THE HOUSE INSIDE ME

by Camelia Wheatley

  I paused and took a deep breath. I had been rambling so much I lost track of time and place, but there was still one pertinent question on my mind.

  “So, am I going to jail? Since I’ve confessed to arson?”

  Doc sat her pen down and leaned forward on her elbows. She had a quirky edge to her smile that sent mixed signals. I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.

  “First of all. Bravo. I’m so happy your memory came back, along with the others. It does seem to fall in line with everything else we’ve spoken about. It actually makes a lot of sense. But we’ll talk about that at the next session. Now to answer your question.” She pursed her lips and stretched back against her chair. I was about to die of curiosity. I could see myself in an orange jumpsuit along the side of the highway picking up trash while Sam and his girlfriend drove by laughing.

  “Cass. You will not believe what I am fixing to tell you. Brace yourself.”

  My eyes rolled back in my head and I slumped on the sofa in preparation for the worst.

  “You are not going to jail. Nor are you going to Castle Pines. I wasn’t going to tell you until the last month of therapy because I didn’t want it to affect your growth, but I think today is as good a day as ever. The charges were dropped.”

  “WHAT?” I said, lurching forward on the couch. “All of them? Just dropped? How does that work, what happened?”

  “Yes. All of them. There is one catch and it’s teeny, but get this. Interestingly enough, Cynthia Stubblefield, the girlfriend, found out the hard way about Sam and his cheating ways, just like you did. I’m unaware of the details, but apparently it wasn’t good, and she sent him packing. She sent word from her attorney last month that she was dropping all charges. Sam could still file charges since it was his stuff you burned, but it’s highly likely he won’t. He’s moved on to some other poor soul.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” I started laughing. And then I couldn’t stop. It was so hard it was one of those rolling over kind of belly laughs. “That is some karma shit right there.” I laugh-snorted, which made Doc and I both laugh even harder. Once we were finished Doc composed herself and I caught air and sighed a very long gust of relief.

  “Wait,” I said, remembering, “What’s the catch?”

  “Well, apparently the neighbors were upset about their flowers being burned, so Cynthia had one stipulation for you to uphold. You have to donate at least one hundred dollars to the local Flower Pot Committee every month for one year to restore and fund the community gardens.”

  “DONE!” I said, smiling.

  “Good. I will let them know. Now, Cass, are you ready to hear my evaluation of you? This is the last process of therapy, when I let you out into the world to live with what I’ve taught you and what you’ve learned about yourself. No late-night phone calls in panic. And Lord, Pearl will be happy with that part of it,”

  “I’m all ears,” I said, knowing it could be good or bad but no matter, I was ready to hear it.

  “So, in my field of work I see a lot of people. Different problems, different patterns of growth, things of this matter, but in all cases, despite their psychological issues, there are other reasons. Humans are flawed. Everyone has faults but as humans, it bothers us to be flawed, imperfect, or different. We may not admit it, but it’s true. We mold ourselves from others and have this ideal in our heads we have to be perfect. But we are not. The fact is we can and will sink so morbidly into sin and despair, at a second’s glance, it renders us incapacitated at times. We live our lives practicing perfectionism, always attempting to live up to some expectation in our heads, and not only ourselves, but we expect it from other people. They should be like us, we think. It is very easy to get lost in this world and it comes from losing our core identity, losing our true selves. Plus, you add burdens and addictions and trauma to the mix, and then you add other people’s problems, sins and mental incapacities. It can and it will affect us. Their lies. Their truths, their lifestyles and belief systems. All of it forms our journey. Our perceptions of who we are and what we can become. When we’re little, and I’m referring to the child in us, we’re still trying to find our place, and most often we put the people we love up high on a pedestal. I call it the throne cycle. We place people on a throne to look up to for a model of perfection, for how to do it right, how to make life better, more convenient, less painful, but they are human, like us, and when they fail, or fall from their throne, which they will, it’s devastating to us because we set expectations. We expect more from them, so we can be more. If they succeed then we have a chance, but it they fail—then we fail. In the throne cycle we set people up so they can never, ever fail. Not in our eyes, anyway. The truth is, we all fail one way or another. Big and small. Even Maw Sue taught you the concept. With every story she told, she put into you something she lacked inside herself. Thus, enabling you to do better than her. We all do this. Maybe it was something she had failed at—but instead she wanted to make it right for you. She instilled those stories of magic and hope into you, so you could choose better.”

