two small English words into her letters.  Because very occasionally she DID include them, I am not going to be able NOW to go back and ‘edit backwards’ and remove “the” and “a” where I have inserted and included those words.  Nor do I think I need to or have any desire to do so.

Yet at the same time this morning I am finding myself marveling at the skill my mother had as she wrote in her own shorthand without using these words.  Today, 50 years after my mother wrote these letters, many readers are familiar and comfortable with modern skills in text messaging that certainly have followed similar communication patterns.

For the sake of attaining consistency for ‘outside’ readers of my mother’s words in published format, I have to make some decision of my own about what I am going to DO with “the” and “a” in the body of her verbal text.  Do I let reference to ‘homestead’ stand?  Or do I consistently alter sentences to read ‘the homestead’, or ‘the log house’, or ‘the mountain’?

How am I going to reach a point where I can trust my own writing ‘flow’ ability to overlay-insert occasional word changes within her text without feeling I am compromising my intention to allow my mother’s words to stand as HER chronicle?

This is one of my mental quandaries right now.  Once I have ‘bowled my way through’ this first edit of her work, I will need to return back to the beginning and set myself yet again to rolling down the ‘bowling lane’ toward yet another edit of the entire body of her writings.

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If I were working with a collection of writing under different circumstances this ‘issue’ about “the” and “a” would not have the importance I believe it does to me at this moment.  I suspect that in line with what experts might talk about as ‘object relations’ difficulties, my mother’s early forming brain-mind-self never grew to understand in normal ways what a PERSON actually was.

When the brain pathways that form in early infant-child developmental stages do not have the necessary information to build the early forming right limbic social-emotional brain correctly, all sorts of later appearing confusions about who a person is, including the self, appear.

‘Splitting” and ‘projections’ are aspects of these early brain forming changes that appear in my mother’s ‘mental illness’.  She did not, for example, have the ability to recognize that I was a PERSON because of her ‘splitting’ and ‘projections’ onto me.

As I work with her writings I am beginning to see more of what I hope to confidently name at some point as clearly repeating patterns and themes of her disorganized-disoriented insecure attachment disorder and its symptom – her mental illness (most likely Borderline).

So when my mother neglects to add “the” to “the homestead” I cannot instantly assume that ‘homestead’ wasn’t real to her as if it was a PERSON in her psyche and/or a projection of her mind.  “The log house,” or “log house” or simply “house,” or “mountain” (“the mountain?”) in my mother’s written lingo very well might have represented externalized projections from her mind, just as “ALASKA” itself probably did.

People do not speak-write about “the Alaska.”  We refer to Alaska by its name.  I am also questioning how to ‘handle’ my mother’s use of capitalizations in her writings.  Sometimes ‘Mountain’, sometimes ‘mountain’.  Sometimes ‘Homestead’, sometimes ‘homestead’.  Sometimes ‘Log House’, sometimes ‘log house’.

Even though we don’t often think about it, established rules we use for capitalization always reflect relationships and values.  In my mother’s dichotomous thinking, sometimes places were just as closely connected to the ‘friend-or-foe’ dichotomy as people in her life were.

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When ‘normally’ considering a ‘normal’ person with a ‘normal’ brain-mind-self, we can assume that seriously considering the words “a” and “the” (their inclusion or deletion) in sentences is a trite and trivial affair – perhaps a silly waste of time and mental energy.

I am working in ‘a twilight zone’ here.  I believe my Borderline mother existed in ‘a twilight zone’.  In fact, I probably share this belief with many others who still have serious questions about exactly what kind of a reality the Borderline brain-mind-self actually operates within.

Personification of mental projections IS a problem!  In the same way that I was ‘personified evil’ to my mother, not a child, not a human being – I suspect that ‘the log house’ and ‘the homestead’ and ‘the mountain’ and even Alaska itself represented something not ordinary to my mother.  In fact, I suspect that I will eventually be able to clarify that even ‘the dream’ that my mother seemed to organize and orient her entire being in relationship to was as much a literal THING to my mother as her own body was.

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When we consider the terrible reality of severe child abuse I believe we are actually looking at actions committed by human beings whose earliest forming emotional-social brain did not include the necessary information that would have allowed them to KNOW what a person was as clearly differentiated from an object.

This entire area of thought is one that I think about continually, though I am not ready yet to explore my thoughts in words other than to say that the human mirror neuron system, as it is connected to the motor neuron regions of the brain, has been designed from it origins to help humans use TOOLS to better ensure survival.

