The Rose Garden, Chapter 20 – Progress

Christmas tree ornament, Author Noah Wulf, (CC BY-SA 4.0 International)

“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope” (Jer. 29: 11).

I decide I want to put a tree up this year, after all.  One by one, I pull the boxes out of the closet.  Joni Mitchell sings about skating away on a river, as I gently lift the ornaments from their places.  This one with Ziggy on it is twenty-five years old.  How rapidly our lives rush by.  Here are Snoopy and the rest of the Peanuts gang.  Here are the Looney Tunes characters — Porky Pig, Tweety Bird, Bugs Bunny.

Angels, rocking horses, pipers, drummers, partridges and their kin, Santas (both lean and stout), reindeer, shepherds, teddy bears.  They crowd one upon another, each a memory, some bittersweet.

I used to dread going to my parents’ for the holidays.  The thought of pretending we were a cheerful, trouble-free family, in the same room where my father had so often molested me, would make me want to retch.  Christmas, Easter, birthdays, no excuse could justify an absence.

We would sit at the dining room table, my father in his underwear, my mother hurrying to and fro with the plates, despite repeated offers of assistance.  My father would dismember the turkey, portions enormous, notwithstanding, our protests about diet.

Without fail, at some point during dinner my father would look over at me and remark in a bemused tone, “I just can’t see you as a lawyer, Annie.”  Without fail, at some point he would make a racial comment.  On schedule, an argument would follow.

My sister and I would hurry upstairs soon after dinner, as far away from Ma and Dad as possible.  Back at my apartment after the visit, I would empty my suitcase into the hamper, strip off my clothes, then shower to remove any remaining taint.

My sister’s husband, a kind and decent man, helped change the dynamic.  Not that he was easily accepted into the family.  When they first announced their engagement, there was dead silence at the table.

Both my mother and father grew to love their son-in-law.  My father genuinely admired his skills at carpentry and household repairs.  Pop enjoyed talking with him about sports, history, and — surprisingly enough — the “old country.”

Conversation at the dinner table expanded to cover these topics.  Tensions eased.

That my father was placed on medication for anxiety in his later years helped greatly, as did the fact that I was actually functioning as a lawyer.  My father’s opinion of me grew to have less power.

I live today amid the rolling hills of the Piedmont region of Pennsylvania.  Grandma’s beloved painting of Polány hangs in a place of pride on my wall.  I listen to jazz most days but Grandpa would, I think, be pleased [1].

Despite this, I find myself dreaming lately of a physician/serial killer.  Middle aged, mild mannered, he reports calmly and clinically to a committee of inquiry on the female patients interred in his basement.  The committee members take him at his word, pursue the inquiry as a mere formality, sure that a gentleman would have nothing to hide.

I watch appalled, then enter the scene as a distraught witness.  He remains calm, in control of the situation, while I become more agitated in my efforts to convince the committee.

We are now in his basement.  In full possession of this, his domain, he instructs the pliant nurse which charts to pull.  Then, a look of concern on his face, he reaches out to me and strokes my stomach.  I cannot break away, cannot push him away, and no one will come to my aid.

I awake sweating and gasping for breath.  Safe, except for my thoughts.  Except for my dreams.  After awhile, I turn on the lights, and head to the kitchen.

The scars of the incest remain.  As with the molestation, itself, I long for each instance of their expression to be the last.  Accepting myself despite them is the greatest challenge to my perfectionism.

It is 2:30 AM, and I am wide awake.  I make some tea, then sit down to write [2].

—

[1]  Help for Adult Survivors of Child Abuse (HAVOCA), “Songs of Healing:  How Music Therapy Can Help  Survivors of Abuse Find Closure” by Kylee Johnson, 11/11/20, https://www.havoca.org/songs-of-healing-how-music-therapy-can-help-survivors-of-abuse-find-closure/.

[2]  Psychology Today, “How and Why Writing Heals Wounds of Child Abuse” by Catherine McCall, 9/28/12, https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/overcoming-child-abuse/201209/how-and-why-writing-heals-wounds-child-abuse.

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