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Mum

Our saviour (RIP: 2010)

By Pauline FountainPublished 3 years ago Updated 10 months ago 12 min read
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[ Video : Pauline Fountain ]

Occasionally my Mum would speak about happenings that she was not privy to.

During an evening meal the subject of shoplifting was discussed. “I’ve never done that," I lied. She said, “Except for the necklaces you stole from Target when you were in Grade 8.”

Hmmm … Curious.

She explained, or so I thought.

“We’ve been in business here in Chermside for many years Pauline. I have eyes and ears well beyond my own. Patients of ours know who you are. You’re exploits in Grade 8. Your rebellious, wilful year. These eyes and ears I have … reported in.”

“How did you think I always knew you were wagging school? How did you think I knew when you were late for class, because you were with those atrocious friends of yours smoking down the back of the oval? And don’t start about how the punishment didn’t fit the crime. I find it perfectly appropriate that you had to sit in the Headmistress’ room, wrapping Sanitary pads in brown paper bags.”

“God Mum … We’re eating!” my Sister said. A funny thing to say, at the ‘Family business Dentist table’ where amalgams, bite blocks, teeth knocked into frontal sinuses, draining periodontal cysts, and root canals were regularly discussed.

A lock and key can provide protection for thoughts most precious, or it can form an unbreakable hold. Rigidly fixed and immovable.

I was given my first notebook for my birthday by my best friend when I was in Grade 6 at Primary School. Coloured a gentle blush pink with satin finish, and written in a golden sweeping script it read ‘My diary.’

It was charming, however my focus was its security. A small silver lock. A small silver key. I couldn’t speak for some time as I looked at her with shared understanding. Roxy was one of six children. I was intrigued and fascinated. I spoke one word, “Privacy.” Then we embraced.

From that day onward, back on the 7th of October 1976, I became a diary writer. Unlocked: I captured every day observations, practical documentations of daily events, moments of celebration, and my minds reactive emotions to confusing interactions.

With excitement and somewhat frenzied writing, released from a yet unknown complex mind, my locked diary could no longer contain an additional written representation.

And so a ritual began of explorations for my next diary. My age reflecting my choice of exterior design and accoutrements.

Innately I had begun to refer to them as journals. I had established a solo approach to self-derived psychotherapy; to write of self-examinations.

Words gave me power and control of circumstances. The written word carried meaning; independent or linking.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

My daily journal penmanship had continued uninterrupted. However, since my Grade 6 ‘lock and key’ sense of privacy, I simply shoe-boxed them, labelled beginning and end dates.

An archival tendency. I stacked them on the top shelf in my bedroom cupboard. No need for privacy now. I had my own room.

Or so it seemed.

Fast forward to 1982, my second year of University.

Earlier in the week, out of the blue, Mum sideswiped me with a comment about how ungrateful I was with the life provided to me. “Do you wish you were someone else Pauline, gallivanting off with friends to other lands to play house, work and pretend to be an adult?”

Hmmm. Where did that come from?

“Mum. Have you been reading my journals?” suspicion growing.

She replied with no reluctance, “Yes. How else do I know what you are thinking?”

“You could ask me,” I replied.

I was furious and found this breach of privacy incredulous.

“How dare you! These are my journals. I’ve kept one since Grade 6. They’re my sacred texts. You had no right to do this without my permission”.

She laughed and said, “Permission? I don’t need it. I’m your Mother.”

*

One day a friend from University shared an afternoon of coffee consumption in my room, and we reflected on the peculiarities of our childhood memories. Were they real or imposed by the influence of others or even photographs? I revealed I had my own treasure trove to prove the validity of my recognition of true, false or in between. I told her of my journals.

I removed some boxes, digging around, noting peculiar placement here and there, though at the time I paid no heed to it.

I was most selective of my verbal expression of entries and they were merry, not soulful. Joyful and playful. And so began a discussion on the nature of growing up. The awful, awkward, adolescent misunderstandings. At times we laughed until we cried.

Our afternoon, shared and enjoyed ended. I sat down to write in my journal an attempted narrative of our delightful reverie.

Within the hour it seems my Mother could no longer contain her ire.

“So are your sacred texts no longer sacred? You’ve been laughing in there, reciting from them for hours. Another person has exception?”

