24 August
Another session w/ Dr. M day before yesterday. This one was brutal. I suppose I should've expected to have to dredge up things I'd prefer to never think about again but still, can't understand how my childhood is relevant to what I'm dealing with now.
It's not that my childhood was traumatic in and of itself. From my youthful perspective my three sisters and I were being raised by my grandfather (and a devoted nanny, Mrs. Ellis) because my mother was ill for most of my life. She would finally pass on when I was 14. As a child I didn't need to know more- Mum was so tired from being ill that she couldn't take care of me as a mother should; when I did see her (which wasn't often) she almost never seemed to recognize me. She wasn't unkind but she just never seemed to realize that I was her son. Her illness took quite a toll on her. My grandfather and sisters remembered her quite well, and told me many stories of a cheerful, loving, clever woman who everyone said I resembled very strongly in both appearance and temperament. The unfortunate woman I remember was small, thin, pale and bedridden; perpetually sad and seemingly lost in her own world.
Life went on. My sisters and I lived a well-ordered life; Grandfather was rather strict but not severe. He made it clear that he adored us, even when he had to discipline us. We weren't indulged by any means but we were well fed, clothed, educated and attended to. Grandfather was very invested in our upbringing- we attended Mass every Sunday and holy day without fail. School was a bit of a drag- I didn't much care for math or science but I was very good at English and extremely interested in History so I managed for quite a while. I even managed to learn a bit of French (not a great deal but enough to get by should I have decided to travel to a French-speaking country; what I did learn I spoke competently and with a rather passable accent.) Mrs. Ellis was firm but very kind- never spoke to us crossly no matter how we misbehaved. Grandfather himself was fairly affluent- self-made, mind you- so we lived comfortably enough. Our home was large, clean and well-maintained. We never lacked for anything- we even had a cat named Charlie and a dog named Simon.
Of course I had no idea just how traumatic my childhood really was. The adults, and even my sisters, managed to keep the true horrors we'd survived from me for a very long time. I was 14 when my life just completely fell apart and things came to light that I still wish had remained buried.
It all started with the death of my mother. By this time my two oldest sisters, Catherine and Anna, had left home. Cate was married and had a little girl- my niece, Eleanor- and Anna worked as a secretary in London. It was just Susan and I at home. Susan was seventeen and almost finished with her schooling. She intended to train for nursing, which pleased my grandfather no end. I'd developed an interest in horses by then and had worked for Lord Kibbey as his stable boy for some time. Grandfather, of course, had no objections as long as my studies came first. I was content enough, though in the back of my mind I felt a distinct fear that something bad was about to happen.
On a mild, late April day I came home from school to find my family assembled in the drawing room. I remember the sunshine streaming through the curtains in stark contrast to the tired, grim faces of my sisters and my grandfather. Nobody spoke for a few minutes as I laid my books down on the nearest table and sat down in a nearby chair.
"David, my dear boy" said my grandfather, his voice strained by exhaustion and grief, "your mother passed away this morning." He shook as he said this, and the girls started weeping. I felt nothing at all. I was completely numb. I sensed that I should feel grief but right then all I could think was that her suffering was finally over and I no longer had to worry about her. I'd feared that even though I was told that the dementia had rendered her senseless to the gravity of her situation, that some part of her subconsciously knew what was happening to her and felt complete despair at being trapped in such a situation. When I went to visit her, she didn't seem to know who I was. She treated me with the courtesy of a distant acquaintance.
Of course, as the weeks went by my numbness gave way to a quiet, dull grief. I barely knew her, but I'd always cherished a hope that she would get better and actually be able to be a mother to me. Losing the hope of that wounded me more deeply than I've ever dared to express. Susan and I finished the school year. She was preparing to go to London to start nursing school. Poor Grandfather would miss her so, as would I.
School had become a nightmare for me after Mum's passing. The other kids turned on me. I'd been fairly well-liked up to that point but after Mum was buried, everything changed. I was suddenly the target of nasty remarks about my mum- how she'd deserved to die because she was mad; how I was going to end up just like her someday too, or worse, given what my father was. Apparently, the whole town knew more about the man who nobody in our house ever mentioned. I'd learned to stop asking about him at an early age- the pained looks that came across the faces of my grandfather or oldest sisters at the sound of his name made my wish to know more of him seem insignificant. I eventually came to assume that he'd died some years ago and nobody wanted to discuss it.
One incident proved to be the last straw for me. It was a rainy June day. I'd gone into the village just to get out of the house. I'd eaten my lunch at the Kibbey Arms (and had a good chinwag with Mr. Friar, the innkeeper) and was planning to visit the library. On my way I was stopped by Greg Thompson, a schoolmate, and several of his friends. He and I had gotten on fine for years but since Mum's passing he'd become the most enthusiastic of my bullies.
