My Mom LOVES Elvis Presley. I remember she would blast her records, and I mean FULL BLAST. I must have been 3 or 4 years old, I remember running around the house as if possessed by a Tasmanian devil. I do not remember feeling bothered by the volume, at least it did not seem to hurt my ears, but I do remember it felt like the sound was vibrating from under my skin, and I did not hate it. I had a “full” feeling in my head, I remember the absence of thought and like my thoughts were just a blank, white slate. It is most likely why I prefer to feel my music rather than just listen to it, even as a full-grown adult. I am usually the one standing in front of the speakers in the front row of a heavy metal or hard rock concert. I love feeling the pressure of the sound waves coming out the speakers while carrying my favourite songs and allowing every fiber of my being to absorb the lyrics, feel the mood, while floating in the positive vibes, and concert energy. Music is the main reason I am not dead today.
Back when I was little and mom needed her solitude, but was unable to, or not able to have time away from her children, music was her outlet too. My sister, who would have been around 12 to 14 months old, would rock herself violently back and forth for as long as the music blasted out of the speakers in the living room of our family bungalow. I feel (pretty) confident in asserting that her aversion to loud and startling sounds stems from these events. Unlike my mother and sister, I do not share their appreciation for the actor and singer, and as a teenager, I loved playing the Forgotten Rebels’ song Elvis is dead on repeat.
When it was nice out, I spent a lot of time playing outside in the backyard. My dad had a fruit and vegetable garden along with some fruit trees. I loved being able to pick peaches, cherries, strawberries, cucumbers, and tomatoes. I remember planting several McDonald’s coffee spoons in the garden – hopeful that a franchise would grow in my yard. Our little garden attracted butterflies, I loved wearing my bug-catching outfit complete with screened hat and butterfly net to spend what seemed like hours, chasing butterflies. Rusty eventually always ruined my joy. Rusty was our neighbour’s rooster and he was super grumpy or maybe he hated movement but, in any case he would fly over the chain-link fence and attack me. It always ended with dad chasing the bastard away with the hose. Looking back on it now, I think he was a horny, frustrated, and just miserable old bird.
I enjoyed spending time over at the neighbour’s house. Gary and Irene were such kind and generous people. They had a teenage daughter who loved spending time with me. I remember Isabel was tall with long legs and very long hair. Gary and Irene had been at their traditional farmhouse long before the town expanded on to their street. Their gravel driveway was long and bordered by at least 40 lavender coloured lilac trees on either side. At the end of the driveway was Gary’s mechanic bay and workshop, off to the left was the chicken coop and a little off the coop was a pond for the ducks and other fowl they cared for. Their property always smelled heavenly in spring; lilacs are one of my most comforting smells to this day. Gary and Irene loved having me over. We watched Star Trek a lot and I remember being very curious about Spock. The best part of visiting with Gary and Irene is that they lived on a farm. I loved chasing the chickens, the ducks, the dog, and trying to herd one of their 100+ cats. For an animal lover, I was in heaven. I went over there as often as I could. I never even noticed the smell of having that many animals in an even less than clean house. What Irene lacked in housekeeping skills she more than made up for in affection, praise, and kindness toward me.
In the summer, when mom needed her space, I remember she would send me out to play and then lock the door so I could not get back in. I do not know how long it would last but I always found my way next door. Mom would leave my lunch on a plate, placed on top of the garbage can (I know it sounds bad, but in fairness mom was a neat freak and I believe her when she says she bleached it first). Irene and Gary were beside themselves when she’d do this so they always called me over and fed me if they saw me outside. I remember eating a lot of egg custards, beans and wieners, soft homemade white bread, and Campbell’s soup. After lunch, one of my favourite pastimes was to ride their dog, Scotty like a horse. Scotty was such a great family dog. Unfortunately, Gary used to beat him with a shovel to assert his ‘dominance’ more often than I care to remember Scotty’s whimpers. Gary taught my mom to drive and helped her to get a driver’s license. He also helped her find her first car, a small red one – Hey! That’s all I can remember as a 3 ½ year old!
I have vague memories of my dad during this time. I feel like he was not home a lot so when I saw him I was ecstatic! I remember that as soon as I heard the car turning in our driveway, I would run to the kitchen full of joy and excitement, wait at the top of the stairs, and as soon as the door opened, I would launch myself in to my dad’s arms. Fortunately for me, he always caught me… although one time, he had groceries in his arms and I started to pre-cry as I noticed too late he would not catch me… but he caught me. My parents told me that my first word was “papa”. I feel this is important to mention because my dad uses these examples as proof that my mother was abusive and that I loved him more because I knew he was my protector. I am beginning to see that, yes, my mother was less than kind on many occasions, but I also firmly believe she was isolated from her family, her culture, her language, home alone 16 to 18 hours a day with zero support from anyone. I further believe she suffered from postpartum depression in a very bad way and had PTSD because of being married to my father.
