Guilt is a Hole in my Pocket

“Either a Nun or a nurse.” That was my response to my first grade teacher’s casual inquiry as I daydreamed about my grown-up aspirations. Although her puzzled expression was undeniable, I knew my 6-year-old response required no validation; in either role, I knew I would be able to ‘cure’ my mother’s mental illness. I knew this because my wildest dreams told me I could.

My egocentric thinking as a little girl with an infinite imagination created a perfect breeding ground for Guilt’s sneaky presence. Even as a small child, Guilt flirted with my unrealistic expectations in my ability to ‘make things better.’ Guilt knew I would most certainly fail myself, and It couldn’t wait to show me just how much. As Guilt patiently lurked and waited in the shadows to swallow me unexpectedly and with force, at the same time, it seeped into my awareness, slowly and steadily, knowing it would eventually win the battle against my imagined ‘healing touch.’ Guilt’s pace and power is brilliant that way.

Time and time again I felt like a failure. It didn’t matter how good my grades were, how well I played basketball, or how well-liked I was. It didn’t matter how many times I played the perfect piano, or how many times I was ‘the good girl who never got in trouble.’ Nothing I did ‘cured’ my Mom. By the time I was a young adult, in my mind and heart, I felt like a complete disappointment. After my Mother’s tragic suicide, I found myself in the welcoming arms of Guilt, the sly byproduct of a lifetime of childhood ‘wants’ and ‘dreams’, paralyzed by Guilt’s entanglement with an incomprehensible and agonizing Grief.

As I walk along life’s journey, I’ve realized that with every step, with each movement, I have the opportunity to pick up a piece of my fragmented and tormented self. In the many years of trying to heal the pain of growing up in a home with a mentally ill parent, I look back to see that much of my efforts were derailed by Guilt’s cunning grasp. Guilt is a hole in my pocket that has allowed many of my carefully-found fragments to be redropped during my journey towards healing and wholeness. Guilt’s irrational power is like a persistent itch; it can’t be satisfied by a simple effort. You see, I understood logically that my Mother’s death was not my fault; however, the translation of this fact got lost somewhere between my head and my heart. Each time I looked in the mirror, I could see Guilt’s pointed finger, It’s constant reminder of my perceived weaknesses and blatant failures.

It has taken a long, long time, but I now know that the thread that can eventually mend Guilt’s irrational gaping hole is Forgiveness. And, the real awakening came the moment I ultimately understood that the person I truly needed to Forgive was myself.

A watercolor painting, "Walking." Sometimes the path is painful, but if we look up as we walk, we might catch something beautiful along the way.

Grief: The Profound Presence of an Absence

Grief is not simply missing someone. Grief is a profound and distinct presence, a flow of powerful energy, appearing out of nowhere sometimes, always ignoring its void invitation. Grief makes its presence known by surrounding our hearts, engaging our heads, and leaving our bodies no choice but to surrender. Grief is an excruciating and profound presence of an absence - an absence of someone we love.

My Mother’s death attracted Grief to my soul’s door. I was not ready for this presence, and I received no warning of its incredible abilities. Grief did not knock before it entered, proving it truly has no regard for manners or common courtesy. It barged in fiercely and swiftly, enveloped my soul, and left my heart vulnerable to its wrath. When Grief was around, I almost longed for the presence, instead, of its more benign cousins, Sadness or Helplessness. However, Grief likes to be the center of attention. It wants to be its own ‘life of the party.’ It demands complete focus on itself. Yes, if I were Grief’s therapist, I would diagnose it with a personality disorder. Absolute narcissism

I’ve realized, however, that Love and Time stand up to Grief. They intermingle with Grief, and together, reduce and limit its power. Grief considers itself a lifetime ‘associate’, however, and invites itself to visit at the most inconvenient times. For example, it stopped by recently when I wanted to model a new pair shoes for my Mom. It also showed up the day I found my wedding dress, and the day I walked down the aisle to join my husband at the altar. Of course, it had to bring attention to itself during those precious moments when I looked into each of my son’s eyes for the first time. And, whenever I make my Mom’s famous banana bread, Grief decides to join in, distracting me from the wonderful smells and fond memories I so enjoy.

Although I never intend to invite Grief to visit, I can appreciate its impact on those who have been submersed in it. I understand Grief, somewhat, and am aware of its power and its impact on our souls. I can also see the beauty in Grief’s interaction with Love and Time, and how the three, together, can create deep and intense meaning in our lives. Grief has helped bring me closer to my authentic self, and I know that. I will never share this with Grief, however, because it already has a high opinion of itself. I’ll simply give Love and Time credit for this. They deserve it more.

