4.23.20
It’s that time of year again. The time as I remember the approach to entering Western State Hospital at 14 in 1972. It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been. Each year, I’m aware of the momentous change to my life which continues to reverberate.
This year, I’m going to spend time accompanying my 14 year old self as we traverse these days together. I’m aware how terribly alone my teenage self was. Weighing 112 pounds at 5’10.5”, I was exceptionally thin and long. Troubled to the point I was not safe. I struggled to understand what was happening in my mind filled with mean talk from another part of myself. This part was a man named Sasifraz. He was my steady companion. Unknown and unheard by anyone but me, it was an impossible situation for me to understand.
After running away from my mother’s home, I ended up at my grandparents for a week. From there, I spent a month living alone with my severely abusive father. It is at this point I’m accompanying my younger self today. She rides the public bus to and from home each day. My father leaves for work at 6:30 in the morning and comes home at 6 in the evening. She is alone until then. At home, he mixes drink after drink and they eat a TV dinner in front of the TV. There is no furniture other than beach seat backs on the floor facing the television and a bed in each of two bedrooms. There is very little conversation between them.
I have my guitar as my only important possession. When he’s gone, I play in front of a full length hallway mirror to keep myself company. Unexpectedly, this helps build my confidence in seeing how I appear to others. Sasifraz is quiet while I play the guitar. I write songs expressing my aching, lonely heart. I’m not interested in other people’s songs except for Cat Stevens’ Morning Has Broken which speaks to me.
I go to bed alone wondering what the next day will bring. This night, my 62 year old self lies next to me, comforting me and letting me know I’m not alone. At some point in the future, I will become a proud, successful professional with a life I can barely imagine tonight as she puts her arm around me and hugs me to her. Sasifraz is quiet. For once, I am not alone.
4.24.20
Today, I am late to school. The public bus was late. The trip is five miles. It lets me off on the highway. I ran down the hill, through the school, and into my Algebra class. I had never been late to school before. The math teacher commented. “The public bus was late,” was all I could manage to say.
Trish Keenan is at school. Keenan, the school guidance counselor, has been my greatest support since entering junior high. Each day, I have a brief check-in with Keenan. It is the event I look forward to the most. It is the only part of the day when I feel cared for. It is important I not hang on Keenan nor request more of her than is reasonable. Maintaining that relationship is more important than any desperation I might feel.
“How are you doing today?” Keenan asks.
I make a non-committal response. How can one be doing when living with a father I am terrified of? “Okay. The bus was late. It made me late for Mr. Wog’s class.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.” I knew Keenan would take care of it. I wasn’t sure exactly how. Teachers talked in their teachers’ lounge. I knew that. Things got taken care of informally outside of the awareness of students.
“Thank you,” I said. I knew the conversation would be over too quick. It didn’t matter how long it actually was. It would be too quick. Then, I must march out bravely to that confusing world where Sasifraz was the only consistency I trusted.
As I march out, my older self is with me matching stride for stride. I’m not ready to offer my hand. We stick close anyway. “You are not alone. I am with you. Take heart. Things get better eventually.”
4/25/20
For lunch at school, Keenan has ensured I get a free lunch. This has been true for the last year. There are two options for a hot lunch. There is the daily special that usually involves an unappetizing form of vegetable. The second choice is hamburgers on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday with hotdogs on Tuesday and Thursday. I like the hamburgers but don’t think much of the hotdogs.
The cooks recognize me and know I want either hamburger or hotdog as I never take the daily special. I am so attached to them knowing what I want that I continue to say hotdog even when I don’t want it. The 14 year old me is somewhat puzzled by this behavior. I know it is a symptom of wanting to be seen and cared for. It feels like caring to my younger self. Caring was in short supply in my life. I still have issues with food but maybe neither one of us has to be quite so alone with it.
Friday marks the first week with my father. It is the end of the school week. I am distressed by knowing I have a weekend with my father. I am also aware that I mustn’t show it. Revealing any feelings to my father could be dangerous resulting in harm if not death. I believe this because I have been beaten many times as well as sexually assaulted. He has also made it clear that as a child I am property for him to do with as he wishes.
I resolve to put a pleasant smile on my face that no one can find fault with. Fortunately this year, I have an assertive 62 year old self to keep me company. Maybe, the weekend won’t be so bad. It’s hard to say.
