Soul Mosaic

So it is time to begin sharing the story of my young adult. And every fiber in my body both recoils from that task and welcomes it with relief. Unlike looking back at my childhood, looking back at this part of my life hurt too much.

Drenched in self-judgment, self-rejection, loathing, and shame, I not only couldn’t look back there…I WOULDN’T. And so for a lifetime, I remained “split off” from a part that deserved so much better.

I’d “lost” a whole section of my life. I had taken my young adult and thrown her in a box, and abandoned her in the back of the closet. I’d had the ability to revisit her anytime — the journals, timelines, paintings, and maps — but I had brushed it off as unnecessary. No. Unworthy.

Now, I was driven to it even as I wasn’t sure anymore what was even in that box. Who had I been? What was I feeling and thinking? What REALLY happened during those years?

I finally understood that despite all the healing and progress I’d made over the years, I was still not whole. If I wanted to go forward in my life, I had to take the time to go back…to ALL the places. ESPECIALLY the despised ones. It hurt too much not to. If I wanted to be whole, I had to open that box. But when I did, I encountered another dilemma…confusion. Again, I had no words, and I wasn’t sure why. I felt blocked from understanding it.

So, I went back to what I know best when I can’t find words or untangle the emotions. Art.

I started sketching what I felt.

It was starting to come clear, so I zeroed in on that desk and painted it.

I realize now that my loss for words was because that part of me was just shattered fragments. And that is what trauma is – broken pieces of you. It leaves you with the splintered shards of what was once whole. And that’s why you get stuck and don’t know what to say.

When that’s what you have to work with, how do you heal and find understanding?

I realized from my painting that the only way through this is to empty out all the pieces and look at each one. One at a time. See what the shapes are. What truths they contain. Only then will the patterns start to form. And from patterns, truth eventually emerges.

So, there is no rushing this part. There is only one piece at a time, get re-acquainted with “younger me.” Sit with each journal entry. Feel it. Look at the photos, think about why I painted what I did. And gradually, start to write the rest of the story.

The mess of life

“You want everything in life to be neat and orderly…But it can’t be…Sometimes, life just gets messy.”

I’d been studying at a friend’s house that afternoon, preparing for an upcoming test in our clinical chemistry class. We were well into our yearlong lab internship at the Bridgeport hospital, reviewing, of all things “neat and orderly,” the intricate calculations for serial dilutions. It was a topic so exacting, out of necessity, because it involved immensely small concentrations of a substance in each test tube. That meant if there was one tiny error at the beginning, it would grow to be a huge one over the course of the dilutions, and that would destroy the accuracy of any test result. Since these tests involved human lives, there was no room for mistakes.

After hours of hammering away at sample problems, we both felt ready. Her mom invited me to stay for supper, and I gladly accepted. My friend lived at home during her internship, since it was right near the hospital, and I loved going over there. Her mom was such a joy to be around, and I always felt cared for by my friend and her whole family.

As we prepared for supper, we were discussing something about life and how unpredictable things could be. Given the chaos I lived in at home, my approach at that point was to try and control everything in my power…which wasn’t much. But still, anything I could tightly control the outcome of was one less stressor, given the anxiety of dealing with my father.

I don’t remember what it was I wished I could control at that moment. But I clearly still remember her response. She shook her head at me incredulously and said, “You want everything in life to be neat and orderly…But it can’t be…Sometimes, life just gets messy.”

Doesn’t it.

Grandma and Grandpa

I’d been living with my father’s parents for the last several months. An interesting “full circle” if I thought about it. My father escaped that house in his youth. Now I was back there. It was an eye-opening revelation into the world my father grew up in. His one piece of advice to me before I moved there was, “Whatever you do, pick the routine you need for your day, and stick to it. Don’t let her tell you what to do.”

While they really did mean well, and while I am sure it wasn’t easy for two older people to suddenly host their adult grandchild five days a week, it wasn’t easy on me either.

The dilemma

There was no question, this was going to be a long year. Aside from the issues with Dad’s molestations, there was also that whole “get-a-job-after-school” plan that ran into major issues shortly after I got to the main campus.

I had identified my path to a job — hospital laboratory work — particularly in clinical microbiology. My connection with the lab at the University of Connecticut Health Center in Farmington offered a strong job possibility when I was done with college. So all I needed was to switch my major from biology to Medical Laboratory Technology. But that ran into a major roadblock in the form of the dean of that school. She didn’t want to hear it.

