+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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+NO IMAGINATION? TELLING THE TRUTH FROM THE LIE

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There is more I need to say about this post I wrote yesterday:  +BELIEVE THE LIE? OR RELEASE THESE CHILDREN FROM HELL.   We might all like to believe that we OF COURSE know the truth from the lie — but we don’t always.  We simply don’t.

On top of this very few of us have ever been told about the research that describes how infant-caregiver interactions from birth — yes, the same ones that ARE building the rapidly growing infant brain — are forming pathways and circuits into the developing infant brain regions that ALSO determine what we can know about not only who we can trust and who we cannot trust, but also who is lying to us and who is not.

These brain operations, formed into us from birth, are part of our brain-mind foundation that we will live with for the rest of our lifetime.  When severe infant-child abuse survivors attempt to ‘heal’ from the traumas they experienced, nobody tells us that our very ability to KNOW truth from lie has been changed in our very brain itself.  We cannot automatically, easily, or sometimes EVER be able to separate truth from lie when it comes not only to our own self — but also when we are dealing with other people.

That is part of what the formation of the early emotional-social brain does for us.  It gives us automatic ways to cope with life based on the nature of the environment that formed us in the first place.  I, for one, have to walk my way through LOGICALLY and slowly nearly everything that has to do with telling the difference between truth — and error.

When my mother wrote those words posted yesterday that I lacked imagination – I have to look around me (as these pictures included show) at how I live my life.  I am creative and I DO have imagination.  My mother was lying.  But because she lied to me from birth, severely so, I will NEVER — simply and directly on my insides — be able to separate her lies from my truth.

When the develop of the self is affected by chronic and severe infant-child abuse — what happened to survivors is beyond what most ‘self help’ thinkers EVER realize.  Our concern is NOT with self image, self concept, self worth, self esteem – blah blah blah.  MY concern is with my SELF – my forced-to-be-dissociated SELF.  These changes my mother forced upon my little growing and developing self (as I have said so many times) changed the way my brain developed — period.  With that brain I try to process information — but I have to admit and accept I do so differently from ‘ordinary’.

Tied to truth and error-lie detection changes in my brain is my great difficulty with understanding jokes, cons, teases and flirting!  (Also difficult for some stroke recovery people and people with autism spectrum brains.)

I also have to say that if most people’s brain-minds were not somewhat in the market for being easily tricked, there sure wouldn’t be  any use advertising!!  Well, I want to get back outside, so here are some pictures – from imagination-full Linda!

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east
northeast
southeast
west - way back there behind the clothesline pole a wall is growing - it is where I put all the dirt that isn't the right kind for the walkway or for a building!
Baby climbing rose waiting for the rains to bome
Only one part of a long mosaic I made between two of my doorways - from old dishes scavenged from the pre-1950s-closure of the local dump

+BELIEVE THE LIE? OR RELEASE THESE CHILDREN FROM HELL

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There are abused infants and children whose life is in permanent hell – unless someone from the outside identifies what the dynamics of the parent-child relationship truly are – and permanently separates the parent and child.  When the root of the abuse is mental illness, particularly of the ‘splitting-projecting’ severe Borderline, there is NO HOPE for achieving safety for the abused child.  REMOVE IT!

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March 4, 1958 Tuesday morning

Dear Mother,

Notes as late and must close.

1.  Report cards last Friday.  John got all S’s.  He is so proud and has been put in advanced reading!  Linda [age 6] STILL poor behaved, loud, insolent etc. but good at home!  She’s as usual – plays around if not watched closely!  Same at home – I speak to her ten times to three to the others [put together] – hope she’ll grow out of it – it’s still her lack of imagination and old silliness I think.  She’s not tom boyish though.  All S’s in school work too and an excellent reader.

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“The others” in my mother’s mind were all her other children put together.  Those other children were so rarely parented by my mother’s ‘bad-evil’ self as to hardly be noticed over the entire 18 year span of their childhood.