4/26/20
The weekend was dismal but not alarming. My father worked Saturday morning from seven to noon. When he got back at one, he made a drink. We did laundry and watched football if it was on. He would watch any sport from car racing to golf. The only movies he watched were Westerns. John Wayne was his favorite.
On Sunday, I convinced him to go for a drive anywhere just to get out of the apartment. I’d come up with questions to ask him to keep him from asking me questions. My father’s replies were mostly mono-syllabic. It didn’t create opportunities for distracting conversation. My worst fear was when he’d ask in almost a lyrical way, “What-cha think-ing?”
Oh, god, I couldn’t tell him what I was thinking. I was thinking about suicide and hurting myself. I wanted to be dead. I was listening to Sasifraz. I knew I’d have to think of something quick before my father suspected I was holding back. The second worse thing was, “Aren’t you happy? Why don’t you smile?” God forbid, my outer self should reflect my inner self.
“Yes, Dad, I’m happy,” I responded with a slight crack in my voice and gave a shot at a quick smile.
“That’s my girl.” That ended the inquisition. Once we were home again, I was happy to eat a TV dinner and watch football. Football generated no conversation which was a blessing. It was just a few teeth gritting hours until I could go to school again in the morning.
Finally, off to bed, with my 62 year old comfortingly at my side. “Hold on, sweetheart. You’re not alone.”
4/27/20
Monday was another day at school, a visit with Keenan, and then alone to a quiet apartment. I played my guitar until he came home. My dad continued to come home around six. I knew this was unusual for him. I suspected he was pretending to be a responsible father. He would normally have gone straight to the tavern after work. He walked in the apartment and mixed a drink.
The evenings were routine with TV dinners and TV. He showed displeasure at watching things I was interested in. Sports was all he cared about. It was my practice to shower or bathe at night. With him in the apartment, the bathroom was the only place I had privacy. He did not like it if I closed my bedroom door. He didn’t have shampoo I recognized. I used his deodorant, Right Guard. It was all he had. I didn’t like his toothpaste. When we went to the store, I convinced him to buy Head and Shoulders shampoo and toothpaste for me. Head and Shoulders was what my grandparents used.
He kept a razor on the tub. It had a double edged blade. I used it to shave my legs. I didn’t know what else to use. I didn’t tell him. I looked closely at the razor blade. I cut myself many times at my mom’s house with one similar. How would I be okay here? I was terrified of my father and him catching me doing anything wrong.
Showering was quick. I didn’t want him to walk in on me. I didn’t want him to surprise me. I was afraid to lock the door for fear he would discover it. I had to wash my hair every night because of teenage greasiness. I had terrible acne and washed my face several times a day to keep it from accumulating grease as my mother insisted. I felt mechanical in everything I did when he was home. I put on a flannel nightgown and said good night to him. I longed for sleep without dreams.
Tonight, my older self and younger self share the bed. We breathe together, hold hands, and the older me whispers a comforting lullaby my mother sang to me when I was small:
“Baby’s fishing for a dream, fishing near and far.
Her boat a silver moonbeam, her net a shining star.
Sail baby sail, far across the sea.
But, don’t forget to come back home again to me.”
Together, we drift to sleep. The younger me comforted by one who is certain I will be all right.
4/28/20
Another school day. Another boring night with my father. Tonight, I lay down in my bed sharing it with an amazing older woman and younger woman. In either awareness, I am glad I have the other to guide me into loving and healthful steps. Thank you, young one. Thank you, older one. Sleep easy tonight both of you. You are not alone.
4/29/20
“I’m hanging with you,” I say to my younger self. But, it’s hard to remember the details. It’s hard to want to remember the details. I went through my memoir which briefly choreographs that month. I mostly remember it as a mind numbing grind. School was the only relief. Even that began to blend with the emotional pain I felt. The fear of my father learning anything about me was constant. I knew I couldn’t refuse anything he demanded I do. I lived in fear of what he might do.
“It’s coming,” my younger self says. “It’s coming. I know it. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Yes, it’s coming. You’re not alone,” I say. “I’m with you.” I open my arms to the younger me, pull her in, and hold her. In our experience, it’s imaginative. I am trying to make it real this time around. I don’t want her to be alone this year during anniversary of the trauma. It was only 30 days. “How can so much pain be packed into 30 lousy days?” I ask.
“It’s just the way it is sometimes,” another part of me answers. “It’s just the way it is.”