Whether or not the mirror neuron is ACTUALLY involved as part of the human empathy experience seems to be a matter that is open to great debate in scientific thinking.  I am not going to perpetuate any myth in this area.  I am also not ready to thoroughly explore the scientific facts in this debate, either.

I tend to agree with research I have read that states that the human mirror neuron is NOT actually involved in the brain region activational patterns that operate during the experience of true empathy.  In other words, empathy DOES NOT use the mirror neuron system.  Empathy is ‘something else’.

If this is true, then it seems entirely possible to me that someone like my mother with her Borderline brain had problems with circuits and pathways that ordinary, normal people do not – but that at the same time ALL of us experience a ‘borderline’ just at the interface between empathy and the mirror neuron system.  My guess would be that this ‘borderline’ exists just at the interface where our social-emotional brain understands the difference between human beings as being something MORE than, DIFFERENT than being object-tools.

If this distinction between humans as BEINGS versus humans as object-tools does not form right as the body-brain is forming in the beginning – a developmental process that is entirely dependent upon the quality and kind of earliest caregiver interactions that we have for its formation – then never will this person EVER be able to ‘normally’ know what a person is, including their own self.

As I understand it, the process that is supposed to normally occur that allows us to KNOW the difference between a person and an object-tool HAS to include emotional FEELING FELT, mirroring early infant-caregiver interactions.  If these resonating, mirroring interactions do NOT allow the feeling felt experience to happen for an infant-child, the ‘borderline’ between human-as-human or human-as-tool-object never forms correctly.

Without ‘proper’ formation of this ‘boundary’, true empathy (and we could say corresponding conscience) will not exist.  Such was my mother.  And as readers of this blog already know, these changes in early development also completely affect-direct the infant-child’s development of their entire nervous system, including their brain, their autonomic nervous system (vagus nerve system, stress response system, calm and connection system), and their immune system.  As Dr. Martin Teicher states, an evolutionarily altered being comes out – basically at the far end of the baby-human being assembly line!

Looking backwards in time at human evolutionary development, these evolutionarily altered beings are, in my thinking, simply ones like those who existed before the period in our specie’s development when having the luxury of knowing the ‘boundary’ between human and tool, human and other, or even what a HUMAN even was, existed.  (Way back before we had spoken verbal language).

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Of course as often happens, this post is becoming lengthy.  That doesn’t matter to me.  I need to clear this blockage, this ‘wreckage’ out of my ‘bowling lane’ so that I can return to my task of accomplishing the first ‘once completely through’ edit of my mother’s writings.

Considering all that’s being dumped into this post, that’s a lot of blockage-wreckage!

Tied to these thoughts I am having is the miracle that happened last Friday.  I just happened to be on the telephone with my daughter as she was holding her son (my first grandchild who was born premature and is now three months old) as he did something so important most everyone actually MISSES its significance.

He saw his own hand for the very first time, and recognized what he was seeing!

My daughter had noticed over the previous 48 hours that her son had loosened the tight fists he has waved around since he was born, and had begun to spread out his fingers.  Then, suddenly, within a single infitesimally minute segment of time – he SAW his own hand, and from there began to move it around while following it with his vision.

There you have it, folks!  The beginning moment of the conscious development and recognition of the individual human self with, “OH, MY!  Look at THIS!  There is a hand and that hand is connected to ME and I can move it around and determine what it does!  How COOL is THIS?  Here I AM!

In a normal safe and secure, loving attachment environment, which my grandson has in super abundance, this developmental stage is taking place as just another stage in the ongoing emotional-social body-brain’s formation.  All those nerve cells and neurons, circuits and pathways and connections being made one tiny instant at a time – that form a human being.  But without these developmental stages occurring within a loving, adequate, safe and secure attachment environment, the inclusion of BEING A FULLY FUNCTIONING EMOTIONAL-SOCIAL HUMAN BEING will NOT be included in the final product!

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My grandson’s mirror neuron system is already developing, but because he is growing in a ‘feeling felt’ attachment environment, his feelings will be involved as a separate PERSON as he grows, as he watches and ‘learns’.  At the same time the invisible ‘boundary’ between person-as-person, not person-as-object-tool will be appropriately forming all his other physiological development will be properly forming in relationship to this fundamental fact.

