Soul Mosaic

That damn water bottle

We sat across from the psychologist and waited for him to be ready to start our session.

5, 4, 3…I started counting down in my head. 2, 1, …and…there he went. Right on cue, the therapist reached across his desk, picked up his water bottle, and started fumbling with the top.

I closed my eyes for a moment as I felt my teeth grit and my jaw tighten. EVERY, DAMN, VISIT, it was the same thing. We’d sit there for several minutes, wasting precious time while he played with that damned water bottle. A glance at Ed told me he was equally fed up.

Well. If this was a marital therapy tactic to get us united about something, it was working. That was about the only thing that was working, though, in his therapy approach.

“If he played with that damned water bottle one more time, I was going to wrap it around his neck!”

Before I resume writing the next entries, I want to share where I am at as I go through this process of digging up my past.

For sure, none of this has been easy. But, in speaking with a friend over coffee this morning, then reading an article that I quote from below, some things came clear to me about why I am glad to be doing this.

The words from then, and now:

For this entry, I will let the words of my journal from that time and observations from now tell the story.

September 5, 1995

We had been seeing a counselor for some time….my husband and I were locked into a struggle we didn’t understand. We sensed there was something going on underneath the obvious issues, but it was elusive and hard to see…

In looking back, the biggest place of conflict usually came up around sex. I wanted it, he didn’t. Which isn’t totally true. I suspect that in most couples, there is no doubt one who is more interested than the other, and they work it out.

But at that point, I just couldn’t understand that. Men were always supposed to want it. After all, looking back, my father was always after me. Here we were, husband and wife, in a healthy place for sex, and yet my husband WASN’T pursuing me. What was wrong? If he didn’t, then that meant he didn’t love me. And by extension, I was no good. So I tried more creative approaches, more focus on methods…everything, and all it did was polarize us more.

What I can understand now is that sex wasn’t the problem. It was the symptom of something else driving it all, and actually driving us apart.

Flying on the “mio”

“He looks like he’s reading!”

It was a comment from the lady sitting next to my son and me on the plane. She was not pleased to be seated next to an 18-month-old.

I wanted to say, “Oh, but he can!” But no, my son didn’t read yet. But at least he was sitting quietly with the in-flight magazine, intently studying the pictures and slowly turning each page as if he were reading every word.

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.”