4/30/20
[Picture of two stick figures in a heart shape container. One reaching out to the other. It says, “April 30, 1972-2020 Joceile—you are not alone.”]
5/1/20
It was Friday. Another damn Friday which meant a weekend alone with my dad. This was not a good thing. I checked with Keenan at school that day. I sadly rode the bus home to wait for my father’s return from work.
In a departure from previous nights, he came home a bit later and had already been drinking. He walked in and poured himself another drink. He favored bourbon and water. He wasn’t hungry so I ate canned spaghetti by myself in front of the TV with him.
LeRoy could drink endlessly without many signs of being drunk. His thinking was impaired but not his physical strength. Once angered, he became uncontrollably violent. This is what I was most afraid of. Even now, I’m not too happy about remembering it. This is why I’m hanging with my younger self during these frightful days. I don’t want her to be alone with him in as much as I can give comfort from a distant place using my writing and skills of the heart.
In bed, I sooth and rub my younger self’s back. “You’re not alone. I love you as do many others. I’m here with you.”
5/2/20
On Saturday, my father didn’t come home at noon. He called me at one to say he’d be late. He turned up at three, drunk from three hours at the tavern. His state of inebriation scared me. I tried to hide my fear while we watched TV. He continued to drink.
We had dinner. He started touching me, asking me how I was doing. He told me he wanted me to be happy. I insisted I was happy. He stared at me. I willed myself to be still, revealing nothing.
As the evening wore on, my perspective shifted. I wanted him to love me. I wanted him to hold me. I didn’t want to be alone. After the lights went out, I crawled into bed with him. I just wanted to be held. I wanted to be comforted. I wanted to know I wasn’t alone. Could I just lay with him and be close? I fell asleep in his arms.
At midnight, his touch woke me. It wasn’t comfort anymore. It was insistent and demanding touch. He was strong. There was nowhere for me to go. His arms were like steel. I couldn’t speak. I could hardly breath. I didn’t want his penis near me but it was persistent with a terrible large stiffness. I hate penises. They are mean, ugly, angry things. They hurt. They don’t back off.
My father forced his penis inside me. It burned. It hurt. My vagina felt a familiar tearing. My body was frozen. I couldn’t move. I waited for the powerful battering to stop. Once it did, I felt nothing. Even wetness didn’t register. I didn’t move. He fell asleep. I laid there untethered to any part of myself I recognized. I brought it on. It was my fault. I was bad for asking my father for comfort. All I could do was just forget it. Forget, forget, forget. Nothing happened. I felt nothing. I remembered nothing.
Later, Sasifraz called me names and told me it was my fault. He said I deserved punishment. I should be killed and cut up in a million pieces thrown away like the trash I was. I knew no one could see it in my face or in my body. The next day, my father acted as if nothing happened. I willed myself to forget and I did. Until just now with my 62 year old self, I forgot.
Neither of us want to forget now despite the pain of remembering. Both of us pledge to stay together and comfort each other. I tell my 14 year old self I don’t need to run or hide. I’m here. What happened to her, happened to both of us. We can only recover by sticking together. I can comfort and reassure myself that I wasn’t bad. What he did was wrong and cruel. Asking for comfort is not bad. I tell myself that. My younger self is trying to hear me. I say it again.
5/3/20
The next morning, it was as if the slate was wiped clean. There was nothing different between me and my father. I couldn’t let myself remember what happened. I felt bad, dirty, and ashamed but didn’t know why. Sasifraz kept harping on how I was bad and should be killed. He never said why.
Depression settled over me like storm clouds. I felt at risk and in danger. I didn’t deserve goodness, only punishment. We went through laundry and shopping. I told my father I didn’t want to go for a drive. I wanted nothing but tried not to let on. Even the thought of school the next day didn’t make me feel better. When you’re bad, you’re bad. When you’re good, no one notices.
I keep telling my 14 year old self that she’s not bad. She doesn’t deserve to die. There are forces going on she can’t control. I tell her over and over that I love her. I reach out and gently touch my younger hand. She grasps my hand tentatively. I hear her praying to whatever god that will listen that she be okay. I tell her she will be okay even if it doesn’t feel like it now.
5/4/20
I can’t write tonight. My legs hurt too much from a mysterious neurological condition I’ve had for decades. I’m with you my young friend. I’m next to you hanging in.