Most every person, my mother and my self included, can say, “Of course I know what a person is,” and “Of course I know a person is not an object-tool,” we do not FEEL it.  We report this fact as a SEMANTIC piece of information.  This is NOT the same thing as feeling the difference on the ‘AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL’ level.  It is a difference in the way memory operation has formed in the beginning.

This being said, I will simply add here that in my mother’s June 17, 1963 letter to her mother, when she wrote, “I figured the other day we’ve moved 17 times in six years – no wonder we’re sick and tired of moving,” she is not aware that she has no more of an idea how her children (or her husband) felt through all of these chaotic place-changes than she did how the household items felt.

My mother’s brain did not have the capacity to ACTUALLY tell the difference between how a fork or a piece of carpet FELT and how her living, breathing children FELT.  She dragged every-THING around with her equally oblivious of consequence.

My mother could have no empathy for a couch differently than for a person.  Her own ‘feeling felt’ brain-mind-self ‘boundary’ had never formed correctly in her infant-childhood that would have meant that on a FEELING level she could tell the difference between a person-as-a-person and a person-as-an-object.

Without having formed this fundamental ‘point of referencing’ my mother could not appropriately organize and orient herself – PERIOD.  The changes that happened to her as a result of no ‘feeling felt’ experiences as her body-brain developed also left her with a disturbed, disoriented and disorganized sense of time-distance-space, a fact that is noticeably splashed throughout the chronicle of her life journey that I am working with in her letters.

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I will make one more point here and then hope that I have accomplished the ‘bowling lane clearance’ that I was hoping for by writing here this morning.  Over and over again in my mother’s letters she says to her own mother that all she ever wanted was to recreate for her own children (us) ‘the wonderfully happy childhood’ that my mother’s mother had (supposedly – and NOT) created for my mother.

In the end, that attempt to recreate her own nonexistent happy childhood was the DREAM that drove my mother’s homesteading, Alaskan pursuits.  That my mother lacked the capacity to actually differentiate her children from her self meant that what she was doing was attempting to recreate her own ‘happy childhood’ for her OWN self.

Several months ago I realized that along with ‘playing baby dolls’ with her own children as the projected ‘doll babies’, my mother was at the same time ‘playing house’.  Over and over and over again in these letters my mother describes her homemaking efforts as if she was talking about setting up a doll house.

Until this parallel struck me, I had never thought about whether or not my mother actually had a DOLL HOUSE in her young childhood nursery where she played in solitaire for unending hours, days, months and years.  I bet that she DID!  This would have been in addition to all the trappings of ‘housedom’ she DID have for the bigger dolls such as beds and bedding, rocking chairs, dish sets, etc.

So it was not ONLY a recreation of her doll play that manifested itself in her distorted mental projections upon her adult life that I can see in the patterns of her activities.  It was ALSO the recreation of the perfect doll house that appears repeatedly with ever one of the moves my mother did.  (Seventeen moves in six years by her count is a lot of moves, although I believe once I get to that level of detail analysis within my mothers writings I will count far more than that.)

Add to this confusion the fact that my mother didn’t know the difference between her attempts to ‘recreate her own perfect childhood for her children (for herself)’ and the actual hell she created for her own children – especially for me – I realize that working with my mother’s ‘story’ is a bit like trying to calming read a book while spinning around inside a blender at top speed.

My!  How ‘Twilight Zonesque’ is THAT image?  There we all were, husband, children, animals, props, homestead, log house, etc. — along with the past, present and future combined — all tossed together into the blender of my mother’s deeply disturbed ‘dream’ mind and held captive while she pushed the ‘go fast’ button.  Off we would all go over and over again, spinning around and around and around, up and down, in and out, here and there, willy-nilly without end.

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+MY LIVING PHILOSOPHY ABOUT WORDS

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I decided to take a breather-break from my work with my mother’s ‘story’ last evening and watch something through my Netflix account.  My current ongoing distraction is in watching the “Little House on the Prairie” series, but last night I wanted to watch something with a little more substance.  So I turned to my computer’s Netflix screen and picked the first movie that appeared there:  “Mockingbird Don’t Sing.”

I don’t recommend watching this dramatized version of a true child abuse story to anyone who is not feeling strong of heart and solidly grounded regarding the consideration of severe child abuse.  This movie’s portrayal of horrific child abuse and its aftermath will haunt you.

