THE HOUSE INSIDE ME

by Camelia Wheatley

  Something happened to her.

  Happened to me. Happened to us.

  Sometimes I feel as if she might unzip my flesh and step out, take charge, leave my unknown skin lying in the dirt, and disappear to live her own life, leaving me behind. I’m not sure what changed us, but I do know I should have never looked to my mother for my identity. Then and now. I feel like two personas. Two pieces of a whole and each of us were trying to find the pieces of ourselves and come together. Twins of myself, one wild, extra, rebellious, free-spirited and ready to conquer the world, and the other yearning, timid, anxious, overwhelmed and filled with such fear she felt completely alone. The extra little girl, split from herself and everyone around her. For reasons unknown to me, my mother feared a three-foot frame of pale needy skin, blonde hair, desirable blue eyes and a chatty mouth. Extra. Too much. The world was far too dangerous to host a tempest storm like me. My mother set out to stop it before it ruined me, ruined her. I’d see those twins of myself, occasionally, when I would look into my mother’s blue eyes, a reflection of the duplicity setting fear in her bones and poisoning my will to hope, to dream, and to love myself. It was clear to me now that whatever damage my mother carried under her skin, had long ago seeped beneath mine.

  By this time, the memories, my mother, the ghost girls and every other severe crack in my brain I don’t remember had me under siege. Tears puddled from my eyes, “Don’t do it. Do not cry. Do not let her break you. You know how your mother is. It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t have called. Now gird up girl. Get some grits about you. You are strong seed” I say to myself, for myself, of myself, in myself. “You are sap by God! You adapt. You survive. You thrive!”

  With everything the broken child, the broken adult, the broken woman in me could muster, I composed myself. I put on my mask. I took a deep breath. In a trance of Southern etiquette and grown-up protocol, I got up from the bed I made and began to live the lie. I walked to the kitchen of my identity and opened the cabinet beneath the spice rack and took out the brand-new aluminum pan my mother gave me and Sam as a wedding gift. I held it in front of my face and saw my mother’s stone reflection in the pewter.

  “That’s it, Cass. A good Southern girl. It’s our duty to make them happy. Women can’t be alone. We need our men too much. It’s not about love, honey. It’s just the way it is. Now get along with your business. Make them happy. Do what you’ve got to do, dear.”

  My eyes catatonic, unblinking and hot, I slammed the pan on the burner, turned the dial and watched the blue flicker of flames leap and dance and burn my life away. I cooked. I cleaned. I gave my body. I gave my sex and my soul. I performed my duty.

  I made the bed. I lived the lie.

  NEWS YOU CAN USE

  BY EDNA ROLLINS

  June 25, 1988

  THE BEST NEWS THIS SIDE OF SALT FLATS RIVER

  The annual 4th of July celebration in Pine Log will be held at the Taylor Martin Zoo as it is every year since the first wall went up in 1952 when the first animal was donated.

  Sloan, the infamous hippopotamus, has entertained the masses of children and adults for years. Sloan quickly became the locals’ favorite zoo animal, but many do not know the details behind the thick-skinned, toothy animal and the stories that ran rampant around town before the zoo was ever constructed. After all, when you receive a gift like a hippopotamus, rumors are bound to float. Today, some thirty years later, questions remain. Legend has it that Mr. Martin received the hippo as a gift for his birthday in 1951 after a hunting trip to Africa, yet no one can say who gave it or where it came from. Speculation abounds and of course, a lot of questions were raised, such as, who gives wild animals for gifts, a hippo at that, which weighs over 4000 pounds and is nearly impossible to hide, not to mention the transportation to get here from overseas.

  Which brings us to our next question: does the hippo have a deeper meaning, possibly with family ties? Local residents have asked these questions and more for ages. In a small town of twenty-thousand, it’s hard to hide an animal as big as a hippo. People caught glimpses of a large truck with a huge crate making stops in town, where strange sounds were heard coming from it. Then country folks started saying they had spotted an unusual beast outside a farm on the outskirts of town, but it wasn’t till hunters started tracing the pine woods to scout this creature that they found him floating in the Southerbees’ old fishpond. It was private property so they couldn’t get close, but they did snap pictures of it, and a few folks saw it, until “highfalutin” gatekeepers and a wad of cash mysteriously made the picture vanish. But by this time, the rumors around town of a hippo in hiding became commonplace. It wasn’t till the official ribbon-cutting ceremony of the zoo’s opening that the hippo was presented to the community zoo. The town went crazy with delight and children wanted to visit the zoo almost every weekend to see this huge creature. Of course, accusations, table talk, laundry line chat and a whole slew of questions still reverberate through Pine Log, even today.