There are parts of my body that reflect my father to my eyes. I have genetics from him. I have very wide flat finger nails. At times looking at my thumb, I see his thumb. My hair is thin like his. Facial features are similar. The shape of my feet are like his. When this happens, I remind myself that although I have inherited genetic similarities they are melded with others to make me. They are not a reflection of him but rather a total of who I have become. “You aren’t here, dad.”
So tonight, we’ll both sit quietly together and think good things about ourselves. We are loved. We are courageous. If there’s something we can do to give a bit of ease, warmth, or pleasure to another without hurting ourselves, we will do it. We’re passionate and persistent. We can be trusted. These are things that hold us in good stead with ourselves and those around us. We’ve come through the thorny side and manage to flourish despite the odds. Of this, I am grateful as one older being to the younger one. Thank you for all you’ve done. I love you.
5/5/20
I’m with the younger me holding her in my arms and heart. You’re not alone. You will be okay and thrive.
5/6/20
I’m still here with you. Mom’s birthday is tomorrow. May 7th every year. Impossible to forget.
5/7/20
Our mom is 85 today. “I’m having a hard time,” the 62 year old said. “Not because it’s her birthday. Not because I’m hanging out with the 14 year old me. It’s because my body hurts. My arms and legs. Nerve tingling in my legs that won’t stop. I think it’s because of the rape so very long ago and other times. The horror, fear, and frozen-ness has been trapped in my nervous system all these years.”
The 14 year old me doesn’t entirely know what I’m talking about but knows pain. I’m sorry to even mention this long term pain to my younger self because I know she’s trying so hard to get through.
“All I can say is we’re loved. We’ll get through. We’ll do it together. It’ll be okay in the grand scheme of things. I’m with you.”
5/8/20
It’s late. I’m still with you. I love you. Only 11 days left at our father’s apartment. You aren’t alone this time. I’m holding you. Cry if you need to. Only I will hear. It’s okay.
5/8-10/20
I’m sorry I didn’t write yesterday. Ronnie fell the day before and bruised her knee. Alex came over yesterday. She helped with physical things, had dinner, and played cards with me. This is the kind of life you’ll live one day.
Today is Mother’s Day. I know that first Mother’s Day away from our mom was hard. I’ve never celebrated Mother’s Day with our mom since that first year living with dad. It all seemed like pretty piss poor parenting to be celebrating. I was never going to lie about it. There were times when I made a note to Granny about Mother’s Day but never my mother.
It’s a Sunday for both of us. I’m fortunate to have a daughter who celebrates with me now. But, I remember the suffering of not calling mom that first year away from her. I know you were hurt being alone with dad and not feeling like you had a mother to call.
I remember you didn’t want to call Granny for fear of getting our grandparents involved with our parents. I also remember mom saying that my grandparents were relieved to have dad take you because they didn’t want the burden. Typical of mom to put a wedge of doubt so you didn’t have anyone to call for help. She was mean and hurtful.
As you know, I’ve only been in touch with her via mail for 30 years because she’s still mean and hurtful. I know you were hurting and alone 48 years ago. I’m with you now. You found your way to resources and mastered them. I have your pain and hard work to thank for the life I have now.
Just know, you’re not alone. It was all worth it. I’m with you tonight. Take my hand. Let me hug and comfort you during the long, dark night of the soul.
5/11/20
Eight days left. I haven’t written the details of your experience as I would have liked. But, I’ve hung with you which is the most important.
You don’t know it yet. Your ability to write and be creative has already and will serve us well. Those two skills have been essential to our healing, ability to communicate, and having a successful career. Your perseverance and openness to meaningful connection has already set you on a path to escape from harm and into recovery. You don’t know this yet. I guarantee it is true. All the parts of us have benefited from who you are. So, thank you. Hang on. These cold, lonely days will blossom to a summer of the unimaginable. I’m with you now and always.
5/12/20
Another day and night. Things are getting tougher for you. I know your focus on school is being more difficult. Part of you is worried about summer coming and living with your dad. Sasifraz is persistent. Tonight, you will cut your thumb on purpose just a bit because you can’t stand the emotional pain.
They are small cuts because you don’t want our dad to know. You are so very afraid of him. I know you end up telling Keenan because the secrets are piling up. Sasifraz’s voice is drowning out what you can think about. It feels like the crisis is gathering speed as it hurls down the mountain.
