Soul Mosaic

I call this next set of pieces “The Warrior Years.” It was the main part of adulthood and child-rearing, the years when so many things were operating at once.

It was a complicated, stressful set of years: A time I felt vulnerable, uncertain, emotionally scared, and scarred. Yet I was also physically and ethically strong and determined to break the patterns and cycles of my father’s “Family System Rules.”

I wanted our son to be free of that past and its influences to give him a better, healthier life. While it wasn’t always done smoothly, it was always done with great care and love.

To write these well, I need to reflect on the main themes of this period. These will be the pieces for this phase, defining the challenges, the efforts, and the insights:

The crucible of transformation

With the arrival of my son, a whole new phase of my life was ushered in – The Warrior Years. I will talk about those in upcoming pieces. But first, there was the “minor thing” of giving birth, and “finding my footing” as a new mother.

However easy the pregnancy was, that next year or two was the “Baptism of Fire,” the crucible that would initiate me into motherhood. It would transform me from a young woman managing my own life, needs, and work to heal, to the nurturer and guardian of a whole other life. And even as I would need to keep working on myself, my son and his care would, rightly so, take precedence over my needs for a good many years.

Birth

The birth was difficult – I had to be induced. Hours and hours of transition-level labor. The biggest concern came late in the process, when the baby seemed to be trying to exit out of my hip and was starting to show drops in oxygen levels. The doctor decided we’d give it one last try, and if it didn’t work, then it was a C-section.

A “rules” reminder

Just a reminder. As I noted at the beginning of this memoir series, I will not speak about my siblings. Only my parents, myself, and Ed.

The drumming of the minutes

The doctor was late for the appointment. Our meeting was being held after regular hours, so the office was locked. We stood crowded into a side waiting room, Ed and I at one end, my family across from us.

My father stood silent and clutching his bible. Ed remembers that Dad’s hands were shaking. I don’t. I was eight months pregnant and in full “battle mode,” totally focused on what I was about to do. There was no turning back now. Lives beyond my own depended on this.

Why my father actually came to this appointment, I am not sure. He had to know what I was about to do. But maybe it was still a control thing. Even if his secret was about to be ripped open, maybe he figured he could control the fallout? I don’t know. And, I don’t care.

The second hand on the wall clock was as loud as a drum, and the minutes ticked by like hours. But finally, a car raced into the parking lot. The doctor burst through the back door, offering rushed greetings and apologies for being late.

The reveal

The doctor had already arranged chairs in a side area of his office. We sat in a circle, with the doctor just slightly behind Ed and me. From there, the doctor could observe and manage the conversation if needed.

I don’t remember my exact words, only that I got right to the point, “This is about incest. About Dad sexually abusing me all through my life.”

It was a relaxing time on the cruise…at least until our return. Ed switched jobs not long after our return in the hopes that the stress level would drop. But given his career as a computer systems administrator, all you could say was that the job stress “changed.” It didn’t drop.

And three months into our marriage, it would really ramp up.

OMG!

Since my parents’ return from Texas to Connecticut, I had slowly tried to work out a way to maintain boundaries, but still have some kind of connection with them. There was always a careful dance between us, but we were trying to see if there was, to use the Buddhist term, a “Middle” path.

While I did all the work to set up the wedding by myself, my father gave me the same amount of money to use toward our wedding expenses that he had used for each of my siblings’ weddings. And my mother did throw me a bridal shower.

A day of joy

In spite of that, our wedding day was filled with moments of pure bliss and celebration. Photos with Ed, my father-in-law, and my grandmother all reflect the pure joy.

Yet the undercurrents of my family system were also there.

Why Waste Time?

One thing Ed and I are compatible about is that when we have decided to do something, we just get to it. No point in taking our time. So we were engaged in November 1987, and we got married in February 1988. Not a lot of time to plan a wedding, but then, we were both quiet and private people. It would be a small wedding – about 25 people. Very close family, and a couple of friends.

I got to work with the arrangements. Unlike all of my family, who were married by my uncle, a priest, we were to be married by the local Congregational minister, in a French restaurant named “Apricots,” which overlooked the river in Farmington. The vows would be said upstairs in the bar room, and the dinner would be in the large dining room right across the hall.

Meanwhile, in the rest of my life…

If my life from 1983 through the summer of 1986 had been a non-stop Nor’easter of a storm, the next two years, by comparison, were more like the calm of a tropical Caribbean paradise.

Regarding work, while I continued my efforts to sell articles and read more books on how to write effectively, my switch to the evening shift and working in the other lab departments was a major improvement. While still a struggle at times, the change offered different co-workers, more variety as every week I worked a different department of the lab, and growing confidence. By getting back out into all the other lab departments, I had a chance to reinforce my knowledge and thus, feel much more skilled at my work.

Hobby-wise, I continued to paint as well as explore other mediums, such as pen-and-ink, charcoal, and watercolor washes. And business-wise, I took the opportunity to refinance my condo mortgage when a better interest-rate was available.

For the moment, my parents were still away, living in Texas, where my father’s job had taken him. That was a relief for me. I could explore my feelings about them in therapy, as well as slowly learn about boundaries and effective ways to live, without the pressure of having them nearby. I will also confess, I didn’t know what I felt about them. A few friends were losing parents, some way too young. And parents whom they loved deeply and had good relationships with. They struggled with why their parents had been taken away. I was struggling with why did I have mine, who had been nothing but pain. Why were mine healthy and alive when I wished to be free of them, and others, who still wanted their parents with them, lost them?

Looking like crap

I remember being very uptight waiting for Ed to arrive at my condo that Saturday morning. For sure, I had no idea how he would react to what I was going to share. I kept rehearsing things in my head for different ways to tell my story. But in the end, there was only one way — just put it out there…and hope he wouldn’t leave.