Monumental Moments
Vase of Roses, 1890
Vincent Van Gogh
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Monumental Moments
By:Susanne Lux
Some anniversaries do not fit into the calendrical categories we easily recognize and commemorate. Nonetheless, they are significant if they hold deep personal meaning for us. It isn't just weddings we joyously celebrate or only deaths loss we grieve from.As life rolls along we may forget the date or time of monumental moments; but never the lesson learned or the feeling derived from it. Monumental moments leave their imprint in our minds and our soul. Sometimes these moments are ready and waiting to be harvested for their good fruit, while at other times they lay buried, and unwelcomely weedle their way into our psyche demanding their need for recognition and reconciliation.
Much of my life has been spent in the weedling away stage. In order to get to the good fruit, I had to thrust my hand blindly into a barrel through the worm infested decay that lay within. I use to criticize myself for not having gotten to the bottom of the barrel quick enough. Those days are over. I realize it was a hell of a big barrel in the first place and (except for a few interspersed throughout) the rotten apples were all at the bottom of the barrel.
Thinking about the subject of anniversaries in relation to being a survivor; I became pretty introspective this week. I thought about the emptiness of my childhood; the painful memories retrieved; the abusive situations endured. And as I thought - I came to this conclusion. Profound moments can produce spiritual epiphanies or blind us to truth, knowledge and love.
There were two pivotal moments in my youth that profoundly affected my adult journey through life. How odd to think I've never written about them specifically through prose or poetry; yet have alluded to them time and again in my writing. Two specific experiences resulted in my complete loss of self-confidence and self-esteem.
The first took place when I was six or seven years old. I don't remember what the holiday was, but I decided to make my dad a card. All the kids in school were good at expressing their creativity through art work. All except me. I was never comfortable with artistic endeavors of this sort. I had no natural talent and dyslexia made it harder for me to see things the way other kids did. Actually the only thing I enjoyed making in art class were scribble pictures. You simply closed your eyes, put your pencil tip to the paper, and gave your pencil in hand, free reign. I enjoyed filling in the haphazardly drawn shapes with vibrant colors and always outlined them with black crayon. Anyway, making a card for my dad was a monumental event.
I don't remember the rhyming verse written inside, except that the words came easily. I don't remember the exact way I decorated it. What I do know is that I put my heart and soul within the confines of a folded 8 by 10 piece of red construction paper outlined with silver and gold glitter. I remember a positive affirmation from my teacher. Her validation gave me courage, but I was nervous when I gave it to my dad just the same. As I handed the card to him I saw a smile growing on his face. He looked at it, opened and read it, then turned and told me it was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. He began to laugh, continued to ridicule it and me; then tore it to shreds, literally, in front of my nose. When he was done, he walked out of the room leaving me to pick up the pieces. I'll never forget my sense of worthlessness and deep seated shame. My light had been extinguished, my confidence obliterated.
The other time I thought about was the day my mom and I moved out of his house. He had been raging; throwing furniture, dishes, all kinds of objects outside on the porch and lawn. I was experiencing a wide range of emotions about our leaving under a heavy veil of guilt. My two strongest feelings were relief and sadness. Just before we left, I reached up and gave my dad a hug. I said, " I'm sorry we have to leave Daddy...but I love you no matter what." His response was desperately cruel. He pulled my arms off his neck, pushed me and said,"You're a no good whore just like your mother and that's all you'll ever be. Get the hell out of my sight!" I was nine years old. My self-esteem was shattered in that moment. Probably that particular moment because the more traumatic experiences weren't remembered on a conscious level at all. Not for many, many, years. The emotional wounds my father inflicted on me left far greater scars than the sporadic episodes of physical and sexual abuse.
As a final thought on this subject I'm brought to the intense feelings I experienced this morning at work. After receiving a no go from an on call doctor when asking for adequate pain medication for one of my patients in the grips of an agonizing death, I left my unit to go outside for a much needed smoke and a good cry. I was angry, I was tired, and I was filled with sorrow that she should suffer this way. I also knew that Edna felt she was being punished for her sins. Imaginary sins that her mother had punished her for throughout her life. A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed me again and I felt like that vulnerable little girl who had been thwarted in her efforts so long ago. I cried through all of my fifteen minute break while standing in a cold rain. But like that little girl who formed the person I am today, I was determined to make the best out of a bad situation without the use of denial. I provided comfort care to the best of my ability and set the wheels in motion, advocating for my patient and working diligently to see her needs would be met. My shift ended at 7:15 AM. Before I left at 9:00AM, an emergency supply of roxanol was being transported to the facility. Edna passed after receiving one dose.
In closing, two more thoughts: Some would say I am the person I am today because of the abuse. I say I am the person I am today, inspite of it. I've now matured enough to understand that life; its doing and undoing, is part of a spiritual journey that gives little regard to the earthly time line. Perhaps the earlier we learn this, the better our chances are at finding personal fulfillment and internal piece.
Thanks for letting me share my anniversary thoughts. Peace to all.
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