I’m here to tell you you’re right. It is all piling up. Your feeling of being unsafe is justified and real. This whole fucked up, frightening system is coming to a stop. All I can say is hold on, know and have trust that things will get better. They will. They do. I’m here with you. I am walking these steps with you. You’ll be safe. Healing will come. It’s a long haul...and, you’re not alone.
5/13/20
Last night, I had a dream about reconciling old childhood baggage. Ronnie and I were traveling, staying in this place. Things started disappearing or getting moved that neither of us had touched. It was puzzling. We heard noises. I discovered this cupboard high above a wall. This is where the noises were coming from.
I notice if we stayed very still and quiet the cupboard “ghosts” would give us a clue about what was going on. Each day, we did that for a few moments. The clues kept piling up. After several days of paying attention, we cracked the code and received the “treasure” from the cupboard. The treasure was a childhood book of mine. An old one that looked like Winnie the Pooh with letters to me and notes tucked in it and messages written in it. I was also given a large topaz ring that was my mother’s. People with us looked at it and said it was worth $1.5 million.
Then, grown up childhood friends started showing up and giving me big hugs. I hadn’t seen them in over 45 years but I knew them. One was Linda Carlson. I had lost track of her a long time ago. It was so good to see her. I kept hugging her.
I remembered Linda was my best childhood friend. Her family lived across the street and moved away in my fourth grade summer. I remember being alone and bereft sitting in the woods thinking of her wishing as hard as I could she would come back. Her mom, Joyce, hung with my mom. I think after the Carlson’s moved things got even worse with my parents. Mom and Joyce used to spend eight hours a day on the phone with each other doing housework. This when phones were hardwired into the wall. We had a long curly cord.
The dream was another way to remember your pain. It also spoke of hidden treasures in our childhood that reveal themselves slowly only by paying close attention. This project of hanging with you during these tough days is an example. Now, you know I’m really with you even as I sleep at night. It won’t be long until you are out of there and onto the first great adventure of your young life.
5/14/20
I talked to my therapist today. We’ve identified more shit I can work on. It’s a long path. Even though I don’t enjoy it, it’s a good path. You started the path with Keenan. I’m grateful to both of you. You don’t know it yet but in the next few months you are going to learn about hugs. Right now, there’s no one to hug that feels safe. You have no idea hugs can come from those with no hidden agenda. It’s a great thing to learn about positive, safe touch. I appreciate that you will make it happen for you and I and all our iterations.
Five days left. I know it’s an eternity when you have no idea an end to a particular cruelty is on its way. For the first time, getting As in all your classes is beyond you. Your favorite teachers are showing concern for you. Whatever spark you had has left your eyes. There’s a sad stillness, unreflective of the passion you have inside. All your anger, confusion, and frustration is turned inward. Sasifraz is the only expression of it and nobody hears him but you.
Unbeknownst to you, Keenan is working her butt off trying to figure out how to help you. She sees what’s happening. She may not be clear why but she sees it. You’re not alone. I’m pulling for you. Keenan’s pulling for you. Your English teacher, Susan Starr, is pulling for you. The librarian, Ms. Rosario, is pulling for you. Keenan, working with Audrey Williams and a school psychologist you’ve never met, will find a path out of there for you. Finally, away from your parents—permanently. It makes me teary just thinking of it. It will be okay. I’m here as proof along with my sweet partner of 31 years who also loves you. We are lucky even in moments when it is difficult to see. I can see. You can see through my eyes in your imagination. We make it.
5/15/20
When you saw Keenan today, you tried to tell her how much you were struggling. It was hard to find words. Trying to sort through what Sasifraz was carrying on about and your own thoughts to ask Keenan for help was impossible. You can’t tell what or if she understands. She does know you don’t want to stay in your dad’s house.
“Do you want to see Audrey Williams?” Ms. Williams was my former therapist at Highline-West Seattle Mental Health Center.
“Yes. But, I don’t think he’ll let me.” When asked, my father had repeatedly said no, adding that any problems I had could be taken care of within the family.
“I could talk to him about it. Would you like me to?”
“Yes,” I whispered. I was unable to give more than one word answers. I hoped Keenan would have influence with my dad but without any great confidence.
“It will work out,” my 62 year old self says to my younger self. “You can’t see it from where you sit. But, I assure you, it works out.”
5/16/20
My dad said no. “Why do you want to talk to her? You can tell me anything.” It was impossible to tell him that, no, I couldn’t tell him anything.