“Mum, I didn’t set out to hurt you. Please don’t be angry. We were talking about growing up. My readings were amusing and I chose to share them,” attempting to contextualise.

She was furious and found my explanation incredulous.

“By the way, I’m angry too. I was in my room with a friend. Are those ‘eyes and ears’ of yours listening in again? Privacy breach two. I see you’re still reading them. It didn’t go unnoticed that my boxes of journals had peculiar placement here and there.”

She laughed and said, “Permission? I don’t need it. I’m your Mother.”

My friend now gone, I walked to my room, deflated by this gulf of misunderstanding. The journals read, still scattered on my bed. I starting with number one. ‘My diary’ written in a golden sweeping script on gentle blush pink, with its small silver lock and a small silver key. I ripped them up.

I destroyed everyone from 1976 to 1982. I returned to the kitchen and took five green garbage bags. Filled them up. My treasure trove now detritus.

I took each bag out and threw them in the bin.

Mum watched silently.

She said with sadness and regret, “Why did you do that?”

“To get my memories back,” I replied with sadness and regret, holding onto the small silver key in my pocket. To this day I have it. A talisman.

*

There is a strange phenomenon that binds them. Mother to Daughter. Sometimes ribbon. Sometimes rope. The lifeline and the noose.

There exists a deadly divide that separates their poison. The distance between breaking the spell of the early years of childhood. Truth glasses manifested through this experience. Time given for contemplation.

*

The next weekend I went and bought an old pine chest with rustic iron details and a clasp. I secured it with a padlock.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

With contents complete, once again, I revelled in the ritual of expeditions for my next journal. My age reflecting my choice of exterior design and accoutrements.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

*

POSTSCRIPT & LIFE LESSONS:

I adored my Mum and she adored me. This moment was a turning point for both of us.

Later that year, her beloved Godson and Nephew, my beloved Cousin, was diagnosed with a malignant melanoma. I bought a journal to diarise my love for him and to document my visits at the Royal Womans and Brisbane Hospital.

I took every opportunity to devote time spent by his side, as he deteriorated from a vibrant, life-loving man, spirited, and spontaneous, to a husk.

My Mum visited him when able. After 18 months of no treatment success, he went back to his childhood home for palliative care. His parents were paralysed and unable to cope or contribute with the tenderness and understanding that were the hallmarks of my Mum’s character. She juggled a full-time job, three daughters and a marriage. She was extraordinary. Selfless and kind.

When Ross died at 22 years of age, she waited for a while; this woman of action. Busy, with little time for rumination. After a month had elapsed, she asked if she could have the journal I had written during Ross’ terminal illness. I gave it to her without a moments hesitation.

*

This beginning of this piece is a heartfelt story about my Mum and my writing. It was a turning point in our lives.

[ Image: Pauline Fountain ]

Some may not understand, but it strengthened our love after the initial hurt. When she asked for my journal about my Cousin Ross, there was reconciliation.

*

Now at 55, after many years of self-sought bibliotherapy and formal psycho-education, I appreciate the origins of Journal Therapy. How stimulus exercises can prompt awareness and improve my Mental Illness as a result of inner demons and outer conflicts.

Me? I call the bad times ‘diary dumping.’ The good and in between times I feel less need to dump, but to write poetry and fiction.

I write a daily 'reflection' in a simple dialogue-based form of creative writing. My sophistication evolving or simplifying as best applies. It seems after an extended hiatus as part of this process, I am re-establishing daily journaling.

*

I am now a mother of an 18 year old son.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

His name is Ross. He is named after my Cousin, taken from our lives at 22 years of age.

Of course he never met his eponym.

Over the years my Mum has taught me many life lessons. It’s impossible to include them all. I have chosen four:

Lesson 1: to respect my son’s privacy.

Lesson 2: that material items were of little worth. She would say that everyday was ‘Mother’s Day.’ That there was no need for gifts, so I always created a hand made card. I continue this tradition with my son today.

Lesson 3: adverse life events can’t be anticipated. Work within your capacity to care, have empathy and act with kindness and compassion.

Lesson 4: to love your children with passion and concentrate on ‘the living.’ To harness every moment with authenticity.

*

Lesson 1: to respect my son’s privacy.

I have done my best to respect this aspect of his life. I have given him journals over the years but have not enquired about his use and if they are of value.