Me, on the other hand, belonged to that special group of ONE that ‘deserved’ to be parented by the ‘bad-evil’ mother.  Nobody ever noticed that as my mother ‘bad-evilized’ ME that the ‘bad-evil’ was on the other side of a dark looking glass.

How do I know that those two words, ‘put together’ needed to be added into my mother’s tirade against me here?  Because I heard that phrase during my entire childhood up until the night when I was 18 and my father told me that he and my mother no longer wanted me under their roof – because I was the cause of all the troubles in my parent’s marriage – and because I had ALWAYS been more trouble than all of the other children (by then there were five of them) put together.

What my mother was doing to me STILL by the time I was six was obliterating my SELF.  Some people refer to severe abuse of infant-children as being ‘soul murder’.  I disagree.  My soul was mine and my mother could NEVER touch it – so she didn’t.  She DID, however, have the power to obliterate my growing and developing SELF from the moment I was born.

These ‘ten times’ that my mother refers to in her letter were not ‘ten times’ of gentle, appropriate correction.  She responded to her projected evil put into me with her own unrecognized internal evil.

These kind of parent-child interactive combinations are NOT correctable.  There is, as I have said so many times before, nothing either the child or the parent can IN REALITY do to make things ‘better’ or ‘safer’ or ‘more appropriate’.  The foundation for the abuse I received had NOTHING to do with reason or reality.  There was NEVER a REASON for anything my mother ever did to me.

True, I was not able to be a perfect child – nor were my siblings.  But the only way I could NOT have had my mother hate me and treat me the way that she did was by my NOT BEING A CHILD in the first place which of course meant that I would have had to CEASE BEING ALIVE.

In these situations any child in my position MUST BE REMOVED from the abusing parent permanently.  There is no other option.

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+MY MOTHER’S ‘SPLITTING’ OF GOOD FROM EVIL AND HER ALTERED SENSE OF TIME

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I woke up THIS morning to a complete cloud cover screening the hot rays of the sun.  These are NOT rain clouds, but they are a hopeful sign of the approaching time of the summer rains.  We are parched here.  Whatever moisture remains from our winter rain has escaped deep into the earth where only the deeper tree roots and the nearly petrified, waiting frogs can find it.  The rest of that moisture is captivated within the fibrous cells of the desert plants who all know exactly how to keep it!

I chose this day to finally do my piles of laundry.  My washing machine is parked outside under the south eve of my house, with its 50-foot drainage hose at this moment poised exactly over the root system of my pomegranate tree.  Perhaps doing laundry, as many women have historically discovered, and hanging it out on the line to dry will BRING the rains!  Well, maybe NOT today I have to admit.  The air is so dry if I carry a wet load of clean clothes across the yard in my arms, I swear half the dampness in them is already gone out of them into the waiting, wet-hungry air before I even reach the clothesline with them!

But perhaps because of my present laundry doing occupation I have laundry related images in my mind this morning.  My thoughts are following twists and turns, swish, swish inside my skull.  Sometimes they appear like clothes tumbling over one another in one of those front-window dryers!

I can let them BE that way.  Or I can write something here that will take those thoughts out of their swishing, tumbling state and line them all up across this page.

Firstly, perhaps in cases where creative potential was greatest, as it might have been inside my little growing child-mother when she was young, the consequences of early neglect and maltreatment can be greatest.  Perhaps within my mother there was a potential that does not even exist in most children.  The more disturbed and disturbing the environment of her early developmental years became, perhaps correspondingly the consequences of damage correspondingly began to grow.

My mother used to recite a childhood saying, “There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead.  And when she was good she was very very good.  And when she was bad she was HORRID!”

Perhaps my mother could be so devastatingly abusive (evil) because she also had an equal potential for being incredibly good!  Perhaps just as she worked so hard to be so good — which demonstrated itself in her fanatical efforts to ‘do her home-work’ perfectly (cleaning, cooking, making the home cozy, etc.) — she worked equally hard at making her projected ‘evil’ better!  That projected ‘evil’, of course, was ME!

