“All cleared out,” the nurse said. So be it, but that space is still sacred.
My friend Sharon from Austin has arrived and taken over Kelly’s shift, and she greets me with the same kindness and compassion as the day I arrived at her home ready to bury clothing that symbolized my aborted and miscarried babies. Today is also Sharon’s birthday, so our “happy birthdays” echo in the room.
“Let’s skip the party,” I tell my good friend. “It’s a lot more fun hanging out here with all the new mothers and babies!”
Sharon grimaces at my sarcasm and nods affectionately.
THE HOLE IN MY HEAD
1998 (age 45)—Houston, Texas
“What is it you most want to work on together?” Gene, my new therapist, puts the onus of our time spent in counseling sessions on me.
For the past seven years, when I tried to sort through my memories of abuse, I could barely function as a stepmother, a wife, or a teacher. I could not function as a human who needed to do laundry, start a grocery list, put together lesson plans, make sense of a teen son, or keep a marriage together. After four counselors, a couple of psychiatrists, two incest support groups, then five years without therapy, I’m finally back for help.
Gene is an Einstein look-alike, peering out over the top of silver-rimmed glasses, a mop of gray hair on top, and a bushy moustache hovering over his upper lip. His is a face that has worn many smiles. A tattered puppet hangs from the ceiling, a leg and an arm lifted higher, the character caught in motion. Already I sense a long, successful working relationship with this chap.
But where to start? My schedule has been relentless since moving to Houston. I have been traveling to and from the high school where I teach in west Houston and the university where I’m taking classes in east Houston, out the door by seven in the morning and often not home until close to midnight, four days a week. Some semesters, I’ve even had a Saturday class.
Just teaching is stressful enough. My students and their stories may be remarkable, but finding the time to really listen to them amidst a load of well over one hundred and fifty students a day has been impossible. I suggest to a friend and colleague—another friend named Sharon—that we each keep a journal about our teaching days and later exchange these with one another, reading about the other’s classroom dilemmas and responding in the journals. Our journals become a place to express and explore our concerns, and a way to listen to each other. After using what we soon call our “professional reflective journals” for a semester, I research the topic to see if this practice can empower one’s teaching and strengthen a teacher personally as well. I’ve kept personal journals for almost three decades, and I’m well aware how much the practice has helped me. Now if I can just show this in a master’s thesis.
In answer to Gene’s question about what I most want to work on, I tell him what keeps me up at night right now is how to communicate in a thesis what I’m gleaning from my research.
“Wonderful,” he answers without hesitation, standing up and dragging out an easel with a flip tablet on it. “That’s the perfect place to start. Let’s make a list of what you have learned.”
I’m in awe that this guy has an easel handy and appears so enthusiastic about my research and thesis. Immediately I feel okay with my previously questionable decision to see a male instead of a female therapist, even though Gene was highly recommended by a female colleague.
For the next six months I meet with Gene every other week, gaining an enormous amount of clarity about my work with teachers, students, and myself. He expertly puts a spin on everything with a witty sense of humor that helps me lighten up and see more clearly where I have been, while simultaneously prompting me to consider where I might want to go, both in my life and with my research. Personal exploration gradually mixes in with my professional exploration, thankfully with boxes of Kleenex thoughtfully positioned in and around the circle of four chairs in his office. Sometimes a quizzical-looking stuffed bear or two occupies these chairs, to whom Gene will direct a question or a comment during our individual session, transposing the experience into a delightful group therapy of sorts. Between the puppet hanging from the ceiling, the bears in the chairs, the handy easel full of our lists and ideas, and my Einstein-looking therapist, we kick butt on my thesis and lay safe routes for the professional therapy that will soon follow.
While conducting research using reflective journals with several groups of teachers, I remember how on escaping to college in 1970 I wrote in the front of a new leather journal how desperate I was to experience life fully. Now, almost three decades later, encouraged by Gene, I am learning to open up to that same courage in hopes of understanding more about my life, rather than just experiencing it. I begin to see how I flung myself into my twenties and on through my forties in a loose cannonball, reckless kind of way, almost an attempt at sexual suicide. Life slammed into me over and over, seemingly without my choice, although my lens now allows me to see how I colluded with destiny by ramming myself repeatedly into confusing experiences, all while trying to hit the G-spot of instantaneous self-comprehension and self-acceptance.
After my thesis is on a roll, Gene and I gradually broach my painful and confusing memories. With his guidance, I slowly begin to question why I never cried rape. As a girl-child, I didn’t know that word. Later, as a grown woman, I thought rape was only forced penetration of the vagina with the penis, rather than forcing someone into any type of sexual activity. What I am able to remember is how my dad and I masturbated together, although I did not know that word either at the time or understand what we were doing. “This is just a little something that helps us relax,” Dad told me.
As a child, I didn’t think there was anything I could do to change the way things were. Dad’s inappropriate yet seemingly affectionate touching confused rape with love, and what we did together often felt good, while at other times I would be afraid. My fear felt normal. I never knew if Daddy was going to be nice or mean. And it was in the aftermath, whenever he ignored me or acted like I had done something wrong, that I became most confused. As a little girl and later as a young woman, I worked hard at not feeling anything, at being numb. Shame, however, settled into the very core of my being.
