This journey started at the end of October, 1998, at the time of the first anniversary of Jos.’s death. What a journey! Why on earth did I ever start on it? What was pushing me? There is a chiropractor just across the street, literally. I have a friend who recommended her chiropractor several times. Another friend and his daughter go to the one across the street. So why did I decide to ask for a business card that Saturday evening at the little vegetarian restaurant? So much has happened since then.
First it was all about Jos., and when that was done, the crying still would not stop. In November, while listening to Bradshaw’s tape,
“Championing your inner child,” Micha mentioned for the first time her grandfather’s abuse — my grandfather’s sexual abuse. It was quite a shock and I gave a copy of that particular Bradshaw exercise to Hell.
This winter I learned that there is every indication I have repressed memories of sexual abuse at the hands of my grandfather.
This winter I learned of my real father. My mom finally gave me a name. Still, her tale makes little sense.
This winter I learned that my mother has brought other children into this world. Quite by accident, she admitted that I had had an older half-brother, when she let slip that she had a grandson named Stéphane, whose father had been William, a son born to my mom two years before I was born. She had given William up for adoption when he was six weeks old. The next, I think, was me (she was married then, but I am not her husband’s child). Then there is my brother Simon, five years younger than I am. Is he the son of Paul? Poor husband. Poor children. Poor Mom.
This winter I learned about honouring oneself. This was entirely new to me. But also this winter I went through hell and it is not over yet.Now, I am struggling in vain to remember repressed memories and I also have to deal with the fact that I am illegitimate. Haven’t I always known I’m a slut? Didn’t my grandfather call me his little whore? “You like that, little whore, ” “Do me, little whore, ” “You’re a real little whore. ”
I also have to deal with the fact that my boss is retiring this year.
That I must relinquish my post and be demoted. My boss will stay on until spring of next year, and I suppose I will remain his secretary until that time. Then I will be either out of a job or given every bit of work the other secretaries hate and that means dull, dull work. What fun I will have. I will lose close to $8,000 a year — not to mention having to endure smirks from the other secretaries. Options? At fifty-five, none.
I’d like to say that I can’t take this anymore, that I wish I were dead, that I wish I could die, that I wish I were on the other side, like I used to, but I can’t. That is the one marvellous chapter in this whole bale-ful story. I now suspect that at some time when the abuse was taking place, a door opened to the other side and I always looked to it and wished I could pass through and never, ever come back to that god-forsaken place that I hated so much.
All my life it has felt as if I’ve been punished, as some kind of ven-geance, by having to live a life I did not wish to live. And all my life I wished I had the guts to commit suicide. And now? Now, in spite of the hurt, in spite of the struggle, I am glad to be here, to be alive, to be dealing with my gut being pulled out of me — eviscerated, it feels like. I have seen medieval pictures of victims being eviscerated and, yes, it feels just like that looks. Yet I have never felt more alive.
Go figure!
Last Sunday (or was it Monday?) I told my son about my birth father. Eddy was bowled over, which surprised me because he has never shown any interest in his grandfathers. He said it was because I’d never mentioned my dad (Mom’s husband) and, since he was dead, he figured there was nothing there to question. His grandfather on his father’s side passed away before I met his dad.
Well, I don’t know about the classic syndrome I always seemed to have, of idealizing my mom, but at this moment, at this stage of the journey, I do not wish her hurt. She is seventy-seven years of age. Even if she was to live another twenty years, I would like us to travel on a healing journey together, not one of hate and resentment.
This July, I will be going to Drummondville again. This time I will probably travel further in order to meet her grandson, my nephew Stéphane. This young man (thirtyish) actually hired a detective to find his biological grandmother. He was wise enough to wait until his grandparents (William’s adoptive parents) died, so as not to hurt them. It took him two years to find her. It probably cost him quite a penny as well. William was an alcoholic and killed himself driving while he was out-of-his-mind drunk. Stéphane was nine years old. I don’t know if my nephew is an alcoholic, but my brother is, my mom is. How come I’m not? If I ever get the real truth out of my mom, I will write a book.
The most important thing for me now is travelling to Machu Picchu this coming October. I am determined to go, no matter how much money it costs. When I watched the documentary, and the city unfolded in front of me as the camera panned slowly from the highest point, and they said runners for the King used to arrive by this high trail with fresh fish from the sea every day, I started to cry and cry.
There has to be something there for me.
When I started seeing Hell, I could not sit without feeling pain in my coccyx. It has been eight months since then, and now I can sit again in my nice ergonomic chair. There has been healing; a different kind of healing. Not only is my back being healed but all of me.
No matter what the future has in store for me, surely it is good.
Things are getting better all the time.
July 2, 1999 (Dream)