Maybe if I had been a piece of laundry (like the sheet and towel in her little childhood story she wrote – see:

She could have simply thrown me into a giant washing machine and cleaned me right up!  At the same time – given the nature of my mother’s mental illness – she could have ONCE AND FOR ALL cleaned up her own internal intolerable ‘badness’ (that she projected onto me)!  All sweet and laundered the ‘evil’ in life could have been done up right.  It could have all been banished forever and she (and her ‘loved ones’) could have lived happily ever after.

Considering what is known about the Borderline ability to SPLIT the good and the bad-evil apart from one another as a serious aspect of their mind’s altered operating patterns, happily-everaftering might just be one of the main goals of the Borderline mind — at the same time such a perfect ending is NEVER actually possible in the real world we all reside in.

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What follows next in my thinking process probably belongs to another separate post, but I am going to ignore that point and enter these words here and now.

I just went outside to check on the progress of my laundry’s washing in my machine and listened to the first spin cycle complete itself so that the fresh new rinse water can enter and was this fancy good soap out.  Even though my thinking is running in fast spinning circles nearly as fast as the barrel inside that machine just was, I am going to try to force my left brain to order and organize in linear format what the contents of my thoughts actually are.

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According to Dr. Antonio Damasio (and I suggest a solid Google search here for ‘Damasio consciousness brainstem) growth and development of the human body-nervous system-brain builds patterns for the operation of consciousness from the beginning of our life as they follow from the brainstem itself on through the rest of our growing and developing being.

When consciousness is left out of an adult’s patterns of living all hell breaks lose – as it certainly did between my mother and me.  Way down there in the brainstem, and then on through the development of the right limbic social-emotional brain with its deep ties into the main body’s information tracking and brain-delivery system, and then on up to the higher cortex of our ‘rational’ thinking and decision making brain regions — well the fact is that early infant neglect, maltreatment and abuse simply CHANGES the whole dang pathway and the operation of the resulting circuits!

I believe that connected to the early developmental changes a neglected and abuse, maltreated, traumatized infant-child experiences is a corresponding CHANGE in the way TIME and its connection to a ‘self’ in SPACE happens.

As I format and correct my mother’s manuscript right now, I will be taking very careful note of attachment disorder-related patterns in my mother’s chronicle.  These segments will be copied into the files I am going to work with for my ‘analysis and interpretation’ of my mother’s chronicle in my book, “Unspeakable Madness.”

When these above mentioned changes occur, and when these changes affect the survivor’s ability to gain consciousness of ‘self’ in time and space, these patterns lay the groundwork for unbelievable infant-child abuse to occur down the road.

In my mother’s case I can see these ‘time-space’ changes within her writings as she repeatedly uses these words:  ‘Always’, ‘Never,’ ‘Forever’, and ‘For the first time’.

If you read this book,  Songs of the Gorilla Nation: My Journey Through Autism by Dawn Prince-Hughes, you will find a description of an autism-spectrum pattern related to the passage of time in space very similar to what I think my mother experienced — and very similar to what I experience.  Prince-Hughes describes this experience for herself in relation to strong negative emotional currents in a primary relationship.  She describes her sense of ‘things will always be this way’ at the same time she is describing her sense that ‘things HAVE always been this way’.

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Most simply put, because these altered time-space patterns were built in my mother’s earliest forming body-brain within a traumatic early caregiver environment, they directly impacted ME.  My mother could not ‘finish the laundry’ related to her relationship with me (and hence the power of her abuse litany).

My guess is that because these changes happen all the way into the brainstem itself, a survivor’s biological clock and internal patterns and rhythms are changes as well.  My mother had an altered sense of cycles in her life, and these changes directly affected how she abused me!

Everything related to me had ‘always been this way’ and would ‘always be this way’.  This pattern operated in MANY ways in her life.  I can see those patterns in her chronicle.  There really was never a beginning, a middle or an end in my mother’s trauma-formed brain-mind.  How this adaptation to early trauma helps to preserve ongoing life in the ‘evolutionarily altered brain’ that Dr. Martin Teicher and his Harvard research group describe, I do not know.  It my view, these time-space changes are most likely to be seen my contemporary outsiders – if they know what they are looking FOR and AT — as patterns of dissociation.