One of the downsides of having been at the Torrington branch of the University of Connecticut was that they were not really up to date on the logistics of making that program switch. For one, there were some courses I needed that I’d not been aware of. But even more problematic was that the number of slots in the program was limited.

At that point in time, you spent three years on campus getting all your sciences and distributed requirements, then for the last year of your degree, you actually spent twelve months at one of the hospitals in the state that worked with the UCONN program to train you. It meant twelve months of classes and actual hands-on laboratory work at that hospital. Each of the hospitals that collaborated with UCONN had a set number of slots. Since there were already other students in the program who were vying for those slots, I presented a problem for them.

I was already a junior, which meant that they would have to fit me into a slot the very next year, something that might be hard. And it was something the dean didn’t want to even consider.

The “double-no”

I argued that I’d been poorly advised at the branch, but was willing to do what I needed to make up those classes. Also, I had a recommendation letter from the Health Center in Farmington about my work there. And I explained I had no money for an extra year. But she wasn’t willing to hear anything. Her answer was a flat-out, “No.”

When I told this to my father, his answer was also “No.” No, he didn’t have money he could give me for an extra year, and no, he wasn’t willing to co-sign for an extra year of school loans, which was the only way I was able to afford that year. His answer was to go back and MAKE them put me in the program.

The body

It hadn’t been easy making a transition to being more proactive about my life, but little by little, I was gaining. It wasn’t all smooth-going, though, and life presented reminders of that.

As if I could forget that the world “out there” wasn’t always safe, as Dad had said, there was the body off the parking lot of our campus. A young local woman, walking home alone one night after her shift at a nearby factory. A “friendly” co-worker offered her a ride, then made it clear what he wanted. She refused. He killed her and dumped her body in the grass right off the parking lot. I had been out that evening and possibly even drove by that lot on my way home, about the same time he was doing that. Never get too comfortable with that outside world.

We can’t be friends anymore

On more mundane things, there were the challenges of friendships and dating. One of my few best friends in life, all through high school, still remained in touch with me. I deeply treasured that. We met one weekend to go skiing at a local slope. It was a disaster in the sense that despite my best efforts, I really couldn’t ski. I’d had no money for lessons, and unlike her, no older siblings to teach me. So when I careened down the slope, I was both a hazard and an embarrassment to her. Her only comment was that I was either the bravest person she’d ever known or the craziest. Based on her next visit to me at my campus cocoon, I suspect she felt the latter, especially since she would never be “free” to go skiing with me again.

Some time after that, she called to say she wanted to visit me at the Branch. I was excited to see her and to show off the campus buildings, which she’d never seen. She was attending a private art university across the state, so this was a little below her style. When she came in, I greeted her warmly. I was going to show her around, but she wanted to get right to the point, so we sat on a side table. Her point was that we could no longer continue our friendship. It just wasn’t going to work. She was dating a judge’s son, going to her art college, and moving in much different circles — translated, I think, as moving faster socially in circles that were way above my league. We no longer had anything in common, so we needed to go our separate ways.

Was ist das licht?

It was the end of my senior year, and the German teacher required that we write an essay completely “auf Deutsch.” (in German) The prompt she gave us was:

Was ist das light… that is: What is the “light”?

I can’t remember anyone else’s approach, but this was mine:

It was the moment of truth, the last test of his courage. Others had been there before him who had gone into the chamber. But one won’t learn anything from these people, as they don’t want to part with their knowledge.  Perhaps they were driven crazy by this phenomenon, “light.”

Since the creation of the chamber, “Sunlight,” the only people who had entered this space were the “avant-garde,” or the aristocrats, who were in search of solitude.*

Should he dare to risk his cold, blind world of darkness for the foreign world of light?

And there was the door handle. Through it coursed 1300 volts of electricity, except for 5 minutes each day. However, no one other than the scientists, with all their calculations, could surmise the correct 5 minutes. If he touched the handle at the wrong time, it would mean instant death. Why would he do this? What could he hope to accomplish? What was in this chamber? Why was it chosen?

”Inappropriate questions,” he thought. Others had gotten into the chamber, and so would he, regardless of if he must risk his mental stability, and would be driven crazy.

Debbie Phillip

1973 – Senior year, Torrington High School

German III homework; Writing prompt: What is the light?

The defiant spark

When I read this now, I am just blown away. All my adult life, I wrote off that teen version of myself as a loser. Oh my God, what an error I made in judging her so.