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violetcheetahI wasn't able to attend the writing workshop this Wednesday, but Toni usually posts one of the prompts on his Facebook page. This one (a poem, Joanna Klink's "Some Feel Rain") didn't strike a chord in me overall. But there was one fragment that resonated, and I ended up with this blog post.
[Trigger warning: sexual abuse]
Do I imagine there is any place so safe it can’t be
snapped?
I do not. The word "safe" is unsafe. It is a lullaby the wolf sings to soothe me to a sleep from which I will never wake. Put me in a safe place, and I drown in terror until I find that "snap," until I identify the potential danger. Put me in the company of someone supremely safe, and I cower against the back of the chair until I identify their potential betrayal.
Chaos, my shrink said. This is how people turn out when they are raised in chaos. "But it wasn't," I said. "It wasn't chaos, it was... it was slant afternoon winter sun and the dust motes dancing. Everything was sepia and slow." I know he's right, but I don't feel it, but I know. I can tell people that there was a night where my father, drunk and angry, smashed every drinking glass in the house — literally every one except a thick jelly glass that I guess he hurled at the floor and didn't notice the lack of shatter — and people are stunned, appalled, angry for me, but the truth is, I fell asleep partway through the breaking, even though my bed was against the wall with the kitchen on the other side, and there was no door to my bedroom, just a doorway to the kitchen right at the foot of my bed, but still, at some point I got bored and went to sleep.
And yes, I know I wasn't bored, I know that's dissociation, I know I just turned off and what I fell into wasn't really sleep, any more than an alcoholic passing out after 10 beers is sleeping. But it seemed that way. I didn't know I was scared, and even now, I don't remember fear. I do remember weight, something pressing down on me, a stone blanket of ceasing-to-be, but all I knew at the time was that it was a blanket, and it made me tired. "Annihilation," my shrink said, and I hadn't known until he said it that there was a word scarier than "safe." I shook my head at his word, kept shaking my head, I might have stood up, that might have been one of the times I actually left his office and stood in the hall and wanted to run and was terrified of running, because I would never come back and that office was the one safe place in the world, and I wanted that, wanted, wanted, and I knew it was an illusion, but I couldn't figure out how, I was drowning in that safety because I couldn't see how it would end so I had no idea how to plan for its ending. I said to him often that I couldn't come back. I said it through tears, because I didn't want to not come back; I just couldn't. I felt that granite blanket crushing me when I was in that room, and now I was afraid as I'd never been growing up, because now I could see that it could kill me, or worse. I said often that I couldn't come back, and he always said he hoped I did, and that he'd keep the time slot open for me. I came back. Over and over, weekly years of trying to find the breaking point of that safety.
***
"Safe" was my brother, seven years older than me, minus a day; I was his early birthday present. He played with me often, probably didn't have much choice, and I would happily have played with him all the time, even when I was always the secretary to his office boss and the student to his classroom teacher and I wailed that it wasn't fair until he stormed out or threw something at me. When we played with the Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars, though, he was supremely fair, with every fortnight or so all the multitudes of vehicles parked together on the floor as we each picked, one at a time, switching each time around who got to pick first, so I was always assured of at least my second-favorite, and often my first: the blue postman's jeep with the eagle on the side and the removable plastic roof. We sat on the floor in our shared bedroom with cardboard garages under the beds, between school and supper. We didn't really interact much, I guess, just played with our own convoys in the same room, which might be why there wasn't much conflict. But in my mind, my big brother was playing with me.
We had a real car to play in, too, a junk Nash Metropolitan in the back yard, and sometimes he let me take the steering wheel, even though I couldn't reach the pedals and see out the windshield at the same time. Sometimes I only got to drive because I was the chauffeur to his oil mogul, but I didn't mind being a servant as he gave directions from the back seat of his Rolls Royce, drinking Coke instead of champagne because we were Southern Baptists. And sometimes we both sat in the back as an imaginary "James" drove us around, because I was his business partner — only a junior partner, or maybe just a secretary, but still entitled to be driven as long as I was with him. He was still in charge, still barking orders to James and sometimes to me, to take notes on his business plans, or to add up the sales numbers for the month.
But he didn't always order me around in the back seat. When his fly unzipped and his "peter" came out, he didn't order. He coaxed, and cajoled, and reasoned. I was going to have to learn to do it sometime, because I was a girl, and all girls had to touch peters when they got married. I knew, though. I was wise at age five, or maybe younger, and I instinctively knew, was certain, that this was a sin. I needed to not give in, not just for me, but for him and his eternal soul. He was good, and baptized, and loved church, and on his way to heaven, and I needed to save him from himself, no matter how quiet and urgent his voice was, no matter if he shared his Coke with me and made me full business partner. He was Jesus being tempted in the desert, and I was not the devil, but the voice of his Father, steadying him, keeping him pure, helping him resist his own human half, or resist the weak disciple's denial of his own pure self. And each time, I was strong for both of us. I never touched him; I never watched as he touched himself, just looked out the side window at the scenery as James drove us to a meeting, or to my brother's mansion. I looked at his face sometimes, to see if he was crying, because the sounds were like stifled sobs. But I could never tell; there were no tears, but I thought I saw pain, pain that perhaps I could have prevented if I'd done what he wanted myself. But Jesus wept, and Jesus felt pain, and it made him the savior. My brother would hurt now, and I would hurt for him, but we would both get to heaven, and he would weep tears of joy when we got there, and embrace me, and thank me for saving his eternal life.