  You see, before the zoo opened, committee members were sworn to secrecy, but why? Is there something more going on behind the scenes? What is more astonishing about this legend is the other aspects of the story. At the time, Mr. Martin was a widower, having lost his wife to illness three years prior. The housekeeper Eloise, an unmarried black woman from Mississippi, had worked for the family for fifteen years, but disappeared a year after the wife died, and then reappeared with a child. A child named Sloan. Coincidence? Happenstance? Whatever it was between the hippo, the zoo and the wild accusations around town, it was too much for Mr. Martin’s housekeeper. Within a few months, they were gone and never heard from again. Mr. Martin lived till 1978 and saw his dream fulfilled of his beloved zoo become a place of wonder and amusement for children and adults alike. It housed over 800 animals from all over the globe, but Sloan remained the most popular of them all. Sloan lived to an old age and probably would have outlived us all, had it not been for some brat throwing a ball into the pool. Sloan swallowed it unaware, which caused intestinal blockage upon which they were unable to save her. As you can see, this town has a lot of unanswered questions to fill in and that’s why I come to you, residents of Pine Log. Can you fill in the blanks? What other legends of Pine Log do you have to share that may help? Give Edna a holler and we’ll get to the bottom of it.

  Until next time, I’ll see you at the 4th of July festival. In addition, it has recently been suggested that the city move or discontinue the annual fireworks exhibit at the zoo, due to the undue stress it causes the animals. Unlike humans, animal ears are more sensitive. Just imagine if your hearing was intensified 300 percent and fireworks were exploding all around you? That’s how the animals feel. According to sources, protesters will be out and about with petitions to sign, as well as suggestions for a new location. Have a safe and happy 4th of July. Until next time, tune into KTBR local Radio news station 109.9. I’m Edna Rollins and that’s news you can use.

  6

  Rose Petals and Rusty Nails

  Optimism is the madness of insisting

  that all is well when we are miserable.

  ~Voltaire

  I think of Maw Sue a lot lately since my breakdown. In my mind, my dreams, day and night, she’s present and available, just like she was in my childhood. A ghost memory, but real, just the same, as if I traveled back in time, seeing her in full form, her wrinkled face, her raspy voice, her vintage aprons. I swear I can smell her reeking powder perfume of roses and strange herbs. It evokes a fear and a fondness in me. I was always mesmerized by her small but effectual presence. Her pale gray eyes staring into the distance void, a place of unknowns, intently driven by some never-ending storm hidden behind a pair of white, horn-rimmed glasses with three tiny diamonds at each point. I used to wonder if those diamonds had grown sharp points while she dozed off in her rocking chair, piercing her skull and clawing at her mind and causing her to lose her grip on reality. I wondered if it was happening to me, not with eyeglasses, but with skeletons and
graveyards and motherly rejections. I wondered how much I should share with Doc, and how much to keep to myself. Castle Pines scared me. As it should. I pondered these things and began to pity myself for having to bear such an awful mind curse. And then I remember what Maw Sue always said when I’d question her as a kid. I hated bearing this bloodline gift and referred to it as a curse, which she agreed somewhat, but she’d always flip it on me. You don't get to choose your gifts, Cassidy, or your curses, she’d say matter of fact. You only get to decide how you'll live with them. I’d snip and snarl and look away when she’d say that. I couldn’t live with it then—and I don’t know how to live with it now.

  “Hello, Pearl,” I said cheerfully, plopping down on the lobby couch. I had a lighter in my hand and playfully flicked the flames a few times.

  “Doctor Telford will see you now,” Pearl said as rigid as a claw hammer.

  “Great talk, Pearl.” I flicked the lighter and raised my eyebrows a couple of times and scooted down the hallway backwards. Pearl’s coffee table personality about did me in and I was determined to get a word out of her someway, somehow.

  “Hi Cass. How are you today?” Doc said setting the timer on her desk.

  I closed the door behind me, “Fine, Doc, just chatting with Pearl.”

  “Really? That’s odd. Pearl rarely talks to anyone…even me.”