Personally, I don’t know what I think about the story, its facts, its dramatization, or of my experience of watching it.  I am currently deeply immersed in my mother’s account of the years of her life from 1958 forward as she stepped into The Alaskan Homesteading Myth and dragged her family in with her.

Over these past six or so years that I have worked to transcribe my mother’s unsorted letters and various scraps of writing – that she wrote 50 years ago with the intention of ‘making a book’ from her experiences (an act that she never accomplished) – I have devoted my dedicated effort to placing my mother’s writings in their linear order over the span of months and years that they were written.

I began tackling the scrambled up mess of her papers by picking one out of the boxes they arrived in when they entered my life upon my mother’s 2002 death, unfolding the creased paper her words were written on, and entering the ‘stories’ contained within into my computer.  At first there were so many of them I could not begin to sort the letters FIRST by year, month or date.  I simply created a Word document file and ‘named’ it according to the postmark on each letter’s envelope.

I encountered many letters that had no date indication with them at all.  I had to wait until I had the growing body of my mother’s ‘story’ already sorted into my computer files before I could begin to place the ‘blank date’ letters into the story’s context.  Although I finished the actual transcription process days ago, I am currently deeply involved in my return to all the letters as I initially transcribed them, and in this process trying to fine tune placement of important letters in the story that still seem to be slightly out of order.

When I encounter one of these important letters I can spend an hour or two trying to determine exactly where in the story-line this piece of writing actually fits in.  I can’t ditch these letters.  I will not leave them in a misplaced position if I can help it because each letter contains such a critical segment of the actual story not only of my mother’s progress of her own life throughout these time spans, but also the story of my and my sibling’s childhood.

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My having switched over last night from this difficult work I am doing to watching the movie, “Mockingbird Don’t Sing,” didn’t do me much of a favor.  I simply added a parallel track in my feeling-thinking experience with the horrors that can envelope helpless children and change their lives forever.

The story the movie conveys makes the story of my own terribly abusive childhood pale nearly into invisibility in comparison.  Maybe I needed this jolt.  Maybe by allowing this OTHER child abuse reality to appear alongside my mother’s account of her life during this portion of my childhood years actually gives me a perspective and accompanying strength that I need as I do this solitary work of creating a readable version of this portion of my severely abusive, mentally ill mother’s life.

Anyone who chooses to watch “Mockingbird Don’t Sing” is going to be confronted with the destructive power of undiagnosed, unrecognized, untreated severely abusive parental mental illness.  The movie gives no hope – no illusion of hope – no suggestion of hope.  It is, like my mother’s story will be once I have it published, nothing more than a chronicle of one tiny segment of what IS possible for human adults to do to human infants and children.

My story and the story portrayed in this movie are horror stories of the most disturbing kind.  Yet a joint reality exists within them both:  If one happens upon the version of the facts as they might exist within the reality of the mentally ill abusing adult, one will encounter an intact system of logic that created and sustained the abuse from its beginnings.

It is my encounter last night with the mental illness logic connected to this movie’s portrayal of severe child abuse that most disturbs me.  Partly this is true because ‘insane logic’ along with the power to hold the victimized child within its unbreakable web followed the movie child out of her madhouse ‘home’ of earlier childhood right on into the bigger world once she was removed.

In other words, hope for freedom to be her own free and freed best-self-possible was not an option for this movie child.  There is a hair’s-breadth line here:  Not only was their no hope for freedom, there was no FREEDOM itself.  Once HOPE and FREEDOM are both removed from a child (person) there is nothing left but continued abuse – no matter what it is called by the perpetrators.

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Longterm readers of this blog might be able to understand what I am saying when I say that my searching and writing process regarding my mother’s words runs parallel to what the Independent filmmakers accomplished when they put together the movie version of the child’s life portrayed in “Mockingbird Don’t Sing.”  Both the account of my own severely abusive infant-childhood and this film happen within the format of being a CHRONICLE.  As I have mentioned in my previous posts on the subject, a chronicle happens when facts of a ‘story’ are presented without analysis or interpretation.

Yet the absence of analysis or interpretation leaves outsiders to the experience of the events pertaining to the ‘abuse story’ without any preset or given solid platform that might feel ‘safe and secure enough’ to allow anything like the full impact of the victim’s experience to enter their awareness.  If this ‘solid platform’ is not presented within the chronicle, it has to exist within the outside viewer, or it will not exist at all.

