I've been awake most of the night. I have been tossing and turning in fits and spurts trying to deal with this ache in my belly. Its the ache of an untold story. One I have been mulling around and harboring far too long. If you know me at all you know that 5am isn't a time I see on the clock frequently, unless there is threat of torture or an unavoidable responsibility. Chad is the early bird. So naturally when he saw me follow him out of bed he looked at me like I was crazy and asked, What are you doing?
Creativity comes in waves and I have been dead set on creating space this week. I have so much to say as many things have happened since my hiatus in July of 2021. When you make a house your hero's journey each piece asks the question, why? My silence has been mainly because the last major trigger deals with a milk can, and giving myself permission to tell the tale, even if it paints people that I love in a not so flattering light. I would be remiss in my responsibility to myself to heal fully if I have to tap dance and sugar coat all the time. I ask the reader to understand that the versions of the stories we tell often differ among the participants. I suppose its the reason why we paint angel wings on devils at funerals, flowering their memory with prose and praise.
I am at the point in the house where we are stumbling thru some finishing work and getting spaces ready to actually look like a home instead of a construction zone. In September of last year my daughter and BFF came to visit me for my birthday. They whisked me off to the big city for a girls day and we had a good bit of fun. The next day we decided that we would tackle moving the kids' things upstairs in to their prospective sleeping spaces. We had just finished the floors upstairs and hung a ceiling fan just the week prior. I felt pretty frozen on what to do next. This tends to happen when I get overstimulated. I get decision paralysis when there are just to many things to do all at once. I also feel like it can be frustrating to others who just want me to " get on with it already". My process however is a little different than most experienced do it yourself types. Since I have zero experience in the steps it takes to create a room with studs and screws I tend to focus on the artistic minutia. I will carefully curate small bits of things until I feel inspired to pull it together. At that point it is difficult for me to see anything more that the finished project in my minds eye and I tend to get lost on the way to the desired destination. In short, if your asking yourself what the hell is taking so long, well, there you have it.
I had stewed over this next story a lot and had quite honestly decided not to tell it. Then a funny thing happened yesterday while cleaning a pathway in my storage container, AKA trigger central. Since we moved out here dealing with the contents of that storage container is a monstrous display of the avoidant behavior I can only assume hoarders have. When you reach an age when your parents and grandparents start to slip beyond the veil it is inevitable that you inherit things. Sometimes the things you inherit take you places. For me , some of those of those places can pretty dark. They become little portals into the past that I have tried to shove down and suppress. I ask myself often, who am I doing this blog for? There are so many answers to that. Mainly I do it for me. I want to put words to the things that have haunted me since I was a child. I do it to let people know that they are not alone if they struggle to make sense of life when you start to realize that so many of your quirks come from trauma triggers. I do it to demonstrate that even if you think you don't have the skills to build your dream, you certainly do. All one must do is simply start. Trauma isn't just abuse, its losing a loved one, or a relationship that goes poorly. Its the culmination of the things we do to protect ourselves from ever being hurt again. I have many, many callouses. I do not however, have a sad life. On that part I want to be clear. I also want to preface this tale with this fact. I do not consider this blog to be a call out platform for abuse. Many of the people in these stories have done remarkable healing work on their own. My dad is one of those people. After a very difficult parental relationship I would like to think that we have settled into a friendship that I believe is built on honesty and respect. He shows up to do the work. And for that I am incredibly proud because while my stories may not be all Christmas fruitcakes and sugared plums, neither is his. We all deal with the scars we choose, but when the scars are chosen for you the things you do to put salve on the wounds can result in collateral damage to the people you love. Tis an important consideration to make. It is why telling this story is hard.
I was in search of some art I knew I had shoved in the back of that container to finish out an idea I had for under the stairs. I have been thinking about this space for a very long time. Its an odd size with a very narrow staircase. The supports for the stairs make it a little odd to turn it into a usable space without totally closing it off and for some reason I just don't want to do that. I also don't want it to be just a traditional pantry. I took several boxes out of the front of the container and continued trying to clear a path to were I knew I had stacked the art. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw my moms scrap books. I don't know why I opened them, but I did. Pages and pages of birthday parties and family outings spread before me. I took care to notice that even in her pain she never cut my dad out of the story. She had put these books together much later in life. I would like to think that maybe they brought her some peace. Maybe through this lens she could focus on good memories. Perhaps she left it behind as a reminder to me that even shrouded in alcoholism and violence there was a sweetness too. I had a panic attack. On one page of the book is a picture taken at Olan mills when I was about three. My mother and I looking adoringly at one another dressed in our Sunday best. On the bottom of the picture there are scratches and gouges missing and there is also blood, my mothers blood. On the day that this happened I was probably around six. I'm not quite brave enough to tell that story to the whole of the internet just yet. In short, the frame was used to strike my mom, and she cut herself on the glass. The memory of it took my breath away and I stood there sobbing. Nestled in-between the pics of my third and fourth birthday parties, I was reminded rather harshly that the stories in these pictures had a darker truth.
When we first got the house my Dad came down to assist. He had been looking for things that might suit my aesthetic and one of the things he brought me was an old milk can. He gleefully retold the story of me being stuck in the milk can when I was a kid and how they thought they would have to cut me out of it. They told how our neighbor came over and finally got me out before having to resort to the jaws of life.. oaky, maybe that's a tad dramatic, but you get the gist. Its a story I've heard over and over my whole life. I cant even count the number of times I have rolled my eyes and left the table when my mom would start telling it. She would laugh at the scene and talk about how scared she was when she discovered I was missing. She would delight when telling how after a looking for me she finally heard my small voice coming from the milk can. If you don't know the details its a precious story. I've waited for years for someone to ask me...but why were you in the milk can. No one ever does. So now you want to know right? good, I'd like to tell you, I'd like to tell someone finally.