“I just want to talk to her.”
“It needs to stay in the family. If you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to your mother.”
“I know.” I felt incredibly remote, removed. I had trouble seeing clearly. He said what he said. It didn’t matter what I wanted. I remember sitting in his car. A green LeMans two door automatic. I stared ahead. I was out of words.
My 62 year old self says, “I know it’s hard and confusing. It’s gonna be okay.”
5/17/20
The next day, Keenan told me he changed his mind and that I could see Ms. Williams that evening. I didn’t know how or why he changed his mind. In the evening, he drove me to her office. I could barely talk to her. Sasifraz kept saying I should be killed. I’m not sure what I said to her. Sasifraz pointed out what he called “a seven inch blade” in the corner. It was a big knife. I kept looking at it. Longing to grab it and hurt myself. Ms. Williams didn’t know what I was looking at. I had trouble keeping my eyes off it. I looked at her face and back at the knife.
“I think you should go to the hospital for a couple days. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t know. Can I ask Ms. Keenan?”
Ms. Williams got Keenan on the phone. I asked Keenan what she thought. She said, “I think you should go.” I asked if I could come back to school after. They agreed I could. Ms. Williams went and talked to my father.
My father said no again. He couldn’t understand why I would need that. He didn’t think it was necessary. He took me home again in the green LeMans. I don’t remember going to bed. I don’t remember sleeping.
My 62 year old self hung with the younger me. “It’s not much farther now. Hold on.”
*******
I have to change things here. Something really different happened early this morning. I was dreaming that Ronnie and I had gotten divorced but still lived together. I wasn’t happy about the divorce and wanted to get remarried. Apparently, I had done something to cause the divorce. Ronnie kept saying to me, “Well, we could do that if we weren’t divorced...” I knew I had to earn back her trust.
Wherever it was we lived, the country’s ownership was contested by the Nazis. (Nazis are always my nightmare monsters. I never watched a zombie movie, thank god.) We were told the Nazis would be marching through town in a show of force. We weren’t supposed to be worried. Violence wasn’t expected.
Ronnie and I walked down to the road they were going to march and pass over a bridge. As the Nazis marched by in their helmets and German uniforms, we followed over the bridge. In that moment, I thought, “This is what it felt like for the Germans when the Nazis marched through their towns.”
Suddenly, I woke up and couldn’t move...at all. No piece of my body would respond to my directions. I couldn’t open my eyes, move my mouth, my head, or any part of my body. I could feel that I was uncomfortable and felt twisted. But, I couldn’t open my eyes to orient myself.
This has happened to me many times over the years with unpleasant consequences. Ronnie and I have developed a protocol to help me get moving again. The problem was that Ronnie had gotten up in the night and gone to the downstairs bed. She was either hot or uncomfortable. Sometimes a change of bed is helpful when we have trouble sleeping. So, she wasn’t around. Instead she was downstairs most likely out of earshot.
My mouth was open with my sleep apnea dental device in. I could make throat sounds. I started to call with no words, just a sound. “Aaaaaahhhhhh.” I’d take a breath. “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.” I kept this up as loud as I could. I’ve read descriptions of a keening sound. I’ve never known what that was. I might have approximated it but it wasn’t high pitched. I was pretty sure she couldn’t hear me. I did wake up the dog who promptly got up, went downstairs, out the dog door to take a dump, and then return. She didn’t bother to wake up Ronnie on her way back. I tried different wailing sounds. I did quick increases to approximate a siren but heard nothing from downstairs. Clearly, Ronnie wasn’t coming anytime soon.
At times, pain can wake up my body. I tried focusing on my discomfort. I quickly realized that was going nowhere. What to do? What to do? I could tell time was passing even with my eyes closed because the sun was moving up in the window.
When Ronnie helps me, she first touches my lips. Being able to talk is the first most important skill. I thought about who I had been hanging around with. I thought of my 14 year old self. I asked her to come close and start touching my lips. I told her I would be okay but I needed help. She tentatively touched my lips along my top lip and around to my bottom lip. “Good,” I said in my mind. She kept touching me. Suddenly, I began to feel my lips. I was able to spit out my dental device and let it fall. “Good,” I said with my mouth.
I decided to talk to her while she stayed by me. “I live with this wonderful, beautiful woman, Ronnie. We have a dog, Sheba. And, a cat, Scarlett.” I could feel my hands in the shape of claws and could twitch my fingers. “How ‘bout if I tell you a story?” My 14 year old self sat next to me looking concerned.