Having memories surface and sorting through them over and over is almost as crazy-making as stuffing them down. Where do they bubble up from, and how can things from so long ago wreak such havoc in my brain, in my soul, in my spirit, and in my life? I ask Gene how I can ever trust such distant, painful memories to be true, especially after shutting them out for so long.
“Well, we won’t ever find the smoking gun,” he said, “but I can sure see the hole in your head.”
With Gene’s wise yet blunt guidance, and in the company of his tattered puppet and pensive bears, I slowly become less fearful about exploring that hole in my head. I begin to acknowledge the bewildered child, adolescent, then young woman who blundered her way into a tumultuous adulthood. At last, here at middle age, I am discovering that some of the best tools for survival are having the courage to be open to what I have lived, forgiving myself, and accepting that this work may take a lifetime.
ONCE IN A LIFETIME
1999 (age 46)—Houston, Texas
Beautiful slow-burning candles from Mexico flicker in the middle of the long tables that are draped in an elegant white cloth. Pears are arranged around the soft yellow candles. Sidney’s china, crystal, and silverware hold our meal and drink, with fine red wine from Austin friends Peggy and Ron filling our glasses. I hired a caterer and chef to prepare and serve this exquisite meal I am sharing with those who helped me on my journey to finally obtaining a master’s.
I wouldn’t have made it this far without my therapist, Gene. Sister Kitty is, of course, here—my strongest advocate, mentor, and dear friend. My medical doctor has also been a critical part of my team, and she is present. Even my hairdresser sits at the table, having allowed my tears through many a haircut, always listening with an open heart. Also here is my col
league Sharon, with whom I discovered how journaling about our teaching opened our eyes wider to what was going on in our classrooms, followed by our Professional Reflective Journaling workshops that we have taught and are still teaching to teachers throughout Houston Public Schools. Michael and Kelly are here, neighbors who love my dog Pookie like their own, and who have driven me to the emergency room when migraines felt fearfully debilitating; Lee, my attentive landlord for four years; and my sorely missed friend John’s former partner, Sidney—who includes me for dinners, the opera, swim parties, and special trips with a cadre of gay guys where I am known as “Girl.” From Austin came long-time friends Rusty—whom I met at freshman orientation at UT in 1970—and his wife, Cece. There is also Sharon from Austin, who allowed me to bury a dog and symbolically five babies in the yard of her home. Theresa also graces the table, the woman who graciously invited me to her ranch in far west Texas in 1994. My two older sisters, Pamela and Paula, have both traveled from north Texas to celebrate this graduation.
As I glance around the table from my seat on one side’s center, I peer into the faces of these miracle workers, all, and remember what happened at the beginning of this evening. In the weeks before this dinner, I wrote each guest a note, detailing how she or he helped me in this path I have been traveling. Picturing the person, I explained how my life has been enriched by what she or he has done for me. Then I placed these cards, with each person’s name on the envelope, around the table. When it came time to sit down, I watched as my guests took their seats, slipped their cards out of the envelopes, and began reading. This was a moment I had not fully anticipated. Looking around I saw tears, smiles, and nods, and I experienced the grace of everyone simultaneously taking in my words of gratitude and love. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming.
As our dinner is coming to an end, Gene suddenly stands and announces he would like to read a poem: “Life While You Wait” by Wislawa Szymborska. He reads like a theatrical pro, with expression and a twinkle in his eyes as he delivers lines that talk about life as “performance without rehearsal,” and how “I know nothing of the role I play. I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.” So, what to do but, “guess on the spot just what this play’s all about” and “improvise, although I loathe improvisation.” And the poem ends with, “Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere. And whatever I do will become forever what I’ve done.”13
I sit in awe of Wislawa’s words, and how Gene reads, and of how aptly the poem reflects my life. Well, Gene is my therapist after all, and he has certainly honed his perceptions of me. Gene leans over and gifts me with the book that he has inscribed with, “Patricia, On becoming a Master! May, 1999. Wislawa.”
I cast Gene a big, appreciative smile as the last line of the poem reverberates in my head: “And whatever I do will become forever what I’ve done.” Our work together as client and therapist has been monumental as I’ve completed my master’s studies, taught high school full time, navigated relationships after my second divorce five years prior, and slowly begun to look again at the abuse memories I had slammed back in the box. Sifting through those memories and trying to make sense and find meaning from them hasn’t gotten one bit easier. No wonder people continue to suppress abuse memories. Whether child, adolescent, teen, adult, or middle-ager, who can carry such stories openly and still function as a stable person in the world? I haven’t been able to do this. How can non-sequential memories—when considered from a distance of years, even decades—begin to make sense and offer meaning?
“And whatever I do will become forever what I’ve done.” I want what I do to last forever. I want to figure out what to do with my past and learn how to carry all of it forward in a healthy way, and hopefully without headaches that feel like they could kill me. I’m ready for the therapeutic work in the year to come that Gene and I will soon be doing together. He has patiently waited as I’ve completed my master’s, doing a little here and there around the sexual abuse, but mostly talking about my research, my intentions, my thesis, my efforts at balancing work and studies and life on top of the memories. I’m desperate to uncover integrity in my emotional life, something I haven’t been able to figure out how to do on my own. But clearly, the people here tonight are manifestations of my efforts to do so.