  Row after row of goose pimples shot up my arms. The air around me grew cloudy and mysterious, otherworldly. I smelled lemons and a fire, felt a charge in the air around me, and could hear a crackle of flames. In my mind, I could see the colorful shadows from the mirror bin dancing on the walls in and out from the bookshelves and emerging from Doc’s paintings. It was the Petal People. The shadows had always been the Petal People. People who have gone before me, passed on to the otherworld. People I recognize and others only from old pictures. My mind was a foggy enchantment as I listened to Doc speak.

  “Cass, in psychotherapy, the expression 'feet of clay' doesn’t refer to character defects or weakness, but actually the understanding we can and will screw up our lives. Sometimes by our own actions, and sometimes by others. It’s basically a failure clause in our DNA. It’s going to happen. More so, when other people fail us, we are disappointed. Or sad. Or rejected. We may have greatly admired or looked up to this person for protection or safety. Children need substance, a nurturing form of identity, a bonding needed to grow. We turn our parental figures into gods and demand things from them, without ever knowing their own journeys. We demand the broken cup with the crack in it hold the water for our thirst, when it just can’t. It’s not possible. A cup with a hole will leak. And it leaks on anyone close. We expect perfection from a broken mold. It’s a survival method we adopt as children, clinging to the ones who mean the most. Our fathers and mothers are mere mortals—a man, a woman with just as many faults and shortcomings as ourselves and others. All of us are capable of making grave mistakes. We have the ability to hurt others, terribly and painfully, sometimes to the point of death. The denial till death metaphor applies here. Putting people on a throne only to be knocked off is painful and misinterpreted. In order to cope with the failure and the loss of what we thought was reality—it can clearly be misplaced. Misdirected. Mistook. Altered perceptions. We see what we want to see. We do it as protection for ourselves. In addition, we might blame ourselves. We turn to drugs, alcohol or choose to self-medicate—pick your poison. Every single one of us has clay feet.” Doc leaned over and sat my thick protruding file on the desk next to the bell. I was lost in the moment soaking up her words, line by line, item by item.

  “In your case, Cass, it was misdirection. Especially your mother. It is highly possible it happened with her mother as well. A passed-on trait of nothing but pure survival. You did what you had to do. So did your mother. You both held secrets inside, and the unknowing of them tied you together in destructive ways. The expectations you had of her growing up were unrealistic to her because she could not give what she didn’t experience or know how to give. Now you know why and it makes sense to you. When before it didn’t. You blamed and now you have compassion. You blamed yourself as well, and now you know it wasn’t you at all. It was her past, her upbringing, her fear of abandonment, her being the sole provider and caretaker of her younger sister, along w
ith other issues. Her throne cycles. It’s generational, yes, but it doesn’t have to end in repeat patterns. I’m actually thankful your mother was brave enough to tell your sister, or this mystery would continue to be hidden and we’d never have known. When your mother spoke it out loud, it became real to her, this thing she denied for years finally spoken, made real. She broke the denial by death cycle. Sometimes sharing it with one person is all it takes. Healing might begin. Now, whether or not you speak to your mother about it is up to you. But you do need to know people who are traumatized this deeply and for this long, cannot mend instantly by a few talks. It also may damage the relationship more so. I know you don’t have much of a relationship with your mother, but now at least you know why she is the way she is. Healing and confronting our past take time, lots of patience, therapy and work. You take care of yourself and leave others to do the same. Your mother may not be capable. Again—perceptions. Expectations. Different generation. Her life is her own to heal or to keep or to destroy. You can forgive your mother and most of all, forgive yourself.”

