Life in general seemed to be going great for me. I was doing well with my Commercial major in high school, had won a small prize in a poetry contest held by the Home’s chaplain, as well as winning the Prince of Peace Declamation Contest. I was on the Home Review staff, was selected to be Class Prophet for the senior yearbook, and was a member of the Student Council, the American Legion’s Junior Auxiliary, and the Girls Athletic Association. Even more gratifying, I no longer had a housemother constantly harassing and belittling me.
It seemed like life couldn’t get better, until one day, one of the senior girls came home to Hayes Hall and told me that Miss Redway had died. I laughed out loud and said, “Good, it’s about time.” I naturally assumed it was just a joke, because most of the girls knew how much I had hated her.
But it wasn’t a joke. Miss Redway had died in her sleep. It was one thing to wish her dead, to dream about it, picture it, and picture myself causing it, but the reality—that she had actually died very suddenly and without any prior illness—came as a terrible shock.
It was completely unreal to me, and I sat on my bed for a long time trying to come to terms with the reality that Miss Redway was dead. I tried to ignore the nagging thoughts that pecked at my brain. Was I somehow responsible for her death?
All introspection fled when I was told that all the former and current girls of Cottage 15 would have to attend her funeral. None of us wanted to go. We had hated her in life, and it seemed awfully phony to go to her funeral. But we had no choice, since we were ordered to go.
Iris Jean, Berdene, and I sat together in the funeral parlor after we had solemnly paid our respects at the casket, noting that Miss Redway looked more relaxed than she ever had in life. The embalmer had even managed to soften her expression and her lips, which had always been tightly pursed when she was alive.
Although we had been forced to attend, we were all determined to be properly respectful and subdued if nothing else. After everyone had viewed the body and perhaps said a prayer, the congregation sat down and waited for the eulogy.
The Home’s minister, who hadn’t really known Miss Redway, took his place behind the speaker’s stand and started talking about how we were there to say goodbye to Miss Redway, who had been the housemother of Cottage Fifteen for many years. Iris Jean, Berdene, and I listened intently as the minister recited facts about Miss Redway’s life. As he continued talking, we looked at each other in disbelief. I don’t know if someone from the Home staff had given the minister false information or if he had just assumed what he was saying was true. He stated that not only had Miss Redway been an excellent housemother, but that she had indeed been a true mother to the many children fortunate enough to have been placed in her care.
As the minister spoke of Miss Redway’s virtues and how she had been loved by those in her care, some of the girls who had clearly hated our housemother as much as we had started to sob. The false emotion and sentiments on display made the whole scene look like a weird comedy to me.
Iris Jean, Berdene, and I bowed our heads so that no one could read our expressions. We tried to keep our faces neutral and attentive, but finally, the incongruous scene was too much for us and we began to laugh. We stuffed our handkerchiefs into our mouths to muffle the sounds and kept our heads low, hoping our shaking shoulders would be interpreted as sobs.
Although the girls near us were aware that we had been laughing, no one else seemed to have noticed, since we weren’t criticized afterwards, and there were no repercussions.
As I lay in bed that night, I brooded over the fact that I had actually laughed at someone’s funeral. I couldn’t believe that I actually had done it. It seemed like the worst kind of blasphemy, like some kind of mortal sin. Deeply ashamed of my actions, I asked God to forgive me, thinking that even Miss Redway deserved better treatment in death, in spite of her many faults.
I couldn’t sleep. I felt responsible for Miss Redway’s death because of the intensity of my hatred for her and the way that hate had dominated my thoughts for so many nights at Cottage Fifteen. I had frightened her with my exaggerated performance with the scissors and shocked her with my Declaration of Independence and the way I had brazenly presented it to her. I condemned myself for joining in the laughter when Miss Redway came out of her room in her flimsy nightgown, and for participating in the raid of her private room. I felt that we, and especially I, had broken Miss Redway’s spirit, and that might have been what killed her.