Because at the very most only about half our current population grew up from birth within a healthy caregiving environment that allowed them to build a safe and secure attachment pattern within their developing body-brain to start with, it will be ONLY this approximate half, with their inwardly built safe and secure attachment, that will be able to begin to comprehend how WRONG and how HARMFUL any infant-child abuse was to any victim.  The victims themselves (to some degree anyone who did NOT experience safe and secure infant-child attachment themselves) are left without solid footing when they try to consider the actual loss and damage that infant-child abuse causes.

It seems strange even to my self as I write these words that what I am saying is that all of us who did not have a safe and secure infancy-childhood have been robbed of the perspective we need that would allow us to begin to comprehend the extent of the damage the LACK of safe and secure early attachments cause us.  Our LACK is so built into our body-brain from the beginnings of our life that we do something most might consider to be a GOOD thing when we consider not only our own abuse history, but also as we might attempt to consider somebody else’s:  Victims have a depth of EMPATHY with other victims that nonvictims will NEVER have.

It is within this realm, this arena of co-empathy that victimized infant-children have with one another as survivors that in effect POLLUTES our ability to objectively consider or understand the reality of ALL abuse – our own and others.

This means that there are INSIDERS and OUTSIDERS regarding abuse, and most certainly regarding early infant-child abuse.  INSIDERS will empathize with other survivors.  OUTSIDERS will not.  INSIDERS will know from within the very cells of their body what another person’s abuse story is all about.  OUTSIDERS will never know.

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Those people who were raised from birth in environments of early safe and secure attachment with their caregivers were not formed as human beings with the HOPE for freedom to be their self.  They were formed with the FREEDOM itself built right into their developing body-brain.

Those of us who were raised in severe infant-child abuse environments had neither the HOPE for freedom to be our own self NOR the FREEDOM itself.  This kind of abusive reality deprives the victim-survivor of the ability to experience objectivity concerning the reality of abuse itself.  These victimized survivors will be left with the burden of having true EMPATHY for abuse survivor’s experience for the rest of our lifetime.

This means to me that not only can I NOT be objective when I consider a child’s experience as presented in the movie, “Mockingbird Don’t Sing.”  It means I cannot achieve objectivity (without inner empathy) for my OWN ‘story’.  Most importantly at this moment in time, it also means I cannot obtain an objective, non-empathetic platform to consider my mother’s experience from, either.

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The image comes to me as I write these words of dancers and a dance.  Those of us who know abuse from inside our body have danced the dance.  We will never be objective onlookers (like people watching a parade) who can witness the performance of any presentation of the dance we were forced to dance without the echoes being triggered on our insides about what dancing this dance actually feels like.

As hard as it is for me to intellectually understand at this point, as I work with my mother’s written account of the segment of her life captured within her words, I will never be FREE to know JUST my side of the story unless I continue to pursue my own inner struggle to do so.  It is only now as I work on ‘the next level’ with my mother’s words that I am beginning to see the context, the bigger picture, the whole contaminated sequence of events in my own childhood as they were put into place not so much by ‘my mother’, but by my mother’s all-pervasive mental illness.

My struggle with her words now means that I am sucked nearly completely under the death-inducing quicksand of her version of reality – very similar to how I was sucked under and into it without hope of escape or escape itself during the entirety of my infant-childhood.  The process is exponentially complicated by the fact that in order for me to extricate myself from the experience of being both the victim and the survivor of my mother’s abuse I would have to be able to separate my own self from my own experience within her madness – at the same time I separate my self from her experience that created the hell of my infant-childhood.

At present I am empathizing with my own self both as the victim and as the survivor of my mother’s madness and abuse AT THE SAME TIME I am empathizing with MY MOTHER. According to the words I have just written in this post, I am evidently hoping to achieve something that might well be impossible.  I WANT to reach a point of objectivity where empathy itself will END so that I can be an OUTSIDE viewer rather than being the INSIDE participant dancer that I always WAS – and probably will always BE – because THOSE experience built my body-brain at the same time they built themselves INTO my body-brain.

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So, I ask myself, “Why, Linda, are you torturing yourself by doing this work?  What do you think you might be accomplishing?  What are you hoping for?”

Like any other serious and deadly illness that affects our human species, severe abuse of infants and children (my best guess is) has a source.  If the source can be identified more and more clearly, perhaps ‘cure’ can at the same time be progressively identified.  The kind of severe abuse that I am focusing on cannot be understood by studying ‘something else’.  The understanding must come from examining the ACTUAL illness itself – as directly as possible – from the inside.

