The Cerebral Mum

After spending hours last night on a post I decided not to publish, I have decided to take one whole week off. I’ll still check in and reply to comments, and I’ll still be doing lots of reading and commenting on other blogs.

I just have a lot to juggle at the moment and I need lists and plans and a little bit of order if I am to manage it all. And lists and plans take time too.

The charity I mentioned earlier is kicking into gear and I will post a link and information when the website is ready to go. It is still a while off, however, as it involves a little global co-ordination.

The resource blog I will be starting has received no attention as yet, so I will be dedicating some time to that this week, planning content and schedules and layouts although I will need a little money to do the set up properly, so it may not launch until next year. The content is not time sensitive, however, so I can do as much writing and building as I like before it goes live. I know I’m being coy about the idea, but ideas are valuable!

I also have an update about Hughie, before I go. We really had no expectation that he would be alive today. The doctors made sure we had no expectation of that. Against all odds however, he’s still here and his condition is improving. He is no longer on full life support and he is slowly being weaned off the ventilator. When he saw him yesterday, he was conscious but severely jaundiced and groggy and unable to communicate in anyway. Today, when his daughter visited, he squeezed her hand very hard and cried. If he continues to improve, he may be out of the ICU in three days. What the long term prognosis is, we don’t know, but any extra days or weeks or months… well, they’re good.

Caspar continues to amaze me every day. He will sit for half an hour at his table scribbling, turning the pages of his drawing pad, comparing his crayons. This is above the level of concentration I was expecting him to have at 12 months. He is saying mum-mum a little, and experimenting with the various meanings of Ta (which he pronounces Dah). Considering his hearing impairment up until the age of 9 months, the lack of muscular development for speech and the scar tissue on his palate I am more than happy with this.

Also, as much as he loves books, his taste is impeccable. He loves those that have been well written, with rhythm and sounds an adult can admire, and those with high quality illustrations. He has no patience for the cheap and nasty, pulp baby stuff. I am not projecting. If I pick up an “average” book, he will replace it with a better one. If I insist on reading it, he wanders off.

He seems to be picking up the meaning of words at an almost alarming rate. After only hearing, and being shown, Put it back, twice, he can follow that instruction. He even closes the cupboard door afterwards. Rather than being a pushy mother, I think that I need to up-the-anti somewhat on providing him with things to learn. Growing minds must be fed. He’s already trying to sweep with an adult size broom. Surely, I can think of some more useful skills to teach him than that!

And did you know that you could actually play soccer with one year olds?

But I shall return to enumerate the wonders of Cas in a week.

Until then…

The October edition of the Blog Carnival Against Child Abuse has been posted over at Survivors Can Thrive and I read all of it today. One of the posts which particularly caught my interest was Weaknesses and Submission for Survival. The writer, Austin, talks about the barriers between her and her sister as they grew up in an abusive household, exacerbated by their different ways of coping.

I relate to this strongly. It may seem to those of you who have been reading this blog for a while now, that Big Sis and I have a wonderful relationship. And we do. But it is not always an easy one, and it is something that both of us have worked very hard to obtain. One of the many, many things that those who have not experienced an abusive family environment often do not understand is the way in which it damages all the family relationships. It is simple. The rule is this:

Divide and Conquer.

Often, I hear people who are shocked and disgusted by the lack of support individual victims receive from the other members of their family. It seems so unnatural to them. Mothers who remain with the partners who have abused their children, for example, are vilified. Unfortunately, more often than not it is unnatural, but not because these mothers lack maternal instincts, not because they are as heinous as the abuser themselves, but because they are victims as well. It is a vicious cycle. We should celebrate when someone, anyone!, breaks it, but we should ache as well for all those who can’t.

I would like everyone, next time they read a story in the newspaper or see a story on TV to wonder not at the inhumanity of these people, but at what they must have gone through themselves to be so incapable of defending their loved ones. I do not say this to give everyone a free pass - not everyone deserves one - but it is indeed possible that they deserve as much sympathy as the primary victim. (From strangers, anyway: A victim’s anger towards those in their life who were blind or who enabled their abuser is always justified. If they rediscover their relationships, that’s fine. If they don’t, well, they have no obligation for forgiveness. Their most important role is to find a way to heal themselves.)

