Emily Salier’s sings: . . . And as the bombshells of my daily fears explode/I try to trace them to my youth. . . .” [Galileo, Indigo Girls]. I’m not afraid of gloves, but I hate wearing them. And I blame childhood experiences for my cold raw hands of December.
Idiot mittens aside, the cosmos has consumed many a mitten and sock in my lifetime. But mismatching (and the subsequent commentary by my peers) hand wear is not the cause. I blame living with my (evil) grandmother. Scratchy, crackling crinolines under my Sunday church dress, an ugly hat of some sort, tiny purse with my offering, and white gloves – pristine white gloves which must remain so for hours on Sunday.Usually too small, quickly cutting off my circulation, or too big and a mastery of gentile lady skills to keep on. I hated them. More than crinolines, more than church with endless lectures to the youth in his sermons (the congregation was decidedly NOT in their youth), more than a sharp elbow if my eyes strayed, a yawn formed. The gloves were symbolic of the captive life I lead – duty always owed. Struggling to survive in the hostile environment of bullies, ignorance, and indifference by adults. A child without a whole lot of love. I always managed to get a smudge – from the church giving plate, grandfather’s car, breathing, being a child. The reprimand (verbal), and sighs. My family didn’t hit; too cold and detached, I think, to consider it.
One other glove incident cemented my inability tolerate any glove including rubber or “latex” gloves when cleaning or washing the dishes. I find the sensation so distasteful, I will roughen my skin, rather than encase it in plastic. I grew up in the days you walked yourself to school, to the bus stop. Parents expected you home on time but were not, in general, an active part in the comings and goings. My mother only showed up once to walk me home from school – an ice storm had made the sidewalks slick and in a sudden burst of maternal concern, she came to walk me home. I was a clumsy child with continuously banged up knees, and elbows – my knees continue to carry scars from years of literally tripping over my own feet or cracks in the sidewalk. As we trundled home, she remonstrated me to be careful and cautious rather than my usual self (who actually tired not to fall). Then wham, “shit in a mitt” and I was left holding my mother’s glove as she lay flat on her back on the slippery sidewalk. Talk about trauma – my fault my mother hurt her back. A kind gentleman driving by helped her up and drove us home. Mom disappeared for a hot bath, and I fretted. How many sidewalk cracks had I stepped on recently (Step on a crack, break your mother’s back). Would my father, on his way home from work, blame me? I took the blame in the world for more than a child’s shoulders should bear.
So, now I struggle to put on gloves even if the weather is decidedly cold. I can’t wash dishes with anything between myself and the water. I use eco-friendly unharsh cleaners so I don’t burn my hands. Hands which show the years of exposure. But “As the bombshells of my daily [life] explode/I . . . trace them to my youth.”
© Lorraine
December 21, 2016 at 6:29 pm
Crazy how the little things end up being the pallbearers of the worst scars with such lingering effects.
I really (honestly, you have no idea) admire your determination and strength, in the ways you are trying to work through things, and if anything, at the very least, share so honestly. ((((Lorraine))))
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December 21, 2016 at 8:54 pm
Thanks Pat for the understanding and the hugs.
Yep — the small cuts form one large scar — an oozing pus-filled thing that doesn’t want to heal. I’ve tried in private, in my own dark spaces — guess it’s time to bring it out to the light again. Cleansing perhaps.
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December 21, 2016 at 9:02 pm
I understand, ohh too well ….. and so I send you more hugs and lots of good stuff and love (((((((Lorraine))))
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December 21, 2016 at 9:04 pm
Hope you work out your “stuff” — I can’t stop picking a the scabs til blood or pus flows . . .
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December 21, 2016 at 9:53 pm
I honestly can relate – I’ve let so much blood in my time, it’s a miracle I’m still breathing. And I keep thinking, since karma must be biting me in the ass so much, how come I’m not paper thin? ;)
Well, like most things, I work on it, work at it, let it be, even think I’m 3 steps closer to letting things really go, and then I just sink right back to the bottom. And I’m just too tired any more to really keep up the “good fight.”
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December 21, 2016 at 11:36 pm
Is there a bad fight? Maybe just being makes you the winner?
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December 22, 2016 at 10:29 am
interesting question this ….. and yes, I do think there are “bad fights” – you know, the ones where you end up being dragged into the center, and literally ambushed, and no matter how you try to extricate yourself, you can’t – so you have to fight or die – and it all comes down to the fact that those who are most pained and troubled by their own sh*t can’t come to a place where they are asking for help or consideration because they have never known it themselves – they have become too entrenched in the destruction and no longer readily know anything else – and this, this means the cycle keeps perpetuating itself. And if you, or in my case, happen to be dragged unwillingly into this type of scenario, over and over – and it all gets twisted and thrown back at you – then how does the madness stop? I can readily and openly admit my own “complicity” in things, and be responsible for my participation and consequences, and I will even admit when I purposefully seek out these types of situations (it’s a case of knowing what you loathe, hate and despise so much but still engage because it is “safe”) even when I was less “aware” of my actions etc., so in the end, when it all stops and you step back from the scene, I have to ask myself: how do I overcome and heal some wounds? What troubles and pains me the most is not knowing whether some scars and wounds CAN be healed ….. and this is what cripples me.
So winner? Well, that’s as layered as all of the rest of this, right?
And I honestly have no clear and defined answers and at best, in some moments, my understanding is clear, other times, it’s murky and then, there is the “existentially critical” – I have no clue and can’t wrap my head around the “purpose” of this.
Anyhow, sorry to hijack the comments, but thank you for listening … and I hope that none of this “triggers” something in you that leads you to a not so good space/place.