Now, as the dinner ends, I savor the voices and laughter filling my living room, emptied of everything but bookshelves so I could set up these tables. Glasses clink in the kitchen where dishes are being washed. Pookie walks around the table, her claws clicking on the wood floor as she sniffs for a crumb, occasionally scoring an ear rub. I notice the book Gene gifted me lying on the table and look up at his warm eyes as he talks with Sharon. This has been a once in a lifetime occasion, and one I will never forget. Suddenly a soft hand slips into mine. It is Sister Kitty’s, whom I placed next to me for the evening. She pulls me closer and I lean in, resting my weary head on her welcoming shoulder.
FIREFLY FIELDS
2000 (age 48)—Gainesville, Texas
My eyes scan the fields for my old beloved white lab, Pookie. She scoots under the pipe fencing and sniffs around amidst the grazing longhorns lolling about in these north Texas pastures. Amazingly, they pay her no heed, sensing that she is no threat. But I still get nervous, leery of these massive animals with their racks of horns and ability to move fast when they want to. Pook moves mighty slowly these days.
I need this dog. In the last ten years, she’s been by my side through my struggles as a stepmother, a move to Mississippi, a divorce, a move to Houston, the death of my dog Dancer, an emergency hysterectomy and recovery, four years of studying for my master’s while teaching full time, and now this move to the country. Stroking her velvety ears calms and centers me like nothing else. Even the longhorns seem calmer in her easy presence.
I am on sabbatical from my teaching position in the Houston Public Schools. What that means is that the principal from my last school is holding my job for me, wishing for me to return at the end of this year. I’m the one labeling it a sabbatical. I like the derivative of Sabbath in the word, which best explains what I’m doing during this time away: practicing a sort of Sabbath by stepping back from my life, tuning out the misery, and hopefully gaining some clarity. An undertow of anxiety and unhappiness has persisted that regularly pulls me under. Over the past years, the blame for this has shifted from Bill, to more nagging abuse memories, to challenging work, impossible schedules, and never enough money. I’m only two years away from turning fifty. Maybe, as I near the half-century mark, a closer look at my life will offer me a new perspective of my whirling dervish journey.
When I finished my master’s degree last year—hence boosting my teaching salary and ego—I still didn’t feel better. After graduation ceremonies, my friend Marnie flew me to Canada for a visit. One morning while dressing, I noticed a raging rash on my body, which soon spread symmetrically across my upper torso and looked like someone had thrown a pot of hot water on me. Calgary ER prescribed an antibiotic regimen for what they said looked like scalded skin syndrome, a possible delayed reaction to the huge amount of stress I had been under. This experience was on top of the excruciating migraines that have persisted and recurred monthly—sometimes weekly—now for almost twenty years. Clearly, it was time to get away. I arranged for a year off and got the heck outta town.
Next to the pasture where the longhorns loll is an old, empty trailer that is now my home. I sent out a letter to friends and family six months ago asking for help in finding a place where I could stay for little to no expense in the coming year. I chose this trailer that my sister Pamela found.
“It’ll work,” she promised. “Paula and I’ll clean it up. You’ll just have to pay for electricity and water, plus it has a wood stove. There is open country all around you.” She knows my love of nature and penchant for roaming and wandering outdoors.
Sight unseen, I showed up with a U-Haul and my dog. Now my rocker has a place on the front porch with one of Pook’s beds bes
ide it. Right away, I discovered the astounding light show in the evening and named these acres Firefly Fields.
Hopping off my one-speed after riding to Pamela’s one evening for a visit, I was alarmed to find a huge copperhead curled up on my back porch. I called a neighbor, Frankie, who seemed glad for an occasion to demonstrate his sure shot. It was big for a copperhead.
“Must be an old feller,” Frankie evaluated. “Probably been under this here trailer for a lotta years.”
I felt sorta bad thinking the snake had reigned under this vacant trailer for so long, and then Pook and I popped along declaring it our territory. But I couldn’t stand the thought of tripping over that humongous critter when stepping out to view the stars, or to take Pookie out for a pee before bed. What if she tried to nuzzle it?
But Frankie was probably right. Several nights later a bunch of growling and screeching woke me up. What the hell? Then the odor began wafting through the trailer. Great, I realized. I had seen possums slip under the trailer, and apparently skunks were competing for the space, too. That snake had probably held court down there for years, holding the skirmishes in check, and maybe the skunks at bay.
A single battle didn’t put one species in charge. After several nights of vicious growling and spraying, the entire trailer and everything in it wreaked of skunk, including me. Standing in line at the grocery store I noticed people turning and sniffing, not sure who or what smelled so strongly. I had to do something.
Good advice led me to borrow a live creature trap.
“Getcha a can of cat food and put it in thar and you’ll have ya a skunk in no time,” the feed store guy instructed.
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