[Trigger warning: sexual abuse]
Do I imagine there is any place so safe it can’t be
snapped?
I do not. The word "safe" is unsafe. It is a lullaby the wolf sings to soothe me to a sleep from which I will never wake. Put me in a safe place, and I drown in terror until I find that "snap," until I identify the potential danger. Put me in the company of someone supremely safe, and I cower against the back of the chair until I identify their potential betrayal.
Chaos, my shrink said. This is how people turn out when they are raised in chaos. "But it wasn't," I said. "It wasn't chaos, it was... it was slant afternoon winter sun and the dust motes dancing. Everything was sepia and slow." I know he's right, but I don't feel it, but I know. I can tell people that there was a night where my father, drunk and angry, smashed every drinking glass in the house — literally every one except a thick jelly glass that I guess he hurled at the floor and didn't notice the lack of shatter — and people are stunned, appalled, angry for me, but the truth is, I fell asleep partway through the breaking, even though my bed was against the wall with the kitchen on the other side, and there was no door to my bedroom, just a doorway to the kitchen right at the foot of my bed, but still, at some point I got bored and went to sleep.
And yes, I know I wasn't bored, I know that's dissociation, I know I just turned off and what I fell into wasn't really sleep, any more than an alcoholic passing out after 10 beers is sleeping. But it seemed that way. I didn't know I was scared, and even now, I don't remember fear. I do remember weight, something pressing down on me, a stone blanket of ceasing-to-be, but all I knew at the time was that it was a blanket, and it made me tired. "Annihilation," my shrink said, and I hadn't known until he said it that there was a word scarier than "safe." I shook my head at his word, kept shaking my head, I might have stood up, that might have been one of the times I actually left his office and stood in the hall and wanted to run and was terrified of running, because I would never come back and that office was the one safe place in the world, and I wanted that, wanted, wanted, and I knew it was an illusion, but I couldn't figure out how, I was drowning in that safety because I couldn't see how it would end so I had no idea how to plan for its ending. I said to him often that I couldn't come back. I said it through tears, because I didn't want to not come back; I just couldn't. I felt that granite blanket crushing me when I was in that room, and now I was afraid as I'd never been growing up, because now I could see that it could kill me, or worse. I said often that I couldn't come back, and he always said he hoped I did, and that he'd keep the time slot open for me. I came back. Over and over, weekly years of trying to find the breaking point of that safety.
***
"Safe" was my brother, seven years older than me, minus a day; I was his early birthday present. He played with me often, probably didn't have much choice, and I would happily have played with him all the time, even when I was always the secretary to his office boss and the student to his classroom teacher and I wailed that it wasn't fair until he stormed out or threw something at me. When we played with the Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars, though, he was supremely fair, with every fortnight or so all the multitudes of vehicles parked together on the floor as we each picked, one at a time, switching each time around who got to pick first, so I was always assured of at least my second-favorite, and often my first: the blue postman's jeep with the eagle on the side and the removable plastic roof. We sat on the floor in our shared bedroom with cardboard garages under the beds, between school and supper. We didn't really interact much, I guess, just played with our own convoys in the same room, which might be why there wasn't much conflict. But in my mind, my big brother was playing with me.
We had a real car to play in, too, a junk Nash Metropolitan in the back yard, and sometimes he let me take the steering wheel, even though I couldn't reach the pedals and see out the windshield at the same time. Sometimes I only got to drive because I was the chauffeur to his oil mogul, but I didn't mind being a servant as he gave directions from the back seat of his Rolls Royce, drinking Coke instead of champagne because we were Southern Baptists. And sometimes we both sat in the back as an imaginary "James" drove us around, because I was his business partner — only a junior partner, or maybe just a secretary, but still entitled to be driven as long as I was with him. He was still in charge, still barking orders to James and sometimes to me, to take notes on his business plans, or to add up the sales numbers for the month.
But he didn't always order me around in the back seat. When his fly unzipped and his "peter" came out, he didn't order. He coaxed, and cajoled, and reasoned. I was going to have to learn to do it sometime, because I was a girl, and all girls had to touch peters when they got married. I knew, though. I was wise at age five, or maybe younger, and I instinctively knew, was certain, that this was a sin. I needed to not give in, not just for me, but for him and his eternal soul. He was good, and baptized, and loved church, and on his way to heaven, and I needed to save him from himself, no matter how quiet and urgent his voice was, no matter if he shared his Coke with me and made me full business partner. He was Jesus being tempted in the desert, and I was not the devil, but the voice of his Father, steadying him, keeping him pure, helping him resist his own human half, or resist the weak disciple's denial of his own pure self. And each time, I was strong for both of us. I never touched him; I never watched as he touched himself, just looked out the side window at the scenery as James drove us to a meeting, or to my brother's mansion. I looked at his face sometimes, to see if he was crying, because the sounds were like stifled sobs. But I could never tell; there were no tears, but I thought I saw pain, pain that perhaps I could have prevented if I'd done what he wanted myself. But Jesus wept, and Jesus felt pain, and it made him the savior. My brother would hurt now, and I would hurt for him, but we would both get to heaven, and he would weep tears of joy when we got there, and embrace me, and thank me for saving his eternal life.