  Doc’s words were heavy and heartfelt. I sank inside the house of seven with the little girl, the inner child. We simmered over the words, the meaning, and the message.

  “When we realize the humanity of our own dethroned substance, and we all have feet of clay—we don’t have to be perfect—we can be ourselves. I can be me. You can be you. Cass with clay feet. Cass with clusters. It’s what makes us human. It’s what makes us unique and gifted. We’re authentic. We’re real. And when we’re real—we allow others to be real too.”

  I was spellbound. Dots connected inside me. I lost myself for a second as if I didn’t know where I was. A place of darkness and light. They stood in front of me at a distance. I saw an assortment of shadowy Petal People. I recognized them as my ancestors. Standing in the middle with a crooked smile and holding a Mason jar full of roses was Maw Sue. Mama C and Papa C were there too. Starbuck Adams, Maw Sue’s lifetime love, was there as well. Standing in front of them, twin boys, and twin girls, and the seven sisters, lined up one through seven, and beside them their parents, Brue and Simon and others I didn’t recognize, only through old family photos. Above them, flying in silence was a large barn owl with encrusted clay feet and glowing eyes of inner light. When I came back to myself, Doc began to speak again.

  “You’ve grown so much, Cass. I am proud of who you are, who you’ve become, who you’ve always been. The child, the adult, the woman. If Maw Sue were here, I think she’d say you were as close to seven as you’ve ever been. Think about it. You have a belief in yourself, your true self. You only have a month and two weeks to go, and I know you’ll do just fine out in the world. You only have to check in with me every three months for medications.”

  Doc was right. For the first time, I believed it. Me. All of me. I could channel the darkness to the blue line. The black angels would have a place to rest. A center. A belonging. Blue lines and black angels were part of me, who I was yesterday, who I am today, and who I will become tomorrow. The words on the blue line give meaning to my world, they shape my reality, my internal makeup, the shell of me, inward and outward, my perceptions of my past, my present and my future. Even the Petal People have their place. Long ago, their whispers drove me mad, but now they find a place on the blue line, in stories and books, and journals and inside my Mason jar. Writing is my purpose borne out of pain and suffering. A necessary pain of growth and enlightenment. It is my gift and my curse. The word skeletons I buried in the hushed cemetery as a child were resurrected and brought to life on the blue line of my journal. They are at rest now. I know my gift has the power to lift me like an owl with clay feet or plunder me in darkness with my black angels, but either way, I transform and channel it into creativity.

  I think of Maw Sue’s life and how much she struggled with the madness, the gifts, and the curses. It’s a shame she didn’t have a Doc in her life to help her through it. Regardless of her difficulties, Maw Sue managed to work a magic in Meg and me. She put in us what she could not keep for herself. I got teary eyed when I realized the magnitude of what she had actually done. It’s what she said all along. Four words. Make lovely your losses. Maw Sue made lovely her losses through stories and magic and belief in the unbelievable. If she had not the courage to do what she did, all those years, even in her own mind sufferings, I would have surely been a statistic. A denial through death statistic.

  It was emotional leaving Doc’s office knowing that my journey with her was ending, but not forever, at least. I’d see her for an hour every three months, but after sharing this journey with her this past year, it seemed strange to part ways and begin my new journey. At least now, I know who I am and that I am never alone.

  I checked out at the counter like I normally did. Pearl fidgeted with paperwork behind the desk and was taking longer than normal, so I glanced around the room to take it all in.

  “I have information I think you’ll find interesting,” she said in a half-whisper.

  I turned to face Pearl, almost in shock that she spoke. “What?” Pearl pushed her glasses upwards and rubbed her nose.