It was difficult believing Miss Redway was really gone. I suppose I thought the two of us would be locked in some kind of hate tug-of-war forever. Now that she wasn’t on the other end of the rope, I felt thrown off balance.
When I finally went to sleep, I dreamed about Miss Redway dressed as a nun. Then different faces of nuns from my childhood began to merge into her face and then back until I wasn’t sure who I was looking at. I woke up shaking and drenched in sweat. The Dean of Girls’ summation, “You had an unhappy childhood,” kept running through my head.
Had I felt free to hate Miss Redway because she wasn’t a representative of God and the Catholic Church, as the nuns had claimed to be? Both she and they had made every attempt to destroy my self-esteem and confidence. I thought of the SVO dining room nun who had been so vicious to me and my family and seemed to take pleasure in stripping every shred of pride from me and my siblings.
I thought of all the nuns who had made my childhood so desolate: the dormitory nun who had asked me why God had made me so ugly, as though such a question couldn’t possibly hurt a young girl; the nun who worked me so hard in the Halls unit until even she was able to recognize her cruelty; the ones who had ridiculed and used their perfected talent for sarcasm against me, although I was only a child; and the ones who had beaten me at the slightest provocation. I felt my anger rising and the tears spilling on my pillow as I recalled the nun who had forced me to sleep on the lavatory floor so that everyone passing through could see my disgrace. The humiliation I’d felt as a child forced to stand like a pariah in the middle of the playground overwhelmed me.
The questions swirling through my head left me unsettled and frightened. I wanted to stop thinking, but couldn’t. Had I hated Miss Redway so intensely because she reminded me of the nuns I had subconsciously reviled? Had I been afraid to acknowledge that hate because it would have threatened my faith and belief in God and in the Catholic Church?
I cried through the night as I reviewed my years at St. Vincent’s, when I had excused everything that happened to me as an orphan’s lot, and accepted self-mortification as good for my soul. I now knew that the nuns should have treated me better, and I had severe doubts about their belief in the need for pain and suffering. The OS&SO had shown me that life didn’t have to be so stark, that you could be a good person without constant brooding about hell and damnation.
Most of the adults at the OS&SO were kinder in dealing with children than the religious nuns had been, and even seemed to like being around them. The staff didn’t have the belief that you were inherently inferior because you were in an orphanage.
The underlying message at St. Vincent’s, whether intentional or not, was that the orphanage was the nuns’ home and that they had been especially noble and charitable to take in such poor, unfortunate beggar children, children who should be abjectly grateful for every crumb or benefit bestowed on them.
I felt that the nuns’ cruelty and lack of compassion had caused me immeasurable and irreparable damage.
A Year of Turmoil
Exposure
We stand alone –
the tree outside my window
and I inside.
She, stripped of her foliage
and I, bereft of pride.
She stands with quiet dignity
despite the gnarls showing,
and with serenity
awaits the winter’s snowing.
As the weeks passed, it became an effort to do even the simplest things. I didn’t want to study, and sitting in school fo
r hours became unbearable. Becoming increasingly more restless and depressed, I felt a great need to get the heaviness out of my head and heart. I wasn’t able to pray, but I desperately wanted to talk. But to whom? And how?
I didn’t know how to unburden myself. I had never felt close to anyone, including my sister and brothers. I had never talked with anyone about my feelings, fears, and longings. I was even afraid that I was going insane, and I haunted the library looking for answers for what was ailing me.
Sometimes I would sit on the steps leading down to Melvie’s room at Hayes Hall and just stare down toward her, hoping she would somehow be able to feel my loneliness—that she would be able to see through my skin and recognize that I needed someone, perhaps her, to say, “What’s troubling you? Do you want to talk about it?”
Although I very much wanted to talk, I wasn’t able to initiate a conversation with Melvie and could only sit there staring mutely toward her room. She had no idea what was going on with me, and I suspected that I made her uncomfortable. It must have been very unsettling to see me sitting there staring. She would make a little joke or maybe tell me about a book she had been reading, and I, happy to at least be talking with her, would joke back.
