Memories of a Madwoman

Written in the early 1990′s:

There are times I thought myself insane, as a result I have done a great deal of soul searching. You see to know who I am, I had to find who I was. The mind does strange things to protect itself from destruction, or harm. I was abused as a child, and to my surprise the people I had least expected to believe me, were the ones most willing to hear me out.

What you are entering is, or was my reality, some is fiction: stories I invented as a child to protect myself from a harsh existence. All I want to do is break the chain of abuse, for the silent sufferers of abuse, may it be physical, emotional and/or sexual abuse. We must talk about it, we must stop the suffering, and break the silence, break the chain. Our children will one day be doctors, teachers, and politicians: let’s make them good people.

I am a mermaid, golden hair,  beautiful dark eyes, six or seven years old. I’ve been caught by a fisherman, I am put in a cage as people stare at me strangely through the bars of my cell. Soon a woman appears, she is beautiful, with long blond hair, a small woman. She looks at me and tells everyone to leave, they do. Now the captain joins her and she turns ugly and wicked, she orders him to cut off my tail, he does, she tells him to throw me back, he does. I fall for what seems an eternity, I hit the water, it is ice cold and the salt burns at my raw flesh… Oh how I loved her hair, now how I hate her eyes…

A storm of emotion held in too long, erupts like a volcano. Anger and rage fill my soul. Words are hurtful, my fists are clenched. I rip out her eyes, kick at her face, laugh at her tears. I imagine a knife stabbing her, over and over again. I am wrapped in her warm blood, my hands shred her flesh, my mind is a rye, I feel nothing as I rip out her heart and eat it as she watches. Next to her body there lays a shard of glass, with a shock I see my reflection, I am stark naked, covered in blood, and I am a man. I run off into the night, with the soft glow of the moon, on my skin there are streaks of violet and red. I reach the sand and water, jump in and wash away the blood, I see my hands, they are like claws, a killer’s hands… the angel of death stands by my side.

Written today

My mother was the beautiful blond, she is a natural brunette, her hair is grey-white now. Last couple of times I saw her , I wept inside, she was once a beautiful blond. I do not see her as that wicked woman anymore, I know she suffered greatly and still does. Her other daughter, my sister, has told people our mother died for close to 20 years, she is estranged from me as well, I wonder what she tells people about me? I miss you my Bird. She friended my daughter over a year ago on Facebook, my daughter has even visited her Aunt and her then 2 cousins, she has three children now. My mother barely knows my kids' names, all she knows is animals, her animals. She is a hoarder, of things and animals. Needless to say, I cry watching hoarding shows on TLC. I grew up with her, I got my sister out of there when I turned 18, Liz, or Bird as I used to call her was 14. I had moved out, finally escaping that house, I was spending the weekend at my boyfriend's parents. I got a call, she was in a phone booth, in her pyjamas, it was winter. That was her last day in that house. When I got to her Dad's house, she was hiding behind the TV, she thought it was our mother at the door. I helped her Dad get custody, going to court was not fun, I was so young. My mother had her "team" to defend her, my Dad, my high school Principal, and their accounts of her older-trouble-maker-daughter. I did hate her, I don't anymore. After the trial, my relationship with my father deteriorated, that took many years to reconnect, again. He testified that "NO, he never saw marks of the supposed abuse". I remember staying up all night looking through photo albums, looking for that proof, I never found any, but then again, there we mostly Christmas pictures, maybe 20 or so in all with me in them. It dawned on me how little I did see my dad as a child. My sister did ok at her dad's house, her dad didn't do as well, she moved in with me when she turned 17, while I was pregnant with my first child, that didn't work out long either, she reentered my life when my daughter was about 4 months old. We were sisters again, for 6 years before she had enough of me in her life. We stopped speaking soon after her father passed away.

I've been hit with an emotional high tide, running back to dry land.

I will come back to edit.