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I will leave these thoughts on this page now and go outside to retrieve my now-clean laundry from the washer!

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+”DOES SILENCE HAVE A NOISE” – MORE OF MY ‘GOOD’ MOTHER’S WORDS

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NOTE:  Please always go to my blog itself to read my posts – they MORPH!

I am not ‘out of the woods’ yet on what I can possibly learn from working with my mother’s writings, even though I am GREATLY RELIEVED that the transcription is completed and I will not encounter any more ‘surprises’ because I am now familiar with what is in her words.  BUT, that does not mean I won’t continue to be surprised.  It just means that from now on the surprises I encounter will be INSIDE OF MY OWN SELF!

For example, related to what I am going to include in this post, I am rethinking these same words I posted earlier:

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.

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What about those words I added bold type and underlining to?

Kristalyn is, I believe, missing an extremely important point here.  My mother never SAW HERSELF as ‘good or evil’.  She lacked the requisite capacity for self observation, analysis or self reflection.  She could not achieve even that high a level of honesty about herself – or see herself AS REALITY SAW HER!  My mother never saw the truth about herself as far as I know.  She never achieved that level of conscious awareness.  To her dying breath she would have promised to anyone that what she ‘did’ to me – I earned and deserved and, as she told my sister, “was nothing different than what any normal mother would have done.”

This did not stop my mother from ACTING ALL GOOD or ACTING ALL EVIL!

Very often the ‘all good mother’ was phony phony phony — and certainly my siblings could see-sense-know this (I’m not sure my father did).

The ‘all evil mother’ was MY particular mother!  How special was THAT?  NOT AT ALL!

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I think that Kristalyn’s words are a HUGE soft-sell in regard to severe infant-child abusing caregivers!  They are a great understatement!  Borderlines such as my mother was have no real ability to ‘see themselves’ in the light of reality or real reason AT ALL!

So, as I work with the two versions my mother wrote of the story I include here – one a journal entry and one a letter to her mother – I realize that I did not know THIS version of my mother at all!  In fact, it is this ‘all good mother’ who, with the fewest tiny exceptions, WROTE ALL OF THESE WORDS I HAVE TRANSCRIBED and am preparing to publish!

My guess is that any unsuspecting reader of my mother’s Alaskan homesteading chronicle will probably come to adore her!

Can I adore her?

Kristalyn IS using the word ‘evil’ here  in her contrast – not saying ‘good’ and ‘bad’ but rather ‘good’ and ‘evil’.  She is not describing ‘projection’ which I cannot separate from the SPLITTING that Kristalyn is describing.  So if I take Kristalyn’s words literally, I would say I was cursed with having a nearly all-evil mother — and I have a hard time telling myself that given this fact, I had any mother at all!

I certainly DID NOT have the mother who wrote the following words, which include these words that she wrote waiting alone with four small children in a canvas hut on the side of an Alaskan mountain without telephone, electricity, water, transportation, and barely with food for my father to come home with supplies:

As I try to go off to sleep I hear a noise – it sounds like the tractor – urging its way up the Mountain road – Does silence have a noise – it’s so quiet I can hear my heart pounding.  Silence, silence.  Where is Bill?  All I ask is for his safety and well being.”

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It is obvious to me that I still have a great deal of inner confusion about my feelings about my mother — and about what she did to me.  I do not yet ‘understand’ and therefore I do not yet ‘know’.  There is still something I need to learn and this work still has something important to teach me.  These words of my mother’s didn’t come from an obviously ‘evil mother’.  Talk about SWITCHING!  My mother was a pro!

It’s a riddle of Bat Man story caliber, I would say!  I haven’t solved it for myself.  Not even close.  I will be working my way through THESE aspects of my next stage of work with my mother’s writings.  I ask myself why I don’t let the riddle just go and forget about it.  Then I encounter an internal image of someone (a child!) being murdered over and over and over again – but being left alive – TO TELL ABOUT IT!