I would not be honouring my promise of honesty and transparency if I did not include details on her abuse, so here we go…
I remember her screaming loudly a lot of the time, usually before the music started full blast with today’s Elvis record of choice. I remember her being so angry with me wanting attention that she actually pressed her thumbs into my eyes and pressed them to the back of my head. I remember that incident clear as day because I thought I was seeing the galaxy. The moment her thumbs pressed in to my eye sockets, I felt an immense sense of pressure, like something would come out of my nose, but I was blind and could not see what was happening. I saw total darkness and then small little explosions that looked like stars and then the pressure was released and I could see my mom’s face – rage filled, then she looked sad and left me standing there, alone and confused as to what just happened. I remember getting a wet, cold facecloth to put over my eyes because they now felt like they were on fire with something like a pencil stabbing me every few seconds behind my eyeballs. The sensation is similar to how I experience migraines, but the thumb-into-the-eye-sockets was more painful. I remember pacing up and down the hallway while Blue Suede Shoes pumped out of the speakers muffling my wails of pain. I could see my mom sitting in her rocking chair ignoring me or, trying hard to anyway. To my recollection, that only happened once. Her “weapon” of choice was wet wood objects – a yardstick or hairbrush typically.
I empathize with my mom now, but not too long ago I was horrible to her. I’ll get to what led to my behaviour, breakdown, and subsequent PTSD diagnosis, but prior to that, I struggled with my childhood memories. To this day, I cannot have a yardstick in my home. After a death in the family, my spouse inherited many of his grandmother’s possessions and placed them in the basement. One afternoon someone had brought up a yardstick to use for a school project. Out of the corner of my eye, I happened to see the yardstick and had a full-blown panic attack. It felt like a portal opened up, the air seemed to vibrate, it looked like I was swallowed by a shimmering rainbow and adult me was standing in 3-year-old-me’s body shaking and crying uncontrollably for several minutes. I remember wondering how I got here and if I was stuck in a time warp, it was THAT real. I saw my long blonde hair hanging down in front of me as I hung my head and cried in absolute terror. I remember having to follow my mom to the bathroom because it was bath time and I remember not wanting to go because I knew what was about to happen.
In my very real memory, I walked in the bathroom, dropped my clothes while keeping my eyes glued to the floor; I stepped in to the tub filled with no more than 2 inches of cool water, trying desperately to hold in my silent sobs, but hearing them come out as hiccups. As mom reaches for the hairbrush, all I can remember is feeling my heart beating in my entire torso and vibrating deep in my stomach. The hairbrush is then dipped in the bath water, the sound of my heartbeat is replaced by loud waves crashing in my head, like a waterfall – only it’s the blood draining from somewhere, and my stomach feels like ice cold fingers are gripping it. The brush makes contact with my back and my butt cheeks as my mom has me kneeling over on all fours; but it’s the sound I remember more than the pain. I suspect this has been happening for a long time. After my baths on those days, days I had displeased my mother by needing attention, food, or anything, really; I remember tracing the shape of the welts on my skin where the yardstick or the hairbrush had made contact but I do not remember the sensation of pain, I only remember they felt very warm. The loud, wet THWACK! I believe is how I first taught myself to compartmentalize. In a way, I’m thankful for the experience because it’s how I survived my childhood, the way I protected myself from others (and still do, but therapy is helping me do things differently). In the bathtub, when I heard that THWACK! it would trigger my mind to erect a steel vault. In that space, nothing can touch me; it is a space absent of external sights, sounds and smells. It is a space that looks like me at age 4. When I’m triggered and dissociate for any reason and enter my ‘box’ it’s like looking at myself in a mirror, only no matter my age when I enter the box, the girl in the mirror is 4. Up until very recently (and I am in my 40s, aka Club 34 as it will be referenced from this point forward), the person in my safe place, the person I faced and visited with was a 4 year old.
As you read my account, I feel it’s important to note, that my emotional capacity to process anything at all, was as a 5 year old. As you follow my journey, try to keep that in mind; I feel that I am about 17 years old today and I work very hard to work through the abusive experiences of the first 25 years of my existence.
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