One night, when we were supposed to be in our bedrooms, I was feeling unbearably tense and restless and decided to slip out of the cottage and walk down toward the artificial lake. Although it was dark, there were enough lights to see the path to the lake. It felt good to move around instead of tossing and turning in my bed, tormented by my thoughts.
The beauty and peace of the night descended on me as I sat and watched the play of lights on the water and listened to the sounds of the night. Then I heard the sounds of footsteps and looked up to see Melvie approaching.
“What are you doing out here, Terry?” she asked softly.
“I’m just listening to the frogs,” I said, glad that she had come after me. Perhaps that had been my subconscious hope—that she would hear me leave and follow me to see what I was up to. Maybe away from the other girls and hidden in the relative anonymity of the night, I would finally be able to unravel the tight knots within me—maybe Melvie could help me to sort through my thoughts and feelings, and help me find the answers to everything that was troubling me.
“It’s late,” she said gently. “Let’s go in.”
Melvie never mentioned the incident again, but soon thereafter I received a call from the Home’s psychologist asking me to come in for an appointment.
The psychologist greeted me warmly, pulled out a chair for me, and asked how everything was going. Without thinking, I answered, “Fine.” I wondered what he wanted with me. He asked how I was getting along at Hayes Hall, to which I answered “Fine,” again. He said he would like to give me a test, and I waited without comment, figuring I had no choice in the matter.
The test took about an hour. When I was done, he checked it over, looked at me gravely, and then checked it over again. I felt I had done poorly on the test because of the seriousness of his expression, and I began apologizing for what I was certain was a low score. “I’m sorry," I said. “I don’t feel well today.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he replied. “You’ve gotten an outstanding score; in fact you scored higher on your IQ test than anyone at the Home since I’ve been here. It’s unbelievable.” Then he rambled on and on for awhile.
From his words, I gathered that he was surprised I wasn’t a school leader, and even more surprised that someone with my background—a child of a common laboring man and a mentally ill woman—could be so intelligent. He acted as though I were some kind of anomaly.
The psychologist informed me that it had been brought to his attention that I had been taking some pretty interesting books from the library, many of which were about mental illness and psychiatry. He talked briefly about the field of psychiatry and asked me if I would like to meet with a psychiatrist.
I was thrilled, because I had been thinking I might want to be a psychiatrist and had started writing my name followed by the word “psychiatrist” in my notebooks. He said he would make arrangements for me to see a psychiatrist in Cincinnati, and he asked if I would like to work in the doctor’s office at the Home Hospital. He said Dr. Teffer could use some help in his office, and he understood that I was pretty skilled at typing and shorthand.
I left the psychologist’s office that day walking on air. He believed in me. Apparently he thought I possessed the necessary intelligence to actually become a psychiatrist one day. I felt full of joy and ambition as I saw a wonderful future ahead of me. My depression lifted.
I could hardly wait to start work in Dr. Teffer’s office, and I was determined to make both him and the psychologist proud. I would learn everything I could and let my helpfulness show how grateful I was for their confidence in me.
Dr. Teffer was so gracious and pleasant that it was pure joy to work for him. He appreciated everything I did and gave me endless compliments on the excellence of my typing and general assistance, which made me want to improve myself further. I took Dr. Teffer’s medical dictionary home to study medical terms so that I wouldn’t have to stop to ask the meaning or spelling of a word when he gave dictation. If I hadn’t been so interested in psychiatry, I would have tried to cancel my Cincinnati appointment so that I could remain at work with Dr. Teffer.
I was finally taken to Cincinnati for my meeting with the psychiatrist, a woman. She surprised me by asking questions about my life at the OS&SO and St. Vincent’s Orphanage instead of discussing the field of psychiatry.