For now, I guess I will go ahead and post here both versions of this experience as my mother wrote about it.  I am asking my daughter and sister for their input on how I might handle duplications of stories in my mother’s work.  Do I publish both intact?  Do I find a way to merge them?  If I meld and merge, do I keep the result as a letter?  As a journal entry?  I am not sure about that, either.

I am also posting pictures that can help demonstrate WHERE we were.  Talk about a little abused child having nowhere to run!!!!  This scene – an abused child’s nightmare, an abusing ‘evil mother’s’ dream come true!

You have never known silence if you haven't been in a frozen land alone in winter
That huge beautiful mountain outlined against the sky behind our home was the one my mother named 'Pinnacle Peak'

View toward Cook Inlet, Anchorage lies behind-around the left mountain end - where my father worked

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December 29, 1959 Tuesday

*Notes:  Nice day outside – but bleak inside.  School has started again here on our homestead even if not in Eagle River as we took the week before Xmas for vacation – as I thought the children would enjoy getting ready for Xmas that week and would more easily settle down to school work after Xmas!

I was right.  They are raring to go and eager to get back on schedule of things and so anxious to do good work and not miss their work or be behind their class when they return to school and so am I!  John is busy in his Arithmetic books – both work books and school books and is learning more complicated multiplication and going on to division.  It seems we never catch up with John’s work or get all done we should do – but we keep on plugging away.

Bill never came home!  No water today again – and my propane gas gave out before I could even cook breakfast.  The children had cold cereal for breakfast and bread and jelly.  I tried to get our Coleman cook stove going but it seems to be leaking and a fire started in back of it and below.  I had to throw water on it (a half a coffee pot full).  Then I was going to get the fire extinguisher out – but before I used it I got the fire out by beating it out with a towel.  I had a scare for a minute and made a mess of the trailer with the water but far better than fire.

I checked it and rechecked it and brought it outside to light but gas seems to be spilling out so I put it away.  Now what will we do?  I yearn for some coffee and think I’ll melt some snow and try to heat some on oil heater.  We’re really out of food – except flour, sugar and staples.  I do have potatoes and one more can of Spam if I had a stove going.

Bill HAS to come home tonight [Tuesday] – yet, he told me he would be home Monday and work Tuesday and Wednesday!  This is when I don’t like to be so isolated!!

More later!

Radio says there has been a terrible storm from New Jersey, NY to Boston.  Snow, winds etc. – worst since hurricane years ago I remember so well.  We’re lucky here – not to have storms like that.

10:30 – We relented and I heated our last can of stew over the oil stove (heater) and by then even it tasted good.  I made Kool Aid for the children from melted snow – and to bed.  (Wrote Mom more this evening and will put her letter in here).

It’s now 11:30 – tomorrow we must walk OUT if Bill doesn’t come home.  I just undressed and climbed into bed.  Must stop running to the door thinking I hear the tractor.  My usual evening things tonight hold absolutely no appeal to me.  I don’t want to knit although I’ve started mittens (first time on four needles for Cindy) or read or anything.  I want to know Bill is alright and to have him here – please Bill come!!

I’ll set the alarm tonight (first time I’ve set it since Bill hasn’t been here!) for 4:00 A.M. and we’ll leave here at 5:00!! – Well is that early enough??  And it will be so cold waiting for a ride at the bottom of the mountain.  We are so dependent on Bill – for oil, gas, supplies –

I’d love to homestead way off – if Bill could be with us.  I’d like to hunt our own meat and cache it away – get all our supplies in for the winter early – have a wood cook stove – I’d truly love it.  I tease Bill and urge him to stay and try it here.  He says we could never make out – but if we had our bills paid and raised perhaps sheep – those are foolish dreams.  Still it could be ever so nice and right now he’d be here!!

Golly, what’s wrong with me.  I’ve done so well – it’s expecting him and not having him come – and knowing he would if he could and wondering.

