Haunted by unlived history
by Elouise
A couple of weeks ago I uncovered buried treasure. I’d stashed it away in a large envelope of notes I typed and wrote out in the early 1990s. The notes were about boys and men who made an unforgettable impression on me from childhood until the early 1990s.
This wasn’t simply a list of names. It was an itemized, annotated, categorized and coded treasure trove of information and reflection under several headings. Men I hardly knew, plus the real world of men I knew all too well.
I didn’t write this out on a whim. It was part of a therapy exercise for survivors of child sexual abuse. A way of getting to know myself better—by way of reflection on men who made an impression on me.
But before getting into that, I want to tell you about something else.
Several days ago I read about the way our parents’ unlived lives make an impact on us. Especially on our internal lives. This means that even though I appear normal on the outside, I can quickly numb out, withdraw, or shut down internally when I’m uncomfortable in a relationship. In fact, I’m skilled at this, even though it’s also a source of anguish.
The next morning I woke up and almost immediately burst into tears. My mother’s unlived life included her unlived life with me. I have no memories at all of my mother hugging, cuddling or touching me affectionately. She was industrious, resourceful, creative, and an attentive caretaker when I was sick. She was not, however, spontaneously or overtly affectionate.
My body and spirit grew up craving affection. I can’t count how many times my mother bent over to kiss me goodnight and kissed the air above my cheek instead. It still gnaws at me. A gaping hole in my heart that makes me wonder whether I was really loved.
I wasn’t simply running away from my father’s unsafe touch and punishing, overbearing, demeaning ways. I was also starving for my mother’s touch, affection, guidance and wisdom. I needed a safe haven in which I didn’t have to impress anyone, or get sick so I could be comforted.
Behind my history lies my mother’s history with her mother, my Grandma Z. One of my mother’s sad mantras was “I never had a mother.” She was correct. Grandma Z ran away with another man and divorced her first husband when my mother was very young.
My mother grew up without being cuddled, hugged or celebrated by her mother. Grandma Z favored her younger son, and treated my mother more like a toy doll. A plaything to dress up and display proudly. Not a little girl to listen to, love, comfort or encourage.
So there I was years later, a young woman. Uneasy in my body and spirit. Needy and pushing away at the same time. Haunted by my mother’s inability to affirm my body and my spirit. I didn’t think anyone would want to marry me. I also thought that having a man love me would heal my heartaches and take away the pain.
To be continued….
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 27 January 2018
Photo taken when I was 9 months old, 1 month before my father returned from the TB sanatorium; July 1944 in Charlotte, NC
You write exactly what I feel and can’t write about. My mom still lives and reads my blog. In fact….I’m hoping she isn’t a Googler and will come across this comment in some way. Since hummed the day after my sisters funeral, I realized what I never had. Thank you for sharing this. ❤
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You’re so welcome, April. I wonder how many of us there are out there. Too many, I fear. 😦
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Makes me sad.
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That’s a beautiful photo.
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Thanks, Herminia! It’s one of only several I have with her before she had polio (several years later). She was a beautiful, gifted woman, worthy of being loved by her own mother who chose instead to abandon her and the rest of the family.
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My mother couldn’t express affection either. My brother is nine years older and I used to think he had experienced a different mother, before mental illness and the crude medications and therapies of the sixties turned her into a zombie. But then he shocked me by saying the same thing about a complete absence of affection. When I read your bit about the goodnight air kiss I got a shock. It never occurred to me before – that I always put myself to bed, and on occasions my brother in an act of compassion would come and tuck me in and spray some mosquito repellant around. I guess it never occurred to my mother that she had a role to play there. Yet I can understand how that was, as my mother’s mother put her in an orphanage for five years when she was only little – on account of poverty – so how could she express what she had never experienced herself? This is coming out garbled, but I guess what I am exploring here is that circumstances can leave us a sad legacy, but we have the power to understand, empathise, forgive and forge our own destiny.
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Garbled and clear as can be! Thanks so much for your comment. Your brother sounds like one of your angels, and your mother paid a horrible price more than once for things over which she had no control. Empathy is a wonderful gift. Your mother would be proud, and perhaps relieved. What an inspiring account! Thanks, Gwen.
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Well I’m sure D has.
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🙂
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what a cute little girl you were, and still are I’m guessing 🙂 lovely post and too many points hit home for me, now you’ve got my mind a whir, but always nice to know when you’re not the only one in the world who feels the way you do ❤ peace and love, K
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yes…always so nice to know we’re not the only ones. Thanks for the compliment! 🙂 And the peace and love, which I’m sending your way, too.
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