lately it seems the theme of many shows I've been watching is something dealing with a small child plagued by "monsters under the bed" or some other such fear. In these stories, Mom or Dad always comes to make everything better. In my childhood, Dad was the boogeyman. He even told me so. Once my mother heard him telling me that, and she admonished him "Morris, don't tell her that." so I whispered to her "He's not fibbing Mommy, he really is the boogeyman".
She brushed it off.
There was never any comfort. No hero. No Superman, Doctor Who or even Robin Hood to come fix the evil monster, we had to live with him every day and night.
After my son was born when I was 12, my mother became another boogieman, not the kind that sneaks up on you when you're asleep, but the kind that steals your son, your reality and your self. The kind of soul-ripping constant force of control over everything, in a 12 year old's world, where there is no escape.
Except for my books and tv, and there was little time for either once I was foisted into the roll of housekeeper.
I had a lot of migraines, and was never alone with my thoughts, if I went in my room to be alone, I was made to come out and "stop being a hermit".
It seems little wonder of how I started living some altered reality here and there, some of it showed up in my art, and some in my poetry, and there was a persona of "Benonia" who would just zone out and feel painful feelings and speak to nobody. By the time I was 15 or 16 and going to coffee houses I started writing little messages on bathroom walls... "Benonia was here" with the drawing of one sad eye.
There were always terrible dreams at night, a woman clothed in long black dress with a dark black veil covering her head, she would follow me around in my dreams, and I could never get close enough to find out who she was, as she would disappear before I got close enough.
In other dreams, my father was chasing me through woods with sizzors or a sharp knife, and I would trip on tree roots and get up and run some more.
I could levitate a few feet higher than he could reach, so I always got away. That dream was better than my real life.
High school provided me with some new form of relief, I started smoking pot and a few other drugs, and drinking more heavily, I was drinking when I was able as far back as 10 years old, but it was not often or much. High school I let myself do whatever I could imagine, damn the consequences.
I cut class a lot, and visited friends at different schools, and still kept coming home by my deadline of exactly 20 minutes after school let out, because I was not allowed a life, or friends. O.k., I was allowed 3 friends, but only if I got all of the house clean first, and returned home before the street lights came on, or I would be on restriction for months at a time.
My younger sisters and both of my brothers were allowed to do as they pleased, but I was permanantly punished. I ran away from home for 3 days when I was 15, and when I came back, mom was going to put me on restriction again, but I refused to let her. I told her I am coming and going as I please, just like everyone else around here. So I went out that night, and any other night I wanted to. I smoked cigars, not because I liked them, but because mom hated them, and made me take them outside.
Partial freedom was not the same as freedom to be true to myself. I had lost a big chunk of myself already, and did not get my memory back of my son's birth until 2009, 42 years later.
I can not get 42 years of motherhood back.
No comments:
Post a Comment