So, divided and conquered they stand. Abusers are often subtle. Abuse is often subtle. Often, the things we perceive as stolen from children when they are raped and tortured have been taken long before, in painful increments which erode the child’s sense of self-worth along with their connection to the people around them. Their connection to the people they could tell. As they know less and less safety in their lives, the abuser becomes more and more secure. And so more is permitted.

And what is safety, to a child? Safety is home, it is family. It is that thing they are sure of; the haven which allows them to venture out into the world, knowing always that there is a place, and its people, to return to. If someone in the family wants to abuse a child, that place must be stripped bare of inhabitants.

…the mother made certain my sister and I stayed divided. With my sister’s cunning plans and my thinking ability to see it through we would have been unstoppable. The mother couldn’t have that now could she? Two kids who put their heads together to overthrow a tyrant, two kids completely different putting young resources together to survive that tyrant would have been something to contend with. There was no way in hell the mother could afford for us to be friends. _AUSTIN

There was no way in hell my adoptive father could afford for my sister and I to be friends. There is no way he could afford for us to trust each other, to see each other clearly. Together, we would have found the words to tell our mother, to make explicit that thing none of us alone could face.

Looking back, it is difficult to determine precisely the causes of the wedge between us. We are very different. Our minds work differently. Perhaps we would have disliked each other for those differences anyway. Perhaps we would have gone through a normal sibling rivalry. But what I remember most is this:

The way in which he ridiculed her, the way he made direct attacks upon her self-esteem. The way she never spoke back to him. The way she existed in the world outside our family, popular, talkative, confident and loving. The way all the good things about her became her mask instead of herself. The way she fulfilled every prophecy of failure he gave to her. The way he told her she was fat and ugly and stupid and the awful way she believed him.

The way he told me constantly how clever I was, how I was destined to be somebody. The way I argued passionately with him while my family, craving peace, left the room. The way I lived with fairies. The way the world inside my head was more real to me than daily things. The way he was proud of me, the way he bragged about me. And the awful way this separated me from my sister.

Picture this: In late primary school, I go to my mother crying. I ask her not why is he so mean to Big Sis, but why doesn’t he treat me the same way he treats her. I am crying because I am singled out. I cannot understand why. I do not want to be singled out. I do not want to be different, separate, from my sister. But how could I comprehend that then?

In many ways, abusers are smart. They are perceptive. They recognise the weaknesses they can exploit. My sister’s weaknesses and mine were different: I loved thinking, my sister loved people. For both of us, the other was the image we were battered with. Our mere presence was enough to hurt each other for a long, long time.

There is one thing that unites an abusive family, and that is silence. They show one face - one family face - to the world but within their own walls there are no real words between them. To speak would be to shatter the masks, and the masks are what holds the individuals together while holding the people apart. Our psyches can only take so much before our defence mechanisms kick in. That may sound like jargon but it is an accurate description. They are mechanisms, like breathing. They are not conscious and they override what would have been our normal functioning. My sister lost herself in a world of people, hiding from the fact that she felt worthy of none of them. I lost myself in the world of my imagination, hiding from the imperfection of my life.

When we grew to adulthood, I remained the image she was battered with. She remained, to my mind of pictures, less real than me. It took a lot of years, a lot of talking and a lot of arduous respect to learn each other’s language and find the things we shared. It took a lot of years to learn the other was not what we despised, and not the thing we should have been.

There are worse childhoods than mine. I come from a cycle which has been broken. By all of us: My mother, my Big Sis and me. I have the gift of an extraordinarily strong family which will never be taken for granted. Not all victims of abuse are so fortunate. Please feel for them. All of them.

So now, after writing about my neurotic lack of coping with the first birthday party, I should probably record here what the party was actually like.