  “I said I have information for you.”

  “Did my insurance reject the claim? What is it?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “Well, what is it? Wait a minute, Pearl, I’m just thrilled that you’re talking to me. I was a little mean to you at first. I’m sorry. I apologize for that. I was different then. I’m better now. Ask Doc.”

  “I don’t care about that, Cass, I’m talking about something important.”

  “Oh,” I said a little taken aback by Pearl’s backbone.

  “Edna Rollins. I have information about Edna Rollins.”

  I stared at her blankly. “I’m sorry. I’m just shocked you’re suddenly so talkative, to me. I’ve been coming here almost a year and you barely said a peep. Now you say you have information about Edna Rollins, of ALL people. Why in the world would I—the woman she has made the main topic of her gossip column—want ANY information about Edna Rollins? She’s a terrible blabbermouth busybody. She talked about me, my great-grandmother, and damn near everybody in town. That woman needs to get a life. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about that cottonmouth.”

  “Uhhh, yeah,” Pearl said, shrugging. “Okay. I know. I know I don’t talk. Sorry, I’m kind of socially awkward. My boyfriend says I should really start getting out more, but ehhh…people.” She pushed her thick glasses upwards and twisted her lips.

  “I know you don’t like Edna, nobody does. But my boyfriend works for her, or rather he’s kind of like family. Her godson.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me happy? How, exactly?”

  She bent her face down low into the counter as if no one was supposed to hear her.

  “Okay, okay. George has worked for Edna for years, and he edits her columns, and then copy prints them on the old news printer that was supposedly her father’s, who was also a journalist. Anyway, George sees a lot too. And hears a lot, plus he reads her letters.”

  “Spit. It. Out. Pearl, for God’s sake. Are you going to tell me a story about Edna? I still don’t understand, what does this have to do with me?”

  “Edna’s a scam. Everything she writes about other people doing, is exactly what she has been doing for years. George found letters, lots of letters, and he has downtime a lot, so he reads them, and they are steamy, and supposedly from one of the Moon Wanderers that Edna took up with back in the ’70s. Plus, there’s a particular letter that details the events that happened when Edna went to one of their camp gatherings in California on vacation, which no one knew about. George saw pictures back in the day of Edna drinking, dancing, flowers in her hair, half-naked, even smoking, plus she had relations with a tribe member named Hadnot which apparently has been going on for sixteen years or so. They talk on the phone regularly, and she travels to other towns to attend gatherings with him every year. George wants to flip the tables on her. He wants to re-write an art
icle and expose her for who she really is. She’d never know what hit her until it was too late.”

  The more I heard from Pearl’s lips, the more steam heated up inside me. The gall of that woman to carry on like some high and mighty savior talking and spreading everyone’ else’s business and lies, and yet she carries on like some scandalous tramp undercover.

  “It sounds like a great idea, Pearl. I’m all in. What do I have to do?” I said with pure satisfaction.

  “Nothing. You don’t have to do a thing. George wants to do it. He’s been looking for a way out of that job for years, but he’s tied by family. He wants to go to college and she keeps saying she’ll let him go, but she hasn’t. George’s mother won’t let him quit because of some old family squabble that Edna hogtied them into, so George feels like her servant mostly. He just wants out and saw this as an opportunity. She’ll be so mad, she’ll fire him and run him so far out of town, he’ll finally get to do what he wants. I just thought you’d want to know who she really is. Since, you know, she wrote stuff about you and all. And it might not change what she’s already wrote, but she’ll get what’s coming to her. When George finishes writing up an article on Edna, and prints it, instead of what she wants to print, by the time she finds out, it will be too late. It will be distributed all over town. George knows what he’s doing. He’s smart.”

  “Well look at you, Pearl,” I said, kind of proud and not knowing why. I had misjudged this little under-the-table firecracker. Pearl had some gumption to her after all. And George sounded like a prize. This was just too good to be true.