Canadian writer of various fiction and non-fiction works. A former nerd, geek, know-it-all or make-it-all-up sort of person. Aging sucks when combined with disability. The thrall of youth is challenged and that which was once so bloody easy is suddenly so bloody difficult.
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These are the people who became my parents. I have thought long and hard about both of them. I probably spend more time looking at me, but since they’re my mirrors and my source of so many habits that I need to know them, at least within the context of what I came out of our relationships with.
Indeed, scars that I’m working over and getting the fascia to loosen up a bit, act a bit more like my body is undamaged. It’s all complicated when you’re not “normal.” Normals will argue with you “Well, I’ve had thoughts/done deeds that are not that much different from your examples of your behaviour.” Except they hadn’t been examples of behaviour but examples of habitual predilections, habitual perceptions, and habitual actions (or reactions).
That all said, if you read it, means I’ve had lots of bizarre questions about my parent, about whom I know little or no personal history. I have some building blocks: one had a business man father, the other was raised by a mortician; both enjoyed riotous youths but neither got into serious trouble; they are both the youngest child in their family of origin (oh, that lets so many cats out of the bag, except, it’s just a phrase I’ve picked up and found useful); one had serious mental illness, the other was clueless; one was a vicious predator, the other was clueless; both worked hard, but for very different reasons.
I recently decided to find something I could connect with in one parent, a difficult parent. I’d already felt that I’d come to a place of acceptance and love. But, recent events have revealed the truth about just how tied up I am in the utterly terrifying place my childhood was.
Time to untie another string, loosen another bow, and unwrap the package another layer.
Isn’t that how it all starts? Once upon a time, there was a woman who experienced a crisis. Yes. A crisis. Not of faith but of physique. Wait, don’t jump to conclusions because the story doesn’t start there, that’s somewhere near the middle. but it’s where we’re starting.
So, once upon a time there was a child who was born a ghost. The ghost child recognized its role as a sacrifice. The ghost child’s parents recognized their willingness to make the sacrifice in their hope for bounty in return for their gift. The parents could not decide how best to sacrifice their ghost child. One parent set to chewing on the ghost child’s body. One parent took the ghost child into the woods and left it there to be consumed by the beasts and insects until the last iota. Because the ghost child did not succumb to the efforts, the parents then treated the ghost child as a beloved living child. When their arms could not embrace the ghost child’s form, they turned their backs, they beat the ghost with holy water and holy men, and they wailed to their friends and neighbours that their child had forsaken them. The friends, the family, turned from the ghost child and left it to wander through the world untethered and unfettered.
The ghost child did not dissipate. After a long and lonely existence lived on the gruel of motherlessness, the ghost child put on the garb of a living person and took up a life.
Early and frequent success as a living person led the ghost child to believe that it was saved, reborn, or perhaps simply born.
Now…there was a woman, who had been a ghost child, who had been alive, and who had a crisis. Illness and its prescriptions wore away at her vitality but not her intensity. The urge that had wrapped a ghost in the living skin of a person had been fueled by an intensity, a stubbornness, a firmness and that strength stoked her collapse, just as it had driven her earlier transformation.