LATER

I just simply can’t sleep.  I’m writing this by flash light – still listening – oh, how I yearn for Bill tonight.  I feel so all alone.

This is really only the second time.  Last time also was when I expected him and he didn’t come.

As I try to go off to sleep I hear a noise – it sounds like the tractor – urging its way up the Mountain road – Does silence have a noise – it’s so quiet I can hear my heart pounding.  Silence, silence.  Where is Bill?  All I ask is for his safety and well being.

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December 29, 1959 Tuesday 11:00 P.M.

Dear Mother,

Last night about this time I sat here writing you a letter – listening with straining ears for the welcome sound of a tractor to tell me Bill was coming home.  I waited up until 1:30 A.M. – I didn’t want to be asleep when he got here BUT he didn’t.

24 hours later and still no Bill.  I listened to “Mukluk Telegraph” on KENI on my wonderful radio – a special broadcast where messages are relayed to people like me, living in the bush, but no word.  So, here I sit again waiting.

It seems I’ve done a great deal of waiting since we began homesteading.  I guess it’s a woman’s role all over the world – one which I am now accustomed to but like none the more for it.  It’s hard to wait – especially when you don’t know and tonight I’ve gotten a little worried.  Jeep trouble? – could be – but no message.

Seeing he was home over the long Holiday I would have just as soon he waited several days but we’d been out of water for two whole days again and I’d been melting snow (which is a slow process and laborious but at least I’m grateful for the snow – there was a time when we had neither snow OR water – funny how one becomes grateful for such strange things).

But it was agreed he’d come home last night and work Tuesday and Wednesday and come home again Thursday.  We’re out of water and propane gas.  As of today and I almost started a fire trying to get the Coleman camp stove going – I guess it leaks and I won’t try again.  This morning we had shredded wheat (last of it).  At noon – sandwiches (good thing I saved the bread since last Thursday) – used the last of it and after waiting until tonight at 10:30 for Bill.  So we heated the last can of canned stew (ugh!!) over gas heater!!

I’ve even melted drinking water today – and yesterday gave everyone baths by building a fire in the Yukon stove and melting the big wash tub full of snow.  It was to be a kind of a surprise for Bill – but he never came home.

It’s unlike Bill to cause us concern or leave us when he knows we’re out of supplies!!

Last Thursday he brought food but today is pay day and he was to bring a big order up yesterday.  I almost went down yesterday – it’s been two weeks and one day since we’ve been OUT – but probably will have to walk up late at night or spend three hours on the last mile of road (how well I remember last time) so thought I’d wait until the weekend and go down and come up during day light.

Now I have no choice if Bill doesn’t come home tonight.  Then we’ll have to get up at 4:00 (and just put children to bed – waiting for Bill) and go out with Thomas or Pullen.  I hate to walk down alone and it’s snowing now.

We started school again here as we took vacation the week before Xmas but other schools are off now.  Another reason I hate to go down.

Bill has trouble pulling the trailer up now and is going to buy a flat sled to pull supplies up behind tractor – but we walk!!

The kids are marvelous sports.  Last night John stayed up and worked on the model airplane he and his Dad started Sunday.  Today after school, we worked a big cross word puzzle and I showed Linda how to purl – she knits well.  I gave her and Cindy a knitting set for Xmas – it has smaller needles in it and they can manage them much better.  Today she completed her doll blanket she started on Xmas – just plain knitting.  Cindy finds it harder but two years difference in ages.

She and Sharon played Chinese checkers – then Linda and Cindy – and so this evening passed – with a lollypop treat made by Cindy for each for Xmas and saved because they had so much sweets and so welcome tonight as a morale booster.

She made cups out of egg carton, two together and decorated and put life savers in each cup and two lollypops.  Oh, such squeals of pleasure they brought forth tonight.

I made molasses cookies in Xmas shapes and enormous gingerbread boys cut and decorated in green, red and white –

All eaten!

Fruit cake devoured.  Children and I made spice cookies and sugar cookies and each had a whole tray to do themselves in Xmas shapes (I think I told you) and then each decorated as they pleased.  They took their prettiest and did up for Xmas presents for Daddy.