"So, Jones, where are you off to?" he sneered as he grabbed my jacket collar. I refused to respond, which was typical of how I dealt with him and his ilk. "You're not off to the library, are you? Surprised you can even read, being the son of a madwoman and God only knows who." I refused to dignify his taunting with a response.
"Your mother's in Hell, you know." I felt an unfamiliar sensation- a white-hot mix of pure hatred and fury- beginning to radiate from within. A voice inside my head warned me that if I didn't calm down I was likely to kill this ignorant fool. Thompson continued, "She's in hell and you're going to hell too because you're a bastard, born of the worst kind of sin. How can you stand to be alive, knowing what you are?"
Confusion added to the mix of feeling brewing within me. My parents were married- that much I knew. Mum's married name (and that of my three sisters) was Greene. When I asked why I shared my grandfather's last name and not theirs, I was told that I'd been born a few months after his passing and that it had been a clerical error that nobody saw fit to rectify. It was an absurdly complicated situation and I sensed that since nobody wished to discuss it I wasn't going to pry.
"Your mother was a whore. She went mad because she got a filthy whore disease. There's no telling who your father was- she got around plenty after her husband died," Greg sneered as his mates laughed and began taunting me. Greg suddenly threw me down into a nearby field and shoved my face into the mud. I panicked as I clawed at his hands- terrified and unable to breathe. "Into the mud with you, filth!" he shouted as he held me down.
A few seconds later (but it seemed an eternity to me) I felt the pressure on the back of my head suddenly lift away. I heard the voice of Mr. Friar, who had come after me because I'd left my books sitting on the table. In my daze I couldn't make out what was being said but Mr. Friar was clearly telling the boys off- they left in a hurry. I slowly picked myself up and tried to wipe the mud from my face while Mr. Friar gazed at me with worried eyes. I was reeling from the whole experience- the extreme emotions that had coursed through me had dissipated, leaving me drained.
Mr. Friar was kind enough to give me a room at the inn so I could clean up and have a rest before going home. After letting me rest a few hours, he poked his head in the door and asked me if I was any better. I was no longer enraged, just ashamed at my own weakness and in shock over what those cretins had said.
"I'm fine, thanks," I said. I didn't know what else to say. He offered me something to eat but I had no appetite. He hesitated before continuing.
"Son, I heard some of what that boy said to you. I can't imagine that you're doing fine at all." I didn't know how to respond to that. He continued. "You're a good boy, Davy; you always have been. Your mum was a fine lass and I grieve for that sweet girl every day. You're so like her, you know- but I'm sure I'm not the first to tell you that. I take comfort in knowing that she's a saint in Heaven now; I imagine you do too."
I finally found my voice after that. "Is it true, what Thompson said?" Mr. Friar gazed at the floor sadly, obviously at a loss for words. "My boy, I'm afraid I don't have the answers to your questions. You need to ask your grandfather. Surely you're old enough…"
An awkward silence ensued. Finally, it seemed to register with me that my grandfather might be worried about me; it was almost dusk and past our dinner time. I gathered my things and thanked Mr. Friar for his kindness before trudging home.
The following two weeks were the worst of my life. I was afraid to leave the house, not just because of the fear that I might encounter Thompson and his cronies again, but because of what was said. There was a reason we spoke so little of my mum or of my father- if indeed he actually was. I didn't take Mr. Friar's advice- I was afraid of the answers I'd get. I didn't tell my family what had happened to me. Instead, I began keeping to myself. I stopped helping out at Lord Kibbey's stables. I had no enthusiasm for anything anymore. Some days it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed and dress; I would stay in my bedroom all day reading and quietly weeping, feeling ashamed because of what had been said. I began to believe it, and felt sick with guilt for being a burden to my family. I worried for the state of my mother's soul- after what that unfortunate woman had been through in her time on Earth, was she really condemned to spending eternity in desolation, away from God's love? (I don't see Hell as a place of fire and brimstone, of course. To me, Hell is a place where you're eternally separated from those you love the most. Hell is lonely and depressing and, ironically, cold. Don't ask how I came to see it that way; my imagination has always been a bit different from most people.) All this despair and grief affected my appetite; at my lowest I went several days without eating. I slept so poorly- a couple of hours a night if at all. I was a mess. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I felt like I was drowning from the inside and I genuinely wished that I'd never been born. I feared that I was indeed going mad, just like my poor mother, and began wishing for death rather than a life like that.
