The year was 1957, Osama Bin Laden was born, ultra sound technology was pioneered, baby boomers are at their peak. Innocent new lives filled with endless possibilities. But for one it was dark and deep in the basement where he did what he pleased and nothing good came to be. In the basement where no one sees, as if the world had turned a blind eye. Broken family, broken little girl, shhh quiet. Everything happened silently, dirty little secrets. Poor little loss soul, she had no idea of which way to go. She was filled to the brim with her unbearable reality from those who didn't give a damn and painful from those who did care but just didn't see, didn't understand and in their attempts only deepened her wounds leaving her screaming in agony as her sanity wavered beyond the norm and slid into the DMS3. Labels came slapped onto her name in judgment and pain; anxiety, depression, bi-polar, disassociation, complex post traumatic stress and borderline personality like a fucking tossed salad, a smorgasbord with a wide variety. No one willing to go beyond their comfort zone but hey were able to open their mouths spew their two cents of how they think I should be, they used words like responsibility, for God sake they told her to act normally, does anyone know what that is even supposed to mean.
It's half a century gone by and she is left with flashback and broken fragmented memories, like a puzzle with missing pieces because you see this story is about me.
It's funny when you're trying to survive a life of sexual abuse, human trafficking, addiction, physical and spiritual rape and street life takes its toll and wears and tears on your essence of being and there's a tendency of drowning in pain so immersed that anything good gets lost in the muck and guck. And I'm racking my brains out to find fragmented acts of kindness from my fragmented memories from a time when I was to blindsided to see, because back then I lived an awful reality.
I hear the soundtrack of Mission Impossible playing in my mind and I scream, hell no that can't be, God help me.
I found a therapist or maybe she found me, her name is Ronnee and she looks like she out of the sixties, Woodstock bound if you know what I mean. And she says to me; I don't have a lot of experience working with people like you, with your kind of issues. Now I thought that was her first mistake, so on my next appointment I showed up late and this short round women put me in my place with such ease and grace and really all she did was tell me to wait in the hallway for the amount of time I was late. She glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled.
And I thought, I see how it's gonna be and our relationship was solidified, we agreed to meet once a week on Tuesdays. She was the driving force, she created a safe place, a safe space within a tiny concrete box down at the JCC (Jewish Community Centre).
I told her my story, I went deep and shared all the horrors that happened to me. I told her about being bound in the basement as a child where no one sees, I shared how the smell of mothballs now sickens me. I told about the human trafficking being sold like a commodity, drugged and tossed into the trunk of cars crossing state lines. I shared about being beatings. I told her as if I was a million miles removed from that reality, as if it was someone else’s story.
On a Thursday it happened to me, I saw a little girl with her mom and the brash truth came crashing down on me. I was that size, no bigger than she maybe 2 or 3 when all this started happening to me.
The powers that be had made an opening for me, Ronnee had just had a cancellation and behind my protective shades tears filled my eyes as I travelled up the Spadina line back into therapy.
My heart is pounding
She put her arm around me, I lay my head on her motherly chest, the floodgates open and began to weep. And she says to me “take a deep breath, breath this safe and comforting feeling, that’s allowing you such a release”.
Then she gives my homework for next week, to create an inner dialogue, to learn self-parenting.
I do resent cleaning up the mess that was imposed on me.
My inner child; I think she hates me, doesn’t want to talk to me, doesn’t trust me but I can't really blame her. I didn’t even know you existed, I’m so sorry and I muster the courage to ask, what do you need from me and eventually she hesitated, she yelled and screamed and begged that I not forget about her anymore, that I keep me safe and accept her for who she is. And you know what, with time and effort she begins to forgive me.
Ronnee was a rarity this women paved the way, helped me clear the debris. She walked by my side, protected me. She made it possible for me to own my story, to end one chapter and begin a new.
And what a new chapter it became as I found out I’m pregnant at 42 while doing inner child work. I’m gonna be a mom and I’m growing into the size of a house. I can’t even see my feet. It's July 13th and she’s due but nowhere to be seen as she remains inside. It’s the 23rd, no sign of her.
It’s the 30th, contractions 18 hours of labour breath, 23 hours breath, 25 hours I'm exhausted, breath breath breath. They are going in because she is not coming out. They hand her to me and I fall in love instantly.
She's my baby, a part of me, the sparkle in my eye and in my every heart beat, pure and holy but then she begins to cry, she's fed she's dry but she cries and cries. I hold her up and look into her eyes and she looks into mine and I began to shrink while she began to grow. I realized I was holding an old soul and I was in for the ride of my life, as if the first half hadn't been.
She is my saving grace, she makes me wanna be a better me, she’s part of every conscious decision I make and she deserves a mommy who is emotionally present and that isn’t always so easy for me.
My daughter is now 16 years old, going on 23 and I am not G-d to her anymore, perfect me has been long outgrown. In less than 5 years she’ll be off to University
What’s to become of me?
As I daydream about travelling like a nomad, to exotic places, off to see the world; Iceland, Russia where my ancestors began, Asia, the Middle East, maybe even BoraBora.
Change is in the air might be time to make a move sell the house perhaps. Make a list; de clutter, pets will go to the ex, items dear to me get packed away for safe keeping, fresh flowers in the entrance way, the smell of fresh baked cookies, the garden immaculate and magical ready to be and the “for sale” sign goes up with mixed feelings. Our passports are up to date, so my daughter could visit me wherever I happen to be, Taxi for Ray St please, to the airport,