Showing posts with label little girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label little girl. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Embrace - 7/30/09

i was laying on the floor
and in the corner, huddled
a little girl
dirt on her cheeks
tangled hair
hiding something
between her hands
clutching desperately
didn't want anyone to see

a dirty, tattered ragdoll
i went to swipe that dreadful thing
right out of her hands
her girlish grip
would not loosen
white knuckles
bared her teeth
i tugged
she pulled
heels grinding into the ground
i let go
her black eyes bore back at me

this creature
so sad,
so set on holding on
to this faded toy
maybe it's the only one she has
maybe it's the only one she's ever had
i open my arms
to offer a hug
she opens hers to me
and the doll falls from her hands
embrace

Thursday, August 6, 2009

My mom's little girl

So I asked my mom to read some ACoA lit, so that we could begin to talk about the elephant in the room - our alcoholic family. My mom left my dad when I was around 13, and she did a lot of work on herself to the point where we have had a fairly good relationship, but we haven't discussed or healed from our painful past. I decided to give it a go by asking her to read some books to inform herself. I felt that was the best way to broach the subject and I was so angry at her that I didn't trust myself to give her the information in an impartial way. I wanted her to learn about alcoholic families first and make her own connections.

So, she called me Sunday and said she read the first book I suggested, Adult Children of Alcoholics Syndrome by Kritsberg, in one sitting. She said she went through a whole tissue box too. All those years she thought she was protecting us, she realized she wasn't. She said she saw me and my two brothers throughout the book. She apologized for getting help for herself, but for not getting us help and for not seeing how much pain I was in. When she asked how I was doing, I shrugged and said I was fine, and she regretted not probing more and taking my responses at face value. She hopes I can forgive her. I told her that I do too, but I have to feel the anger that's been coming up before I can forgive her. I said I wanted to continue talking about it because it's not the type of thing that's resolved in one conversation. She was open to that and even got online to look up Al-Anon meetings. All in all, she responded better than I could have hoped to all this. I've been trying to turn it over, but must admit I've been feeling a lot of anxiety about how our relationship will play out now that I'm in recovery. With one brother not speaking to me, I feared losing another relationship in my family. I know people have survived and recovered without the support of their loved ones, but I also knew it would be very painful for me to experience that lack of support from my mom.

She also shared with me some fascinating details about her past that I never knew. She said reading the book made her realize and remember a lot about her own childhood. She said her dad wasn't an alcoholic, but he had a very volatile temper. She remembered him throwing her and her sisters on the bed and beating them. She relayed a painful memory of her older sister going out with a boy she wasn't supposed to in high school and when she got home, her dad was waiting for her on the front porch. He beat her with a belt on the front lawn and then dragged her inside and continued to beat her. My mom said the next day at breakfast, nobody said anything or talked about what had happened. She didn't want to tell me those stories about her dad because she wanted me to love my grandpa, who died 10 years ago. She shared that two of her sisters were molested by her younger brother. Her family was totally dysfunctional. She said that she was always walking on eggshells and reading the book made her remember the constant fear she grew up in.

This conversation with my mom definitely filled in a missing piece in my story. I was wondering why my mom would have been attracted to my dad, and why she put up with him for 25 years. She grew up with the same rules Kristberg identifies in alcoholic families - denial, isolation, silence and rigidity. I wondered if my mom had become a co-de through living with my dad, or if she found my dad because of her co-dependency. It was a chicken or egg conundrum that I wanted resolved - and now it is. My mom wants to talk to some family members to find out if her paternal grandpa was an alcoholic, which would mean that my grandpa was like me, and my paternal grandpa, the adult child of an alcoholic. She also shared that one of her uncles was an alcoholic who died of liver complications. I think knowing that my mom was also once a little girl living in fear will help me to get over the anger I have towards her. My mom has an inner child too and it seems that she's never done the work that I'm doing now to heal her, so maybe this is something we can experience and share together.

I really recommend Adult Children of Alcoholics Syndrome. It's a great, easy read that really breaks down the dynamics of alcoholic families. I think it's a good read for adult children, co-des raising children, and recovering addicts alike since all of us probably have similar upbringings and without recovery, we re-create the rules and roles we learned as children when we start our own families. See review of the book on Guess What Normal Is.

Friday, July 24, 2009

In a Time

I wrote this poem sometime in junior high. I'm always kind of amazed at how wise I seemed as a tween, and how naive I grew with time as denial sunk in deeper and deeper. This poem seems to track my more careless childhood and then identifies its abrupt ending and the onset of isolation, and ends on a note of numbness, which is where I ended up and am just now working to undo. I noticed from going through my junior high and high school poems including this one that I directed a lot of animosity and anger at my friends, blaming them for not identifying with my pain. Looking back, I feel more understanding towards them. They were just tweens and teenagers worried about boys, makeup, and what have you. It wasn't reasonable to expect that they could have supported me in what I was going through living in an alcoholic household. My parents or other adults in my life should have been the ones to recognize the pain I was in and provide support.

Note: I am preserving the formatting and typos of my old poems. I feel as though they were written by another person and it isn't my place to alter them in any way.

In a Time

In a time
the sun always shone
upon my happiness
I ran from nothing
and never cared

In a time
I listened to you
I never wanted to die
Until my life was through

Now I wish for an early ending
To come to me
Take me away from this
And somehow make them see

In a time
All that mattered
was pleasing you
With that hope shattered
Leaving everything blue

In a time
The days were short
My friends were real
Not lying chameleons
But now I can feel

The pain, no gain

When all that hurt was physical
And falling down
had a different meaning
All my thoughts are circling round
And where they stop is void
of feeling

The shallowness of not caring anymore
The waves are crashing a nonexistant shore

Friday, July 17, 2009

Poem from a little girl

The way I dealt with the isolation of living in an alcoholic family was through writing. It has always been a subconcsious exercise for me. Sometimes I thought I was just writing nonsensical words, but when I would go back to read what I had written, I'd realize I was referring to a specific event or person that I wasn't aware of as I wrote the piece.

After reading Adult Children of Alcoholics, I went back through my books of poems from when I was a living at home. I feel enormous gratitude for the gift of these poetry books. If photographs are a snapshot of images, writing is a snapshot of feelings. One night when I first started realizing how much my ACoA issues were affecting me, I poured a glass of wine, got a box of tissue, and sat on the couch reading through my childhood journals. I sobbed spastically, desperately wanting to reach out to the little girl that wrote these poems, give her a hug, hold her, and tell her she wasn't alone and that I love her. I carry that little girl around with me, so I keep trying to reach her to give her my message. I wrote this poem "Pull Me Down" sometime in junior high:

Pull Me Down

Blurred vision
distracts my thoughts
The page in front of me
Blurred with ink blots
Tears slip
And then they smear
All that's left in me is fear
Drunk with hate
You swallow more
Viciously pointing out
What you used to ignore
Calling me
What you know you are
With that in my soul
I can't fly far

I'm surprised at how clearly I seemed to see things when I was younger, and then after I moved out of the house, I didn't want to look at all this stuff anymore. I went to school in San Diego because my parents said I had to go to school in state if I wanted their help. So I went as far away as I could get from Sacramento and still stay in California and in the country. I pretended up until this year that none of my past experiences living in a dysfunctional home had a lasting effect on me. When I go back and read what I wrote at the time, I admire how in tune I was with my feelings and about what was going on around me and I wonder when I lost it...