 

 

              A watercolor painting, "The Perfect Purple Flower."  As a little girl, I would walk with my Mom, always in search of purple flowers....

Pillar's Empty Promises

Countless times during my childhood I was called upon to be ‘the strong one.’ I really didn’t seek this role, but felt, for some reason, it was my ‘duty’. Family therapists would label me the ‘caretaker’, the ‘pacifier’, the ‘peacemaker’, and the ‘responsible child taking over a parent role.’ Not once as a child did I ever feel like a Pillar of Strength. I felt more like that hollow chocolate bunny I received each year at Easter, easily broken with tiny fingers. Yes, that was me, a bunny wearing Pillar’s façade, trying desperately to do my part to hold my family together.

My mother’s suicide was beyond excruciating. The raw agony pressed upon me so fiercely, I could barely breathe. I was paralyzed with heartache, and simply wanted to disappear. I desperately needed help and longed for a parent’s loving arms to rest my head and cry my river. I knew, however, that someone needed to wear Pillar’s mask to help my family get through the days and weeks following my Mother’s death. So, I succumbed to my familiar role as that bunny, disguised as Pillar, fully aware of the many empty promises.

Because there was no other option, I placed the agony and heartache of my Mother’s suicide carefully in a box and sealed it tight. I took the box to the corner of my being, where it joined all of the other neatly-wrapped packages that were being guarded by another part of me. Before closing corner’s door, I looked back at the girl juggling all of those boxes thinking, “I will come back and help her someday.” Sadly, I would not return to help for several years; I was too busy surviving. However, there were times when I would peek over and catch a glimpse of repression’s charged glow from beneath corner’s door, knowing it was waiting for me to release it, box by box.

The Color of Rage

White. White as a blinding blizzard on the coldest and windiest day of the year atop the highest mountain. Yes, that’s the color of rage. I know because I was there. It held my hand, and then seduced me into its depths. I was there because I didn’t know where else to go. I was catapulting in the blinding White, helpless.

When my father told me my mother had passed away, I can remember forcefully escaping his embrace, needing to ‘run.’ In my father’s home, I ran, up the stairs, around the corner, down the stairs. Somewhere between the first and fifth step going down, I leapt into the infinite depths of the White rage. Yes, I needed it so. Within that White, I knew I could say what I wanted and needed to say, in that moment: “THAT BI_CH, THAT F_CKING BI_CH! HOW COULD SHE DO THIS TO US! I HATE HER! I HATE HER!! I HATE HER!!!”

In some distant universe, I heard my father calling me, begging me to stop. The woman inside me was open to listening, but the child, the one who had become so entangled in the White, would have nothing to do with him. She was in control, and fury was pouring out of her, from every crevice of her being, embodied by the welcoming arms of the White.

Yes, I have once been engulfed in blind rage. In fact, I almost drowned in it that day. As I look back, however, I realize I was lifted out of the White in those horrific moments, and for about a billion moments thereafter. I suppose, given all of his omnipotence and all, God’s hands weren’t too badly beaten and bruised as he carried me, tantrum and all, out of the White. And, considering his vast and infinite experience, there are probably worse things he has heard.

Why Sideways?

My life has been consumed with constant movement. Always moving. I can remember times as a child running through the canyons near my childhood home in New Mexico, sharing my days with the trees and rocks, my closest friends on some days. Within my home, my movement was psychological. My mind could take me to whimsical and peaceful places. Places free of mental illness where parents were parents and kids were kids. Within my infinite daydream world, worries dissipated and burdens were no longer. Yes, movement helped me survive. I felt that if I kept moving, I might outrun the villain constantly following me, teasing me and beckoning me to stare it in the face. Yes, my Mom's mental illness was always there, behind every door, around every corner, in every box. If I could only outpace it, it might disappear, even for just a short while.....

I've realized I can't outpace the monster of my mother's severe mental illness. I must see it for what it is and was, and focus my movement on letting go, loving completely, and living in the present. I must stop running and start simply 'being.' I'm not perfect, you know, and I may not always be moving in a direction towards healing and wholeness. So, I relinquish control and know, at times, I will be walking sideways.

                       A watercolor painting of Los Alamos - the landscape I escaped to in my childhood.