My mom was never a small woman, 36/24/36 were never the measurements of her person. Earlier that morning my mom dressed us up in our freshly sewn Jane Fonda knock off leotards and tights to do some sweating to the oldies. I remember her sweetly adjusting my sweat band and brushing the hair back off my face."A'int No Mountain High Enough" was the last song on the album( yes it was a Richard Simmons album of workout music and instruction). We sang together as we danced in the living room. My mom exclaiming that she was trying to lose some weight. My dad had come home as lunch was prepared. I might add here that my mom despite all of her other talents, was no great chef. I don't recall what started the argument, but it quickly devolved into a session of fat shaming. I sat at the table while my dad went to get the scale from the bathroom and forced my mother to stand on it. I remember her crying and expressing that she was trying. I decided to do what I normally did in those situations, I found a place to hide. I don't know how long I was in there. I recall being in there with my bear, which interestingly enough, I also came across in storage yesterday. I had my fingers in my ears and I was humming you are my sunshine, a tune my grandma would sing to me before sleep. I did that until the shouting stopped. The house fell silent. A little while later I heard my mom calling my name and I let her continue for about 20 minutes. I heard my dad calling my name as well. I finally responded and when she found me I was kind of stuck in the milk can and couldn't get out. I could only imagine the scene from her perspective, Just my tiny tear stained face peering out of the small hole in the top of the can. Panic ensued. The fire house was called, luckily before one had to resort to extreme measures, I was able to put one hand up out of the can, tilting my shoulders just enough to get out. It was a celebratory moment. That's the part everyone remembers, everyone except me. It was the realization of my absence that stopped the fighting.
When my parents finally went their separate ways my mom kept the milk can. It has served various roles over my many years. Sometimes its an umbrella stand, sometimes a coin depository. It was always there in a corner, a quiet reminder to me of what we had escaped.
Last September when my daughter and dear friend came to visit, they helped me transition the kids things upstairs to their freshly floored and lighted space. We also hung these groovy curtains that i had bought a few weeks before. I was so pleased with how the curtains looked I decided to fashion together a design feature. I remembered that I had my moms milk can, the red color matched the curtains perfectly, and the one my dad bought me in the barn. So I marched out there, cleaned them off and set them sided by side. Now we can each have our version of the story to cling to. It is oddly the one story they have both told over the years with equal amounts of glee. I think maybe in their effort to forget the hard things they left out the details of the day. This is definitely something I understand. So many of my childhood memories are shadowed by the things people wish they could forget, things, I wish I could forget. Its been a lifetime of keeping that suitcase neatly packed and that trauma box so tightly closed.
Yesterday while fashioning my under the stairs space I was reminded that we need to tell our whole story to finally slay the dragons. I cant move forward till I address the places that scare me. It does no good to keep shoving the proverbial monsters back under the bed. They still growl and grab at your ankles when you least expect it. I made a new little home for my moms red milk can yesterday. I sat it there in a happier space. The one my dad bought me is a plant stand now. I find it fitting.
That old milk can has a chance at supporting new life and growth and reminding me that even the dark tales have shards of light. The plant it holds is a rose of Jericho, a desert plant that blows around from puddle to puddle only blooming when settled in after a hard rain. I can now focus on the parts of the story that inspire laugher in a way I could not before. There is a saying that we laugh or we cry. I've used humor and whit to disarm people most of my adult life. Its probably what makes me a good nurse. I can see thread of light in places that most people can't. I'm really good at finding it for other people even when I struggle to find it for myself. I read a book recently that talked about what we refer to as intuition really arising from serial exposure to traumatic events that make one have to learn how to read the room with expert accuracy. I felt that in my soul.
My parents are good people. They really are. It isn't always easy to deal with your bullshit while trying to navigate married life and raising children. Both of them children of alcoholics. Both of them with deep scars of their own to contend with. I know I have had my own versions of shoving the truth down so that the world is unaware of the pain below the surface. I look back on my first marriage and see the desire I had for everything to appear perfect even when it wasn't. I remember the therapy sessions we attended at the VA with my dad and listening in and hearing things I'm sure I had no business knowing at my age. So often we forget that little eyes and ears are astute recipients.
I wanted to tell this story right then, but I hesitated. My mom is no longer living and so I can give this accounting without hurting her. But my Dad, is still very much alive. I felt a sense of shame in exposing it. Not because it isn't true, but because I never want anyone to feel like the work they do to right themselves is not enough. The thought of not being enough sends me into a spiral. Its how I know I still have so much work to do on myself. I have worked so hard to get to where I am. I don't have all the normal markers of societal success, no fancy three story home in the burbs with a 2 car garage. I don't have a bunch of cash in the bank. I have fought and scraped together what I have without any help from generational wealth. Though I did receive a moderate inheritance when my Mother died, aside from that it has mainly just been us driving the struggle bus. So when people comment on how I'm not where I need to be, it quite literally unravels me. I never wish that on anyone. Despite the trauma, my Dad continues to show up. He continues to participate in hard conversations. He shows up to difficult places and endures. He does the best that he can do to smooth over the rough spots and I have a great deal of respect for that.
My quest to create for myself and my family a legacy of grace and love has been the driving point of our West Texas adventure. I hope these stories help someone out there find the courage to do what scares you. It is then and only then, that you will truly learn how to live. As with all things I find a deep connection to music. There is a Blue October song entitled Fear that says:
Fear in itself can will reel you in and spit you out,
over and over again
Believe in yourself
And you will walk,
Now fear in itself
Will use you up and break you down
like your never enough
I use to fall, now I get back up.
May we all continue always to find the courage to just keep getting up and building a life you can love.
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