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December 22, 2016 at 11:06 am
You didn’t hijack the comments, and you didn’t lead me to a place I haven’t been a lot with my therapist: how my comfort zone is the very zone I need/want to get out of; how I am becoming more like my mother — the pathological need to be/feel miserable.
I will digest the rest of your comment — I need to think before I respond because I think your comment touches on a whole range of emotions I understand and you ask the some of the same questions that I do.
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December 22, 2016 at 5:10 pm
okay ….. thank you and take as much time as you want …. and you know, whenever, however, or if not, that’s totally cool too. I get it it.
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December 23, 2016 at 8:57 am
There were several quotes I was looking for — here’s one: Richard Bach
You are free to create and honor whatever past you choose, to heal and transform your present.
Yes, you can get dragged into a fight that’s not of your making, blind-sided even by someone bent on their own destruction with a take no prisoners attitude. Guess there isn’t a good fight — except to keep yourself yourself and get out the other side.
And yes — I too get myself into the same situations, react the same old same old — the patterns so set that to break them is to rebreak me.
I have to believe that I am not so broken I can not be fixed. Otherwise . . .
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December 23, 2016 at 4:36 pm
here is a comment to which I can nothing really, because the depth of your understanding cuts it right down to the essence – and I agree completely.
The only thing I can add is this: about being “broken” – a few years ago, a person I trusted, well and truly against by better judgment and gut wrenching instincts said to me one day, and mind, not in a mean way at that time, “you’re so broken and I don’t know if I can FIX you…” …. and my the heavens and stars above, I was winded – no one had ever said something like that to me – and it took every ounce of my strength to literally not knock her into the next century ….. and the thing that rankles, even still, although I admit much less is this: people, as far as I’m concerned, can’t be “broken” or “fixed” …. objects yes – people, no.
And to consider and think that we are “broken” means we are less than worthy of self-respect, we have then disassociated ourselves so much from our pain, that even as we are living it – it excludes the possibility of “healing.” And isn’t this a complete disservice?
The way I see it, and of course this doesn’t mean I’m “right” – is that the parameters and means by which we “judge” and understand, often means we end up causing ourselves more damage. We work on understanding cause and effect, recognizing triggers, responses etc. and still the words “shame, guilt, blame” are second skin shadows – and this is because often, those who have initially most wounded us, are never – or rarely – able to be present for our healing. There is so often too much that goes unsaid, unspoken etc. for all kinds of reasons, and the end result is this nefarious poison that drips drips and drips, slow erosion.
I think we can be “damaged” – hurt and wounded and pained to the extreme – and in some cases, when people, through whatever “addictions” find no sources of genuine help and become so isolated in their grief and pain, that they can only continue to live and relive it – then, for lack of a better choice, they are “broken” by the events and circumstances. What literally kills me – being one of the ones that struggles so hard – is seeing these cycles and patterns repeated over and over – it’s a bit like knowing that sticking a fork in an electrical outlet that is powered can kill you and yet you do it over and over and you just happen to be revived each and every time.
So after another long comment, I would say this to you, my friend: I do not think you are “broken” – I think you have your pains, wounds and grief, your scars – and I will never not accept your truths and struggles – I will always acknowledge your pain – and I will always champion you in your determination to find the “channels” that will allow you to believe, heal and know the beauty of the unique tapestry that is you, your life, as wonderful as the colour of your eyes, your smile, your sense of humour – all of you – just as you are – because the divine beauty is still there – even in the darkest and worst of moments – and yes, damn it all – hope – hope shouldn’t be so hard to find and hold in one’s heart – but it is there – and my greatest wish for you is that you always find a way, to somehow know, that you only have to be lovingly you – just as you are – and that the pain and darkest of black holes has no right to claim you as its own – ever.
((((Lorraine))))
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December 23, 2016 at 5:17 pm
Great analogy: sticking a fork in an outlet – oh, I know that action. We follow well-worn pathways without even thinking; almost hard-wired; addicted to the pain it seems. We don’t have to be – we need to baby-proof the outlets, slap out hands, remember that not everyone needs to shock themselves. Easy for me to write this while I struggle to soften the edges that I regularly fall into and onto.
We have to learn to forgive – god that is so hard and I back pedal – but it isn’t worth it. And I have to not be what the bullies wanted me to be.
Realizing what I really need in life at my age, too late to really fill the wound, leaves me struggling to see how I can be fixed.
Thank you for your words of encouragement. And I would say the same back to you – that you find the tao to the inner peace you deserve and your addictions turn to strengths – you have your words, your spirit, your rebellious soul. All make you unique, too.
Being a wordsmith gives you an outlet for your traumas, your pains, your sensuality, your inner child (should she like to come out and play). Use your words to fight the good and bad fights. Use your words to give you power over your demons. Use your words to give you space in the light when you want it, and room in the dark when you need it.
((((Pat)))))
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December 23, 2016 at 6:18 pm
thank you Lorraine …. and I wish you the same too ….
and oh, isn’t the “age factor” a kicker! damn and blast – but so what, better now than never …. and perhaps, for as tough as it is, best to say, we will wear our scars with grace, for we are princess warriors ….. ((((hugs hugs hugs))))
and now I’m off to sniffle or three at the best holiday gift I’ve received just now – thank you – and Namaste ❤
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December 21, 2016 at 1:42 pm
Darn spell check. Kinda have to
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December 21, 2016 at 1:41 pm
I think we have the same grandmother and I had the same bruised knees because I was so clumsy. I don’t like wearing gloves either except from December to March we Chyna have to hear in Quebec. Hated crinolines more than gloves though
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December 21, 2016 at 9:00 pm
Crinolines are a close second. Torture devices for little girls.
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December 22, 2016 at 2:37 am
Do damn scrtchy
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