I was not left without verbal language ability as was the victim in “Mockingbird Don’t Sing.”  The uniqueness (and irony) of my particular situation is that I have now contained within my computer a fairly large body of my severe abuse perpetrator’s OWN words that cover a span of time during which I was her victim. I do not underestimate the potential for good that this situation presents.

As I work with her words I am beginning to see how my mother’s mental illness operated in her thinking, feeling and actions during this time span within the larger context of her life beyond what she did to me.  At the same time that the disorganized-disoriented ongoing chaos of her mind prevents anything more than a few sporadic periods of (possible) clarity and lucidity to appear in her life chronicle, some hope for identifying the repeated patterns of her mental illness just MIGHT appear to me if I work at my job with her words carefully enough.

There is no doubt in my mind that these repeated patterns within the overall chaos that I am identifying within my mother’s chronicle are rooted and fundamentally grounded and anchored into her severe insecure attachment disorder.  Rather than assuming I am finding symptoms and signs of her ‘mental illness’, no matter what it might be named, I am convinced that it was her insecure attachment disorder itself that dictated ALL the patterns of her life, not ‘just’ her severe and chronic abuse of me.

What this means to me, working as I am within the storm itself, dancing within the dance that was the pattern and form of my own childhood, is that if some outsider COULD have named my mother’s so-called ‘mental illness’ that label would have been naming the SYMPTOMS of her insecure attachment disorder.  Her insecure attachment disorder – I believe – was the central and primary SOURCE of her malaise – on the physiological level where the changes began to happen to her certainly AT LEAST from the time that she was born.

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What my mother’s intentions actually were as she recorded her life upon the pieces of paper that found their way into my hands 50 years later no longer matter.  The BOOK she had intended to write was never written.  The BOOK I intend to publish that includes all of her words will be missing whatever editorship she would probably have done to her own words if she had been the one to publish them.  Because her words exist as she wrote them, I take them to be more of a message stuffed into an invisible bottle and thrown into the sea of these 50 years of time that have passed since she wrote her words down.

In that passage of time the only thing that really matters to me is that ‘insecure attachment disorders’ have been ‘discovered’, named and classified.  Yes, in this period of time the diagnostic category of Borderline Personality Disorder has also been formally ‘discovered’, named and classified.  I am most uniquely able to recognize, identify and name my mother’s disoriented-disorganized insecure attachment disorder because as I ‘see’ it appear in patterns within her writing this same insecure attachment ‘disorder’ resonates within me.

This ‘special’ insider ability that I have to empathize not only with my own self but also with my mother will, if I can do this job right, allow me to chart the patterns of the SOURCE of my mother’s difficulties (including her abuse of me) – her insecure attachment disorder itself that eventually constellated itself into clear enough patterns that COULD have been called ‘mental illness’.

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Unlike the victim-survivor in the movie, “Mockingbird Don’t Sing,” I do have words.  As I work to disentangle my mother’s version of reality from my own, I intend to find my own and use them.  Once I have ‘organized and oriented’ the nearly completely shattered, fragmented, disorganized and disoriented collection of my mother’s words as she left them as she passed out of her life into as coherent a narrative-chronicle as I possibly can, I will be free to create my own version of THIS story under my own title, “Unspeakable Madness.”

In the process of THIS project, it will only be then that my own individualized verbal dance will begin.  It is my hope of freedom for today that when I reach that point the words I will use will have meaning – because they will fundamentally be dead-on accurate and true.

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BY THE WAY:  ON EMPATHY

http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2010/07/01/midmorning1/

Conventional wisdom has long held that humans are by nature materialistic and self-interested. But scholar and writer Jeremy Rifkin argues in his new book that science is forcing us to rethink this notion, and that the growth of human empathy could help solve the problems that confront the world.

Guests

  • Jeremy Rifkin: Author of “The Empathic Civilization: The Race to Global Consciousness in a World in Crisis.” He is president of the Foundation on Economic Trends.

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+HAD I BEEN RESCUED AS A CHILD – I WOULD BE A DIFFERENT ‘ME’

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I have been avoiding writing about the dream I was having when my alarm clock buzzed me awake this morning.  I so rarely remember any dreams now it is actually unsettling when I DO remember one – or parts of one.