  “What can I say…people are drawn to my natural charm.”

  She smiled. “Well, we have a lot to cover today. Let’s see…I spoke to you on the phone last week because you no-showed, so let’s talk about that.”

  “I know, Doc. I know. I’m sorry. The memories made me a little on edge. I lost it a few times, I missed work too. I don’t know what’s happening to me on a daily basis. It’s like I don’t know who I’m going to be when I wake up. It’s weird. The memories are random, sporadic, out of nowhere. I feel like a ticking time bomb of emotions, a ball of energy and I don’t know what is going to come out. I’m losing it. I’m sorry for calling you…a thousand times. You’re the only one I can talk to about this stuff.” I felt helpless as if I was in quicksand trying to explain this to Doc. “It’s like I’m lost, literally lost and all I do is overthink. And feel. Oh my God! I FEEL this wad of crap that is too much. It makes every bone inside me hurt and I feel as if I could do anything to make it stop, so instead, I end up calling you. I’m sorry.”

  “Feeling emotional pain does cause physical pain, Cass. But not feeling is even more dangerous. Think about it. People who are alive, feel. They feel pain and joy, laughter and crying. It’s a pendulum. You have to learn to keep the balance in the middle. But in your case, you’re panicking because you don’t know how to process the pain.”

  “I’d rather be dangerous and feel no pain.”

  “No. You wouldn’t.” Doc said nodding sternly. “You’re feeling repressed pain. That’s why it feels like you’re being violated. Invaded by emotional ghosts of your past. The pain you are feeling now—is pain from your past, that wasn’t dealt with. It wasn’t felt back then. It wasn’t allowed a release, to grieve and flow, cry or mourn, get angry or sad. People who do not feel their emotions, clam them up. Put them away. Deny them. This can cause you to repress your memories, and the feelings that come with the memory. But your mind and your body know it’s still there, it’s basically unfinished business. It doesn’t matter if it was twenty years ago. Unfinished business always returns. Usually in dangerous and destructive ways, alcohol, drugs, substance abuse…pick your poison.”

  “Fires,” I said with a shrug.

  “Yes, possibly fires. I know you’re being sarcastic but that is a form of acting out, a destructive way and since you brought it up, it is possible there are some repressed memories, and past feelings emerging possibly triggered by your ex-husband betraying you? I’m simply putting feelers out since we don’t know yet but the point is, whatever feelings you are dealing with now, have to be examined, talked about, and dealt with, allowing you to move on. For instance, last week, the two times I did talk to you on the phone you were out of control. You wouldn’t tell me why, and I can’t help you if I don’t know what makes you react, or what makes you have the feelings you are having. So, do you want to talk about what happened last week?”

  I sat on the couch and stewed inside myself. Doc was right. I was out of control. Two weeks ago, I left my her office without memories and then all of a sudden, memory overload. The feelings attached to the memories controlled me. I called in sick at work, and then called Doc’s office over and over again. I drove Pearl crazy, it’s no wonder she hates me. I couldn’t feel what I needed to feel, so I fell apart. I lost myself. I tested Doc’s limits as a psychiatrist. I came to co-depend on her. I pushed her buttons to the extreme. In reality, I drove my therapist crazy with my crazy. My broke set its sights on breaking her. After all, it was in my nature to break things. Make beds. Live lies. When the memories came of my childhood, Maw Sue and my mother, I basically fell apart. All I could do was think of Sam, what he did to me, and why. The two times I called Doc on the phone it was all about him. It just spiraled out of control. I wanted today to be different so I let go. Right on the couch in Doc’s office, I broke. I allowed myself to crumble. The House of Seven inside shook on its foundation.

  “Cass. It’s fine. This is good. Feel the pain. Let it flow. It’s okay to get it out. Let it come, but don’t let it take you under.” Doc could tell I was spiraling into a downward siege of panic. “You have the power, you are in control of your mind, no suppression, just feel it and let it go. You are in charge. It’s okay. Your feelings are a part of you, but they don’t own you. You are in control. Let it go.”

  Doc talked and consoled me but I was in my own bubble of pent-up pain. This menacing, demonic, subliminal, unjointed burst of emotional refuse sprung from the deepest of the deepest places inside me. Pain of being alone. Pain of coming to know myself, all of me, good, bad and ugly. The divorce, the rejection, the unmet desires, the anger, all of it exploded into the cathedral of Doc’s office. The whiteness of the walls and the blurriness of my vision through a flood of tears reminded me of the skeleton bones. With each word parting my lips, I imagined it being branded on the walls until it felt as if we were sitting inside a book of my life. I released the memories of Maw Sue. I held back the other ones, the little girls, and anything regarding my mother.