My family, of course, was worried about me. I'd seemed to take Mum's passing so philosophically- telling them that yes, I was sad for myself but happy for her because she was in a much better place. So why I was in such sad shape a few weeks on was baffling to them. I know now that they were worried sick about me- the remorse makes me sick. At the time I was so preoccupied with what was going on in my head that I had no room for anything else.
After two weeks I was tired of it all. One night I'd actually managed to sleep a bit. I woke up and decided that I had to do something before I went mad. It was fairly early in the morning but I knew what I had to do. I needed to get away. I bathed, packed a suitcase and prepared to walk into the village to catch the nearest bus to anywhere but there. I decided to eat a bit of something before I left, so I went downstairs to the kitchen. There I found Grandfather making himself a cup of tea. I'd forgotten what an early riser he was. He seemed surprised to see me, but kept any questions he had to himself and offered me a cup of tea. We both sat at the table with our tea and biscuits, dying to ask each other questions but unable to find the words. After a few minutes' silence he finally spoke up.
"David…" he paused as though he wasn't sure how to proceed. "I know the past three months has been difficult for you. It has for all of us, my boy." He paused and sipped his tea again. "I think a change of scenery might, if nothing else, provide a nice diversion for you. How would you like to go to London with Susie? Anna can't put you up, of course- her flat is barely big enough for herself and Susie. But I have an old friend there who would be more than happy to have you for a while. There's so much to do there, my boy…"
For the first time in weeks I felt hope. It was as though Grandfather could… well, not necessarily read my mind, but somehow he knew what I needed, and was willing to be alone for a while so I could go clear my head. I readily agreed, and three days later I was off to London for as long as I needed to be away. I figured I'd spend the summer there, but many interesting twists of fate ensured that my few months in London turned into nearly four years. From London, of course, I came straight to America in 1964. That, of course, is another story entirely.
My, I've written a lot here. I suppose Dr. M was right, I feel better letting it out than trying to shove it down. Not that I intend to share this with everybody- it's so sad and I'm not interested in anyone's pity. Only Dr. M and Peter know, because of therapy.
The night of my last session I had a horrific nightmare about that incident with Thompson- the first I'd had since leaving home. I woke up on the floor, tangled in my bedclothes, screaming and crying. Oddly enough, although I was dreaming about near-suffocation, the fear was of that drowning-from-the-inside feeling returning. When I came to my senses I saw Peter kneeling next to me, gazing at me with wide, worried eyes.
"It's all right, Peter. I was having a bad dream, but I'm all right now," I tried to reassure him as I clambered back into bed. He sat on the edge of the bed with me.
"I've never seen anything like that before," he said, still gazing at me with concern. "I tried to wake you up and I couldn't. Instead, the moment I touched you, you fought me. We both fell off the bed you were struggling so violently." He paused; I suppose from his perspective that must have been disturbing.
"I'll admit, Peter, it was the worst dream I've had in years."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Peter asked.
"No," I said. And then I went ahead and told him everything- about the psychoanalysis, about everything. He didn't judge me, either, just listened as I not only spoke my piece but began sobbing like a frustrated toddler. At that point he crawled into bed with me and held me as I wept.
"You really need to talk to your family about this, David," he said after I'd calmed down. "You need to know the truth about all this."
I sighed. "How on earth do I go about asking that poor man if my mother was…?" I didn't have it in me to use any of the words leveled at my mother by that nasty boy.
"David. Whatever happened, your granddad obviously still loved her very much and did what he could to take care of her. Whatever the truth is, he probably kept the details from you because he didn't think a fourteen year old needed to know. You're grown now, and this traumatic incident has stuck with you into adulthood. You need to ask him, or somebody. He obviously loves you and cares about your happiness and well-being. I think he'll at least give you the facts. After all, when was there an opportunity for him to sit you down, man-to-man, and talk about this? You never went back after you left for London, except for short visits." He had me there. It dawned on me that I'd avoided Kibbey Village, and my grandfather, because I was afraid of the conversation I'd needed to have with my grandfather for years.
He stayed right with me until I fell asleep in his arms. I'd never shared a bed with anyone before, so it should've been odd. But it was more comforting than anything.
I spent much of yesterday writing a letter to Grandfather. It's one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Poor Mike and Micky- I could tell my agitation bothered them, especially since it made our rehearsal rather tricky since I couldn't pay attention to save my life. Fortunately, they've been good enough to leave me alone and chalk it up to an off day.
Anyway, I'm wide awake now. Letter's finished and ready for the post. I've had some toast and coffee and am now as ready to face today as I'll ever be. I've a life to live and hopefully in a few weeks I'll have some answers- or at least some peace of mind.