She concluded our meeting, which took perhaps an hour or two, by informing me that I was probably more intelligent than many of the people who had raised me, and that they had sensed it and resented me for it. She assured me I was not responsible for Miss Redway’s death, even though I had wished her dead. She further stated that those who had laughed at her funeral were probably more honest than those who had acted sad or cried.
What the psychiatrist said next disturbed me greatly, and I couldn’t understand how she came to her conclusions after just one meeting. She said I hated my mother and blamed her for having to go to an orphanage, and that I loved my father too much. I found it hard to accept that I could hate someone who had had a mental breakdown. It would be like kicking a person when he or she was down. And it didn’t make sense that I had loved my father too much, as I had seldom even seen him during my childhood.
I was disappointed that there had been no discussion about psychiatry, but decided that the psychiatrist would probably bring it up at our next meeting and further explain what she had meant about my feelings toward my parents.
Back at Dr. Teffer’s office, I worked with renewed vigor. I was determined that I would be a success and make him and the psychologist proud of me. They would know that their confidence in me had not been misplaced. Moreover, the nuns at St. Vincent’s who had considered me worthless would learn they had been completely wrong.
One morning, when Dr. Teffer was out of town and I was caught up with my work, my curiosity led me to the doctor’s file cabinet where he kept records on all the students. I looked into the folder with my name on it and was horrified by what I read.
I had been completely naïve. The psychologist had not sent me to a psychiatrist to learn more about the psychiatric field, but because I had been deemed disturbed and in need of psychiatric help. I must have been sent to work for Dr. Teffer just so he could keep an eye on me. My file record included comments about my relations with Miss Redway and stated that I was extremely hostile. Apparently the Dean of Girls, the psychologist, and Dr. Teffer believed the charges made against me by Miss Redway.
Emotional Breakdown
After reading the file, I felt completely betrayed. Why hadn’t the psychologist or Dr. Teffer been honest with me? Did they think I couldn’t handle the truth? If they had told me of their concerns, I probably would have been more open with the psychiatrist and given her more details about my background than I had provided, and I p
robably would have gotten more benefit from the consultation. I had read enough psychiatry books to know what was required in such a session.
The psychiatrist thought my problems were related solely to my relations with Miss Redway, my guilt over her death, and my feelings about my parents, whom I had left when I was four years old. She seemed to think I’d spent the major portion of my childhood at the OS&SO Home, since we hardly discussed the nuns.
I felt the OS&SO psychologist didn’t have to send me to the Cincinnati psychiatrist to learn what made me tick. I believe that sympathetic questioning by any discerning and caring adult, whether or not a psychiatrist, would have made the long-buried words gush forth from me like a fountain.
Learning that I had been fooling myself was a mortal blow. Life was becoming increasingly pointless and empty, with endless days of working and meaningless struggles year after year, with death being the final event no matter what. I slept poorly and began to have dark circles around my eyes. I made no effort to make myself attractive. Everything seemed a complete waste of time. Life itself seemed like a waste of time.
There was no second appointment with the psychiatrist, and I was left alone to stew over the questions she had stirred up within me. I began to sneak out of the Home for long walks down a nearby country road, where I could weep in private.
Occasionally a cow would look up at the sound of my deep choking sobs. If I saw a farmer, I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see the tears streaming down my cheeks. I felt there was an ocean of sorrow dammed up inside me, and if I were to open my mouth wide enough, it would come roaring out like a flood.
To Hell With it All
How long my anguish and pain persisted, I have no idea, but one day my tears just dried up, and the pain was replaced by determination and conviction that all of them were wrong—the nuns, Miss Redway, the psychologist, Dr. Teffer, the psychiatrist, and everyone else who had insulted me in the past. Instead of worrying about who I hated and why, I decided I liked my hating self better than the blubbering and self-pitying nonentity that I had become. Hate would be my strength. The inner valve that kept me from going into a religious frenzy came through again, keeping me from melting down into a puddle of nothingness. I was determined to enjoy my life, no matter what.
Nunzilla Was My Mother and My Stepmother Was a Witch Page 11