MY JOURNEY AS AN EMOTIONAL WATER WITCH | Martha Duke|
Physically I suffered from tooth grinding and painful canker sores recently I learned these are all stress responses. My first very clear memory was taking my little brother into the back room as my mom screamed, “get the baby” as she had a knife held to her throat. I went to school and told a teacher, she just told me I shouldn’t talk about those things. I knew my father was bipolar but was told not to tell anyone. Secret keeper, protector, and ashamed. Life was not safe. There was and still is empathy for my mother. I do have memories of her reading our favourite book in the recliner with the sun pouring in, that is my only memory of safety. I put myself aside when it came to both of my parents, neither had anything close to a normal childhood and it always fascinated me that despite them being polar opposites in socioeconomic status they had very similar histories. Convincing myself two very broken people sought normalcy through marriage and children helped me just accept it. Convincing myself of what I took as a fact made me capable of seeing them as people with good intentions. Despite all the complexities around my fathers illness and subsequent death I can confidently say he loved me. As for my mother I have had to recently accept she doesn't love me. She told me from a very early age, “I have to love you, but I don’t have to like you.” Tears are in my eyes, because I cannot imagine saying that to my children. I love, like and adore everything about them even the fact their room smells like cheetos and feet. Watching them grow and find their identities brings me joy. I no longer have a free pass for her. Neglect and abuse have no excuse anymore. I spent a good chunk of my life trying to make sense of how unpleasant, unloving and cruel she was, and it has a name narcissism, but there is no longer space and I know the well is dry.
I was born into an empty well, a chaotic, messy, toxic empty well. People had a habit of saying to me “If I was you I would have off’d myself by now.” What kind of backhanded horrific comment is that. There is no hope, no love and no empathy in those words. Recently through lots of therapy and research I’ve realized my oversharing is more complex than what I thought it was. I have started the process of accepting and working on not being ashamed of my need to be heard and understood. Unpacking the emotional neglect and the lack of care from the people who should have cared, who do you confide in? When I drank it was drunk strangers in a bar, drunken phone calls to friends or relatives. With so much pain and disappointment, how do you deal, as Mr. Rogers would say “find the helpers”. What do you do when the helpers never helped? Writing this piece has been wearing on me, it’s important, but I don’t want sympathy and I am not writing a hit piece on my mother. My story is important and it will help someone. Until the age of 33 I was constantly returning to an empty well of emotion, comfort or understanding. I do not remember many years of my childhood, it is spotty. For someone who has a photographic memory to have a block from probably 4 to 11. I really only recall school, loved my mom's side family Christmas parties, my grandfather, and the safety of my grandmothers. There is no desire for me to uncover the memories, because many memories are so scary how they are I don’t need to know what I don’t. As the oldest of 3 in a chaotic home I assumed many roles a child should never have and learned to keep secrets.
| AUGUS T 202 1 • HOL A SOB E R |
Made with FlippingBook - professional solution for displaying marketing and sales documents online