But all is gone now and mince pie, apple pie, chocolate pie I made yesterday.

Still we have little up here in way of fresh fruits, vegetables etc. and mostly canned meat.  Last Thursday Bill brought up lettuce and tomatoes and oh, such a treat you can’t imagine.  We haven’t had fresh milk since we’ve been here – all canned and powdered – and now we’re OUT of all but flour, sugar and oatmeal!

Well, it’s 11:30 P.M.  I guess I better stop!  I just keep listening and listening.  Will enclose a note tomorrow to tell you what happened!

°<>°<>°<>°

Donned my coat etc. and thought I’d go outside to get some fresh air and listen intently.  It’s really snowing now.  The weatherman said ‘no snow’ but I found out weeks ago that we have our own weather here in the mountains – and it IS SNOWING here.  It is lonely tonight – not a light or sign of habitation.  Usually I like this but tonight I don’t.  I want Bill at night – I’ll never get used to that.

I could easily stay here all day – all winter – if I thought he’d be home come night – it’s our highlight of the day.  Even then – I don’t worry if I don’t expect him – Oh, I know he’s alright but —- —-

The children look so sweet and peaceful asleep.  Thank God they trust me and I can make them happy up here — !!

P.S.

I keep forgetting that I haven’t written oftener.  I must tell you how much your radio has meant to me – a voice – music – it means so very much to us!!!

And during Xmas the music was beautiful.  We heard Dicken’s Xmas Carol and all the stories.  It really made Xmas for us and I think especially for Sharon who couldn’t remember the songs from last year.

You’re my Xmas angel!

Love, Mildred

Later

Bill got home at 6:15 in the morning!  I was going to walk out and decided to wait until tonight –

He tried Monday night and tractor wouldn’t make first hill – battled it for three hours and then went back to log house where he arrived at 4:00 A.M.

Spent all night battling hill last night – has had no sleep – ate breakfast and now is leaving again.

He’s safe!!  How he keeps awake I’ll never know!!

Happy New Year

P.S. Only one month to go. [for the required residency time for proving up on the land to gain title under the requirements of the Homestead Act]

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+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!?!?

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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!

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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

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

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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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+THE LIGHT FROM WITHOUT MEETING THE LIGHT FROM WITHIN

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If we are going to survive we have to have the light from within us met by the light from without.  Abused children DO find that light – somehow, somewhere – or they could not possibly survive.  Looking back, where did we find that light?

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I was wide awake around 4 o’clock this morning and started my day as the first light began to flood the world even though the sun itself was nowhere to be seen.  Filling the outdoor animal’s water dish, sweeping lose dirt from my adobe walkway, watering and turning my ever-growing compost pile, until finally, just now right before 6:30 in the morning the first rays of the sun reach over my eastern neighbor’s trailer, and then just over my tall old corrugated steel fence where the rays begin the day by caressing the ferny tips of the tiny little carrot plants my neighbor children brought me to plant a little over a week ago.

Before long these sun rays will be blazing.  They will challenge with their parching heat every green leaf within my yard at the same time that they feed them.

I am thinking about the amazing experience I had as I transcribed that long letter yesterday that my mother wrote down over fifty years ago:  +A ROAD IS A LIVING ‘THING’ – 1959 HOMESTEADING ‘STORY’.  The more I watched the story contained in her words unfold before my eyes, the more I scanned in the photographs and trimmed them up to add in along with her words, the more my body remembered those days on that mountain road when I was seven years old.

As I remembered I felt something happening inside me that I could not name until just now as I watched these sun rays appearing out of the darkness of the night, bringing a new morning to the world on THIS day, THIS day that cannot possibly ever be exactly like any day that has ever passed over this earth in all of its very long history.

What I now can name is that especially because I was a hated, shunned, usually-frightened and terribly abused child, any time that darkness went away even for a little while the light from without that met and touched my light from within helped me to grow by ‘leaps’ and by ‘bounds’.  As I walked my little, growing feet over the virgin land of that Alaskan mountainside something new and different happened to me.