“We got Scarlett a long time ago. She had a brother named Sarkus. He was more than twice her size. He tormented her. When he passed away, Scarlett came into her own.” I kept trying to twitch my fingers. I felt a couple toes wiggle on my right foot. This is how I get myself out of this state—a little at a time. My legs are the last to come on line. Usually, when total paralysis hits, my legs don’t work well for several days. I tried not to dwell on that.
“Then, we got Sheba...from Snoqualmie Children’s Center.” (It’s really Echo Glen in Snoqualmie. But, I always get that wrong.) I started imagining that children’s center and what I didn’t know about it. My left eye opened partially but shut again because the sun was so bright. “Oh good, we have an eye.” I knew then that I could focus on reviving my body. I stopped talking to my 14 year old self while I kept trying to make little movements in my hands. I was able to open the other eye and finally move my head which was at an uncomfortable angle. As I did this, my 14 year old partner self melted away.
My hands began to move with my upper torso. I looked at my watch. It was 7:35. I have no idea when this started. I tried to move my toes and began to rub my lower legs. Soon, I felt I was ready to try to get up. Walking was difficult but surprisingly I didn’t need the cane that’s hidden under the bed for these occasions. I fed the dog and cat. I started reading.
By the time Ronnie got up, I felt pretty much fine. I waited until she was awake enough to tell her the story. She was blown away but her first question was, “Did you thank her?”
“Oh shit, I thought.” But then, “Thank you, 14 year old self.”
“I just did,” I said to Ronnie.
“Wow,” she said. “That is wonderful. I feel myself in two places. As your partner, this is great. As a therapist, this is fabulous.”
“I know. It’s never happened before.”
“You can do it yourself. That is so cool.”
“It’s truly amazing.” In 30 years, I have never been able to get myself out of this early morning paralysis without help. Walking the same day after paralysis is unheard of. “I started this writing project. I had no idea where it would lead. It led to this.”
So, thank you, 14 year old self. I’ve been hanging out with you to support you. Goddamn, if you didn’t support me right back. Thank you.
5/18/20
There’s no guitar playing now. There’s just a stillness. A failure to move or do anything other than exactly what is required. Nothing more. I move like a sleepwalker. Nothing matters. No feelings bubble up. Just a frozenness in my long, thin frame.
The next day, I talk to Keenan about my dad saying no and no. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” Keenan asks.
“Yes. Only for a couple of days.” I don’t know why. I just want to get out of my father’s house. I’ll take whatever presents itself.
“You could go to the youth center and they could take you to the hospital. Do you want to do that?”
“Does my father have to take me?”
“No. A police car could take you there.”
“Do I have to talk to my father?”
“No. I can call them to pick you up and take you.”
“Okay.” I didn’t care what happened as long as it didn’t involve my father.
So, the police came, loaded me in the back of the patrol car, and drove me into Seattle on I-5. They took me to the youth center.
It didn’t go the way it was supposed to. I walked into the locked facility. There were kids behind locked doors with windows. I could see large dividers in the building. I didn’t know why the kids were there. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to join them.
I was introduced to a social worker and followed her to her office. It had windows looking out. I didn’t notice what was outside. I don’t remember her name and only a few things she said. First, “We can’t take you to a hospital. Only your parents can do that.”
We talked more. “I’m sorry. There’s no way we can take you.” In my adult life, I know I could have just walked into an emergency room and told them I wanted to kill myself. At 14, I only knew of options that adults provided. Eventually, she asked me if I’d had dinner. I said no and she disappeared to find food.
When she came back, she asked if I wanted to call my father. The alternative was to spend the night there. The last thing I wanted to do was involve my father. But, staying there with those kids who had done whatever to get there sounded even less appealing. She gave me the phone. I called my father.
Strangely, it had never felt so good to hear his voice. “Do you want me to come get you?” I thought he’d be mad but he wasn’t.
“Yes, please.” I handed the phone back to her to give him directions. He got me and drove me home. I was almost comforted by his presence. But, not quite. Because, he remained my father. Not some imaginary good guy.
“This is the last night,” I tell my 14 year old self. “The last night before things really change. I’m with you.”