Up until about 15 years ago my night dreams were nearly as important to me as my waking life was.  I am finally beginning to understand how my ‘depression’ manifests itself in altered sleeping and dreaming patterns.  But THIS dream I woke from today — what was it about for me?

At first I wanted to believe that I was dreaming about some ‘dream daughter’ – but, no, I don’t think so.  I was my today-adult self dreaming about my little-girl self.  Only the dream was not that straight forward or that simple.

My adult self was searching for this little girl in my dream.  She had been taken away from her mother when she was a tiny baby and had been raised in a happy family.  When I finally found her she was about five years old.  I was ecstatic.  There were things, all kinds of things that I wanted to show her in the world, that I wanted to share with her.

But she was very connected to ‘these other people’ that were her life.  She was not interested in what I had to tell her.  I tried to show her the fragile wildflowers I had found blooming.  Different plants growing closely next to one another, each with multiple delicate flowers blooming along a gently arching stem.  The little girl paid me no heed.  She was happy being a little girl – with other people – elsewhere.

I wanted to show her something else – but she did not hear me.  She was not listening.  She was not interested.  She had other things that concerned her and off she went in her own direction – a different direction than what I had hoped for.

I looked again above my head – so high I had to bend my neck as far back as I possibly could to see it.  I had thought I would be bringing the little girl back with me, and together we could lay upon the ground and study this magnificent creation.  When I had first recognized what was up so far in the sky above me I thought I was seeing a shape in high sparkling white clouds.  Then I had realized those weren’t clouds above me.  I was looking thousands of feet above my head at the shape of an exquisitely carved totem pole, a monumental creation with great spreading wings — carved into masses of glacial ice that looked like a part of a ceiling to a gigantic cave.

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And my alarm went off.  I had a doctor’s appointment in a nearby town to get my arm remeasured for new lymphedema compression sleeves.  I have since been distracted all day from considering this dream.  But I know.  I do actually know what I KNOW about this dream.  I just don’t know how I feel about what I KNOW.

If I had been taken away from my severely abusive Borderline mother and put into a new world to live a different life – full of love, full of kind people, full of opportunity to TRULY be a safe and securely attached child….  If I had been thus allowed to be a CHILD at all, I would NOW be a different person.

That’s a hard idea to wrap my thoughts and feelings around, and I have never done so before today.  Not really.  Not seriously.  And even today, even given this dream with this indescribably beautiful and sacred  image of the crystalline totem pole carved in ancient ice, that seemed to be lit with a light from within, I do not want to TRULY understand what my heart knows.

Because of the WHOLE experience of my childhood, the way it was with my mother, I became an unusual person in the way I don’t think I ever could have possibly done had I lived a far more comfortable and comforting, safe and trauma- and abuse-free infant-childhood.  I believe I would have been that other-kind-of-changed child, changed from who I AM today, changed from who and how I ACTUALLY grew and developed, changed so that I would not have cared about the beauty in the world the way I DO care.

I would not have been the one to SEE that perfect, immense totem pole carved into the vaulted glacial ceiling of the sky.  I would have been left out of THAT world, as uninterested in it as the little girl was that I searched for, went back for, and found in my dream.

This seems like a long way back around to view myself as who I am today – in a different light, in a dreamy light that doesn’t (yet) meld with or match this world I find I live in today.  I haven’t had a dream for a long, long time that seemed to capture a part of my essence and not quite let go once the daylight and the waking came.

I haven’t learned what I can learn from this dream (yet).  Will I?  Can I?  The image – that profound image haunts me in my mind, like a blessing.

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I know that a good part of where this dream came from is connected to the hours I am still spending doing the fine tuning of my mother’s homesteading letters.  The little girl I was remembers that land of Alaska.  I remember it in the cells of my body.  The majestic beauty of that wilderness formed itself into me AGAINST the violence, the terror, the trauma, the suffering, the insanity and the abuse of my childhood.  That beauty grew BIGGER within me than the abuse did, and it changed me – ALSO – because there was no POSSIBLE way I could come through any part of my infant-childhood being ‘ordinary’.

But in this dream I woke out of this early morning I experienced something so extra-ordinary as a reflection of who I am-how I am in the world that I do not have words for it.  Unless those words are frozen echoes from most ancient times held within the glaciers of this world that are melting, melting, melting – too quickly and too wrongly.

The totem pole in my dream, so purely white, translucent, massive -- and ancient -- had no color, but if you've never seen a totem pole, this picture will give you some idea of what I am talking about --

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