  In the days following my session, I freaked out again. Turns out I’m a hard learner. Without Doc physically there to tell me—remind me—teach me—I drifted in a galaxy of meltdowns. I’d find myself calling her office. If she didn’t answer the phone or I got her recorder, I would leave a gazillion messages. “Doc. I’m crashing and burning. Please call me back,” or “I can’t sleep. I’m losing it again. I don’t know what to do. These goddamned feelings are tormenting me. I can’t do this. I’m not coming back. To hell with therapy.” I’d slam the receiver down and then five minutes later, call back pleading for help.

  My next appointment I learned why. I was co-dependent. Somewhere starting in childhood, I latched on to people as if I needed their oxygen to breathe. As an adult, Doc was one more hose to drain. My need to control people and things was necessary for my survival. I was also a reactor. My life had been so chaotic for so long—control was my only vice to maintain some semblance of peace. I didn’t know I had no control over my circumstances. I didn’t know there was a solution. I became a leech, trying to control my own doctor as if she revolved in my world. I needed her planet in line, so I could function, turn, face the moon, rotate, align the stars, feel the sunshine, coat the darkness. Doc believed it may stem from the emptiness the divorce created. Even drab Pearl was annoyed at me. Whenever I entered the lobby, her coffee-table personality gave me the side-eye glance and then cut all contact. She’d heard my voice messages by now. All twenty-two of them.

  Looking at it now, days later, it was a tad overreactive, but in the moment, it was all I knew. Inside me was a world of its own making. Some dark apprentice lived
inside the house of seven within me, pushing buttons, turning knobs, whispering, talking, telling, and demanding. Doc began to teach me why. It has to do with family origins, roots and the root extensions. I learned about myself in the process, information I didn’t like. Turns out I was controlling, manipulative and angry. I was bored, empty and undefined. I yearned desperately for love, yet I pushed people away. I sabotaged good. I gave and gave and gave until I was depleted but could not receive from others. I accepted bad treatment as if I deserved it. I provoked. I blamed. I felt shame and guilt. I felt condemned. Learning all this put me into a state of denial. One to be expected. All I could think of was Sam. I blamed him. He was the reason for all my pain. Him, I screamed. Him. Then I’d reverse and blame myself. I must have done something wrong. I was the reason he cheated, lied, rejected me. Then came the loathing, self-doubt, criticism, guilt. Then it would flip-flop. Eyes off me and back on Sam. I’d hate and blame him again, then myself, then my family, then Sam, then everyone was a target. I was a total mess.

  In the days and weeks following the next two appointments, my life unraveled. The pendelum swung side to side. I couldn’t get things done. I had no energy or too much energy. I couldn’t get out of bed and other times I paced like a trapped wild animal. I had fits of rage and hostile tantrums. I denied the feelings bubbling out of me. I pretended it wasn’t real. It didn’t happen. Not to me, I said. Not Cassidy Cleo Collard. Nope. Not me. But deep inside me, inside the House of Seven a little girl wept with muted lips, trapped and held captive beneath my skin, a shield for her protection. Our protection. I knew she was there inside me. I’ve always known. She wants to talk things out, but her words are painful and too horrible to mention, so I keep her silenced in a room inside the house inside me. I never had to mention her to Doc—because she already knew. Doc said everyone has an inner child inside them they either accept or deny. I had yet to tell her about Maw Sue and the House of Seven or the little girls and the skeletons. That might be information that would send me straight to Castle Pines. Plus, I didn’t want to scare away my only chance at healing and wholeness. The little girl, the inner child Doc talked so much about never let up. I felt the air leave her lips and sweep through my inner ribcage like sorrow and regret. Her fingertips were pokes and prods, her movements undoing me, the twists and turns, and her voice like a thousand crickets chirping rendering my eardrums numb. Her cries, her desperate pleas. Her balled-up fists beat against the wall of my heart causing me to clutch my chest in pain, but I could not answer her. I could not let her out. I could not let her speak. To accept her means I have to accept what happened to her. And that I cannot do. Not now. Not ever.