I felt fine.  Absolutely fine.

I see in my mother’s homesteading letters that she often turns her scathing tone to my slowness as I trudged along with my family up that mountain.  “There’s Linda, so slow as always, lagging far behind the rest of us.”  As if I was some foreign albatross, some anchor around everyone else’s neck that dragged down the rest of them no matter what they were doing and no matter what I did.

But as the light from without touched me yesterday as I transcribed that story and remembered every smell, every sight, every tone of the mountainside itself along with what glorious shows of life that lay along the road that led back to OUR mountain along the valley’s floor, I could feel those same sun rays from fifty years ago lighting up my skin on the outside as my soul and spirit lit me up on the inside as clearly as today’s morning sun rays are out there at this instant nourishing those tiny carrot sprouts that rise above the soil’s darkness into their new life.

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At this same moment I know inside of myself that I walked that mountain as slowly as my mother would allow because I was eating it up.  I noticed every step I took, every sound I heard, every wafting sweet-smelling breath of air that swirled around me.  I noticed every twig and branch, every sight of water seeping from the cut earth banks and flowing, the edges of every patch of mud, every freshly cut root from every tree that had been hacked apart by some big caterpillar tractor that had TRIED to make that mountain road.

I heard every bird.  I saw every cloud pass above me.  And for all the meeting of light from without with my seven-year-old and growing light from within that happened to me upon that mountainside I remembered.  I dreamt about those old mountain road switchbacks and the steep walk well into my 40s.  I would travel there in my dreams on a road I knew only I could still find.  And, oh how I grieved for most of my adult life for those days, for those nights.

I grieved for the mountains as the tractors came to strip away the trees and plants to add in the power poles.  I grieved for every freshly cleared strip of land designed to reach someone’s newly built house rising among the trees.  I grieved for that light I felt then, and I didn’t even know it.  Today as I realize how naturally I responded to that Alaskan sanctity of land only newly touched by people, I also grieve for the eagles and bears and moose and beaver that fifty years ago belonged back in that valley and on that mountain before so many people came and scared them all away.

When I returned to that valley and to the place of my childhood last summer I found that the road all the way up that mountain is paved now.  How nice for those who live there, content as they must be with their money, their good vehicles, with the plows that come and clear away all snow trouble before it bothers them.  Nestled in all their houses built on subdivided land they are to me nothing more than signposts of change, of the passing of years, of the continued traveling of people who will go as far as they can around this world until there is barely a single thing left over from long ago and no more far away.

At the same time I am grateful that I was allowed as a small child to be a part of history there in that valley, on that mountain, in that time.  Because there was so very little light allowed to shine for me in my terrified, suffering and very dark childhood, what light came to me in that place, on that land was essential for my very survival.  And here I am today, writing these words, because of my part not only in the horror of my mother’s story that she never truly tells in her written words, but because of the beauty that she also knew — and wrote about.

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Our own life force is as much our light within as it would be for a plant – or for any other creation.  We are designed biologically to respond to light from without.  No matter how abused we have been, as I mentioned at the start of this post, we DID receive light from without that met our own life force light from within.

Because we are members of a social species we are designed first and foremost to respond to the light in other PEOPLE as our emotional-social brain and our entire nervous system-body grows and develops from birth (and before).  Yet for some of us the human environment was far more toxic than light-enhancing.  That could not possibly stop us from responding to nourishing, life promoting influences in our environment no matter what our age.

Perhaps we could see the love and devotion in a pet’s eyes.  Perhaps a stranger offered us a compliment.  Perhaps we became aware of a miracle of nature around us.  Perhaps we loved to run, or to draw, or to cook, or to hit a ball, or to feel damp grass under the soles of our feet or squish wet sand between our toes.

As long as we are alive in a body supportive and nurturing influences surround and encompass us.  They feed and sustain us every bit as much as air, water, food and sleep.  And in that world we were born into SOMETHING and/or SOMEONE DID delight us – or we would not have survived.

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