It was held here at Big Sis’ house in the front yard and there was no need to worry about rain. The weather caused a me a little concern, though. 33° (92° fahrenheit) is way above the average for October and raised the spectre of last year’s bushfire season, which burned out 1.1 million hectares. Later, watching California burn, I couldn’t help but think of the continuing drought and what may come with the summer.

After collapsing into bed the night before without finishing all my preparations, there was a lot to do in the morning but between Big Sis, B and I, nearly everything was done on time and Caspar was kept amused outside by B’s twins and the Jolly Jumper Big Sis and B had bought him for his birthday. The kids were impatient for the party to start and I locked them out of the house while I decorated the cake I shouldn’t have put off making to the day of the party.

When P (the other half of The Odd Couple in the house behind us) arrived with his two girls, we fired up the BBQ straight away although nobody else was here yet. The kids had been patient and were hungry. I had taken the little red table I bought secondhand as part of Caspar’s birthday gift of crayons and drawing pads outside and all the children sat around him there, fussing over him and playing with his hair, as girls are wont to do.

Caspar, like the far-too-advanced boy he is, sat on his yellow chair and fed himself, not at all bemused by the female attention. He has become accustomed to it. Indeed, I think he expects it. Not long after that a couple of my friends arrived and took a seat in our circle of big-people chairs. I, of course, flapped around a little trying to make sure everyone had something to eat and drink, not quite relaxed yet.

One thing I have been consistently amazed by since becoming a mother is how many hands and eyes are there to divert and watch over Caspar while I try to get things done. This assistance seems to be instinctual on the part of parents and non-parents alike and it is carried out so graciously that there is no need for words. I read so often of mothers, especially single mothers, overwhelmed by their parenthood so I must believe myself fortunate in this respect but I can’t help thinking that this is the way it should be. I do not think the days of community in childrearing are dead and gone.

So I had a chance to sit and talk and eat while Caspar belonged to everybody.

And then, of course, the cake. With the wind, it was impossible to keep the lone candle lit but it didn’t matter. Caspar would not have been able to blow it out anyway. He could, however, recognise that the slightly sad looking giraffe with its bright yellow icing was something good to eat and we had to move it away to be dished out as he tried to grab the whole lot of it for himself.

Not long after that, the children went home and Caspar went down for a nap, pink in spite of slathers of sunscreen and warm in just his nappie and a singlet. My friends and I cleared away the dishes outside and sat in the lounge talking over a glass of wine. Later, K, the friend that I had lost, arrived and I woke Cas from his sleep so they could meet each other. A bit bleary eyed and wobbly, it didn’t take him long to start turning on his charm and show off all his skills, running around, waving, clapping his hands and putting his hands on his head. And my favourite… Dancing. He’s been head-banging since before he could sit up, and his repertoire of moves just keeps growing. He can move up and down, shift his weigh from foot to foot as he sways, stomp, writhe and spin around in circles. He’s got rhythm and whenever he hears music, he starts rocking.

And then of course, the afternoon grew late and it was time for people to leave but it was lovely having that quiet time with my three friends, and Caspar loved having all the company. There were no tears and no stress on his part.

We had a quiet evening, B cooking up the last of the meat on the BBQ and Big Sis and Cas and I eating with him at the table in the garage as the sun went down and the air cooled. Caspar sat at the big table with us, for the first time in the portable booster seat which was my first birthday present from Big Sis and B.

I tasted the cake then, a recipe I hadn’t used before but I had been assured by the party guests that it was good. I wasn’t too impressed with the giraffe I had made, but for a first effort, without any guiding instructions, it was good enough. I’m sure the cakes I make will get fancier as the years go by. Until the day Caspar tells me to stop making him such silly things. One day he will be protective of his young man’s dignity.

The cake was good! I mean, really good! And so easy. I used a simple tea cake recipe (3 quantities) and blended it in the food processor. It only took 5 minutes. Try it at home and just brush it with some butter then sprinkle on a layer of cinnamon or coffee sugar. Because, really, virulent yellow icing is not that appealing to adults.