5/19/20
Today’s the day. It’ll be okay. In the morning at school, Keenan asks if you still want to go to the hospital. You say yes for a couple days. Keenan says she and the school psychologist are working on something. So, you wait in her office. After a bit, she says you can wait in the clinic where you can lay down. The clinic is on the other side of the cinder block wall from her office. The time moves slowly. She checks on you regularly and says they are still working on it. You don’t know what this means. You don’t ask.
You have lunch in Keenan’s office. She’s in and out looking very busy. She says they are getting closer. Around two, Keenan tells you they have found a place in Tacoma. She offers to drive you there. This is the beginning of your first big adventure. Of course, you want Keenan to drive you. There’s nothing in the world you would rather. You still think it is just for a couple of days.
Keenan drives a tan/gold colored Malibu four door. (Our family was into cars.) What could be better than being with Keenan in her car? Today, I’m taking this trip with you. She says you are going to some kind of children’s center. The drive takes longer than either of you expect. After taking an exit off the freeway, she follows Steilacoom Boulevard south.
“They said to look for a stone wall,” Keenan said. We slowed at schools with fences and other places with fences. She was following written instructions. No GPS in those days. I’ve memorized the curves of that road. I can still see parts of it from that first trip in her car. It was further down the road than expected. Finally, we came to a low stone wall surrounding a grassy prairie with oak trees. The wall had an open wrought iron gate. We turned right and went through.
Keenan took you to the administration building. Sitting in the lobby waiting while Keenan met with someone, you saw a girl bouncing around excitedly saying she was getting out. “I’m getting out. I’m getting out.” Her name was Ramona Tuttle. (I’ve never forgotten that name.) Through clenched jaw, you ask how long she’d been there. “Nine months,” she said. That was the first clue you had that this wasn’t a general hospital where you’d be for two or three days.
Keenan came out. You were invited into an office with a psychiatrist, Dr. Van Patter, and a staff person named Claudette. Keenan sat in. Van Patter asked you questions about what was going on. Sasifraz was carrying on about how much trouble you were in. You decided to be partially honest because you were curious if you really were “crazy.” You told them you had to cut yourself every two weeks. You didn’t say anything about Sasifraz.
Van Patter wanted to know what you did with the blood. You thought it was an odd question because what did that matter? You said you blotted your arm with toilet paper and threw it away.
Van Patter said, “I think we’re going to keep you here.” Blood rushed to your head. There was a roaring in your ears.
“How long?”
“What?”
“For how long?” You asked again.
“That depends on you,” Van Patter said.
There was something said about whether your dad had to come sign papers. You didn’t care about that. You were told to follow Claudette. I don’t even remember if you said goodbye to Keenan. Right then, you felt incredibly betrayed.
Claudette took you to the girls’ building in the back door to a room with a heavy door with a high small window in it. The room had a bare bed and rolling side table. The only outside window had chain link fencing over its inside. Claudette had you help her make the bed. She said this wouldn’t be your usual room but because it was an emergency this was the only room available. You didn’t know you were an emergency. It was nearly five. She told you to wait there until dinner time. She’d be back.
You stood at the window, holding the fencing cover, and imagined Keenan driving away back to her home leaving you there. It was a terribly sad, lonely feeling. The one person you counted on had abandoned you.
I’m here to tell you that you weren’t abandoned. I know it felt that way. She took you to the safest place she could find. I know you didn’t hear anyone tell you where you were going or that plans changed. I just want you to know it was the best they could find. Ultimately, it got you away from your parents.
That night, you crawled into those stiff white sheets in the bed after looking out the window for a long time. You didn’t know if you could sleep but you did. You were cold wearing a thin cotton nightgown and robe without enough blankets. Tonight, I’m laying there with you against your body helping keep you warm. I’m with you. Many big hearts of love are with you. It’ll be okay. I promise.
*******
Since I started this writing project, I’ve wondered, “Why in the hell do I feel compelled to do this?” I’ve celebrated May 19th for 48 years. I never attended to the 30 days leading up to it. I didn’t realize I needed to attend to that part of myself. I wasn’t aware of the benefit to the healing of my younger self as well as my current awareness of self. Oh, I’m not done. There’s more healing to do. But, this work has created a quantifiable, quality shift in my inner resources and understanding. It far exceeded my expectations. It continues my path further on down the healing road. What more could I ask?
Thank you to my 14 year old self and all my other selves pulling for healing.
L’Chaim.
Joceile