He recently gave me one for Christmas 2020. At the time I was an inpatient at Toowong Private Hospital (a private specialist psychiatric facility that I have attended since 2008.) He hand illustrated the cover.

His words reflected his understanding of the role writing plays in my life. “Pauline it’s time to start writing again,” he declared.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

We live in a new realm of social media. Facebook, Messenger and Instagram.

We are Facebook Friends. Messenger provides a platform for daily communication. I am following one of his Instagram accounts, but at times I do think, “What is within that inaccessible account?” I am reminded of the lesson to respect his privacy and although curious I don’t interrogate him.

*

Lesson 2: that material items were of little worth. She would say that everyday was ‘Mother’s Day.’ That there was no need for gifts, so I always created a hand made card. I continue this tradition with my son today.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

*

Lesson 3: adverse life events can’t be anticipated. Work within your capacity to care, have empathy and act with kindness and compassion.

In my 30’s I lost my way. It’s taken 20 plus years to begin to find my way back.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

During this period my Mum raised my son from 7 weeks to 3 years of age. He now lives full-time with his Father. She shaped the man that he has become. I look at him and see her values of humanity and wisdom.

My Mother died in 2010. Below are some photos from here ‘life celebration’ DVD.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image: Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

*

Lesson 4: to love your children with passion and concentrate on ‘the living.’ To harness every moment with authenticity.

After my Mum died at times I continue dismayed and wandering. At times I continue adrif and mislaid; a castaway.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

When it’s been a difficult day. When I can’t sleep. Racing thoughts invade me as part of my Mental Illness (Bipolar 1 - Rapid Cycling and Complex PTSD). When sleep is splintered my dreams unwanted plague me.

My son is wise and understands me. He provides me with gentle guidance and reminds me of the strategies that have been successful and how to re-engage with life.

For this I give thanks.

As recommended by my Mum I harness every moment to spend with my son and ensure authenticity.

Our time spent together is tinged with a hidden yearning.

We share lunchtime outings together. And enjoy each other’s company.

When our meals are finished. Though initially reticent and hushed, we soon begin a frenetic chat!

Un-zipped.

Our shared elated buzz manifests as a tumble and jumble of anecdotes.

Then, excitement curtailed, we transition to the gentle and steady pace of conversation.

I listen entranced by his enthusiasm; his humorous recounts and concerns. I perceive the emotional struggles as he transforms from adolescent to man.

I have no doubt of the essential value of living away from my son. The backstory is long and ‘let’s not go there’ and I deal with it well most times.

Yet when I sit and watch and listen to Ross, I can’t help but wish it was different.

The pleasure denied of observing his daily rhythm.

I fight as the chasm of Dissociation threatens.

I implement techniques.

My longing quickly recedes as my memories of restriction return. Negation. Realism. Equilibrium.

All occasions spent together are precious. An experience including our Saturday lunch or movie catch-ups; and I have absorbed the grief of those less regular.

He has increasing study and assignment time demands due to his academic commitments as he begins his Degree in Nursing at the Queensland Institute of Technology in Brisbane.

I can choose one favourite evening out. Just the two of us. At the documentary screening of ‘Above us only sky.’ The making of the ‘Imagine’ album. Followed by dinner at his preferred Korean restaurant.

[ Image: Pauline Fountain ]

Official Documentary Trailer below:

I know my Mother would be proud of my achievements. Others consider them as a life of failed potential.

She would be proud of my child and understand that although my child now lives with their Father (through mutual agreement between me and my son), we are in our own way a family.

*

I need no reminders of my Mum.

I look into my son’s eyes and she is there; ever watchful. I look into my son’s eyes and she is there; devotion.

I have been grieving for my Mum of late and before the end date for this submission I rang our old home phone number where we lived as children to young adults. In need of advice and convinced she would answer.

It was at this time I knew I had to submit this story to the ‘Boss Mum’ Vocal+ Challenge supported by ‘The Female Quotient.’ It has provided me with the relief of gratitude and peace.

[ Image : Pauline Fountain ]

Pauline Fountain. © 2021. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced without the written permission of the author.

immediate family
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About the Creator

Pauline Fountain

Writing combined with photography provides me with a creative outlet to reflect with meaning on my life.

In 2008 I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 (Rapid Cycling) and Complex PTSD.

My son’s gentle wisdom furnishes me with the gift of hope.

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