Dark Recollections: June 3, 1982 - June 3, 2014

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

The last major significant date in the calendar before I reach the one year anniversary of my conscious plunge back into intensive healing (yet again) is here.  For those of you who have followed my blog since its inception you might remember what date that is.  It is June 3rd.

On June 3, 1982 my father was nearly murdered.  He essentially survived only due to dumb luck; had he been standing one inch off how he stood in the doorway when he was shot the bullet would have gone right through his heart.  He later kept the bullet as a reminder of his survival of this heinous attempt on his life.  I always felt repulsed by the reminder.  But it appears my father has long lived in his own world as to what was appropriate behavior after his near death. 

Today, on June 3, 2014, I found myself aware of those feelings I had in the days  immediately following after that day thirty-two years ago.  I was relieved that my father did not die.  But I felt something else I didn’t feel I could safely share within my family of origin.  If I am to be completely transparent with the mix of feelings I felt I would have to acknowledge there was a part of me that had wished my father would have died.  I wasn’t even nine years old and already I had such strong feelings regarding my father.  Why?  Because I had already gone through completely preventable abuse during his second marriage.  And I resented him for not looking after me better. 

However, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that like any well trained Catholic I also felt guilt.  I can recall also feeling guilty for having any thought whatsoever that I would be better off without my father.  But it is the truth of how I felt.  I really resented him for the poor choices he made.  And I felt disgusted with my paternal family that such a crisis occurred and that the aftermath was handled as it was.

It wasn’t until last year that I came to understand just how deeply the trauma I had experienced in the earliest years of my life had affected me.  Despite all the previous therapy I had gone through the impact of the trauma on my very brain had still not been completely addressed.  A combination of EMDR therapy, shamanic journey work, dedication to a gym regimen and regular weekly visits to my current therapist made an incredible difference.  Eventually I came to feel more alive than I ever have before.  And yet the journey continues.

It saddens me that I am walking this journey of healing without any real support from my paternal family of origin.  But it’s been this way for decades.  There is no reason to hold out any hope that my father and his siblings will ever change.  If attempted murder (by your own spouse) doesn’t cause the siblings of the intended victim to take pause and wonder about the deeper circumstances of how such a thing can happen then I don’t know what would be necessary to shake them out of their apparent trance-like state.

I feel fortunate that I am on my way to my therapist now.  I hope this isn’t a rough week but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it is.  But at least after this week there will be no more major dates before the anniversary of my reentry into therapy comes and goes.  I am about to begin my Year Two.  I can’t imagine how it couldn’t be easier than my Year One.

……

In visiting with my therapist this evening we did a session featuring EMDR.  Today I recalled an incident from my childhood in which my stepmother deliberately struck a dog that belonged to one of our neighbors.  I can still remember going to my neighbor’s home and seeing the x-ray of the dog.  I felt mortified to live in the same house as someone who could be so deliberately cruel to an animal.  It was a sign of what was to come later.  But it was a sign that was ignored…like so many other signs.

I found myself crying on the floor of my therapist’s office as I recalled the terror I felt living with my father and increasingly volatile stepmother.  I felt such sadness that my neighbor’s dog had fallen victim to my stepmother’s meanness.  But I couldn’t express the depth of my fear to my father as I already intuitively knew at that young age that he simply could not deal with such difficult issues.

As I continue this journey of healing it sometimes amazes me just how much emotional energy I repressed within myself.  I had to do so as a way of coping with the stress of living with my father.  I didn’t really have a choice in the matter…at least not an easy choice.  I suppose I could have expressed my feelings more but somewhere in my all too impressionable mind I made a less than fully conscious choice to internalize so much of my horror and pain so that I would not be an easy target for more unwanted attention (read here abuse).  It’s amazing how long it can take to undo the legacy of a childhood marked by chaos, abuse and deceit.  But I am on my way.

After leaving my appointment I embarked on what has felt like an exceedingly long bus ride.  I am still on the bus now.  But at least there is an amazing sunset.  I am experiencing the afterglow I typically experience after doing EMDR work. Everything is vivid.  My eyes feel as if they are feasting on the world outside my face.  It still feels weird on occasion to experience the world in such crystal clarity.  But I have gradually adjusted to it.  And yet it is still my first summer being so fully alive.  And here I am forty years old and finally experiencing it.

The joy, sadness and grief still mingle daily.  While taking my lunch today I felt exhilarated by the lovely warmth outside as well as the green grass all around where I sat.  Last June 3^rd I still hadn’t yet begun the journey I am on now.  I recall I was sick at the time…and not sure what exactly was going on with my health.  The world was filled with fuzzy boundaries…quite fitting considering what the earliest years of my life were like.

I find myself feeling impatient some days.  Other days I feel profoundly weary.  And then other days the grief seems to just consume me as deeply as the Pacific Ocean is wide.  I believe one day this phase of intermingling feelings will transform into still another ‘new’ flavor.  Who knows when that will be.  Maybe it will happen several months from now.  I am living the vast unknown mystery that healing often insists we embrace to ultimately discover its most precious gifts.

It’s funny to me now how I can recall how much I disliked my English classes in high school.  But then again I went to public school in Texas.  Texas isn’t exactly a state that encourages intensive, sophisticated thinking.  (And from what I can tell as evidenced by the people participating in brandishing their weapons in broad daylight as part of ‘Open Carry’ it appears the culture of Texas is still plenty regressive, backwards, violent and paranoid.)  I never envisioned myself as a writer.  As a high school student I never imagined that one day I would actually call myself a writer…and not be joking.

I write for myself.  I also write for people I believe may one day follow my writings more closely.  I would like to believe that my daily dedication to this practice will somehow inspire some change in the future world.  Maybe some children will not go through what I have endured because their parents will somehow discover what I have been sharing each day…and their discovery will somehow change their hearts and minds.  One does not have to be a writer for an exceedingly long time to have an impact on the world.  Anne Frank is an excellent example of this truth.  Her life ended prematurely due to the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands.  Who knows who she could have become if she had lived a longer life.

Who knows who I will become if I stay faithful to this process of documenting my journey.  I am already proud of what I have accomplished thus far.  Regardless of what ultimately happens I have come to appreciate more fully the strength I have inside me.  It is that strength that has carried me throughout my life.