Tea Cake

60g butter
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 cup castor sugar
1 egg
1 cup self raising flour
1/3 cup milk

Cream butter and essence. Add sugar, then egg, and mix until creamy. Add flour and milk and mix until smooth. Bake in a moderate oven for 25 minutes.

Last night, I was going to describe Caspar’s party and post a couple of photos. Instead, at around 8:30pm we got the news that a friend who is in hospital wasn’t likely to make it through the night. We spent the evening there.

The friend is not someone I have known a long time. Not long after Caspar was born, we got new neighbours, two men rather like The Odd Couple. Unlike most neighbours, we talked to each other and became neighbours in the fuller sense of the word. One of those men is Big Sis’ B, who we already consider one of the family, and Hughie, now in hospital, is one of his closest friends.

The majority of my social life out here at the end of the earth involves sitting around a table in their garage, talking about nothing, doing the crosswords and quizzes from the paper, and having a beer. Hughie was there almost every day. He is a wiry Englishman in his 50s, with a dry sense of humour and a quick mind. He is often the voice of reason when The Odd Couple are bickering and he has that grounded kind of energy - that broad tolerance along with that clear understanding of where he draws the line - which some people develop after living life hard, then calming down. He has a big heart and Caspar loved him. He made Caspar laugh. He made us all laugh.

And he is an alcoholic.

As I said, he has lived life hard. He spent time in jail for an assault when he was younger. He abandoned his daughter when she was three years old. But he grew and he has a great capacity for love. Sadly, he was never able to find enough of it for himself to kill off the demon alcohol was to him. He came into some money recently. He drank nearly all of it.

He met his daughter just over a year ago. She just showed up at his door one day, all grown up, a young woman he was extraordinarily proud of but could take no credit for. I met her last night for the first time. She shares his intelligence and humour and she too is grounded, in a way few 23 year olds are.

We were an odd collection of people in the intensive care unit: A daughter burdened with next-of-kin choices for a man whose relationship with her was only just beginning; His ex-wife, feeling all the frustration of a woman who was never able to help him and cannot help him now, quietly angry at herself for her misplaced sense of guilt, and quietly angry at him for making her feel it; B, that down-to-earth bloke who wanted to deny the end was coming, alternately telling jokes to Hughie’s unconscious body, then almost yelling at him, Squeeze my hand! Squeeze my hand!, then unable to stop the flow of tears when he could no longer maintain the illusion that there would be more tomorrows.

And then Big Sis and I, who only ever got to see the best of Hughie.

We left when B could not handle seeing Hughie lying there any more, full of tubes and needles, unconscious with unseeing eyes half open, surrounded by the steady beeps of the machines and their meaningless numbers moving up and down. B was still trying to find a way to make things different. His mind was still not ready to accept the reality. On the way out we passed the hospital chapel, and he stopped, saying that he was not religious but… I looked to see if there was a candle he could light - a simple, symbolic act - while he was drawn into the room. Instead I found tree branches, laden with wishes, and a basket full of paper leaves and a pen. B could not write: He only made it half way through the room before slumping into a chair, with Big Sis there beside him. I wrote out a leaf for Hughie, and for B, who could not. Then we came home.

Overnight, we received a message from Hughie’s daughter, simply saying, There has been no change. He has lasted through the night, but we remain waiting for that final call. We had a chance to say our goodbyes as best we could. And Hughie will not die alone, in spite of his very best effort to do so.

It was hard. And good.

I tend to stress a lot about parties now. They shake my foundations. They never used to. As I have repeatedly said, I have been out of the loop for a long time and that means that many of the people I care about do not hear from me as often as they should and I cannot expect them to jump whenever I set a date. It makes me feel a lonely and insecure and frightened; it is isolating. But it is an isolation which, in this case, I am largely responsible for.

I have friendships which weather distance and silence. I have friendships which do not require consistent attention to remain firm. Those friendships have within them an innate respect for each other, and a deep trust in that respect because it has remained constant in the face of all our human flaws. I treasure those friendships. But not all friendships thrive when starved of sunlight. Sometimes the attachment is not developed enough to withstand the tyranny of distance and sometimes, the nature of the friendship is something else altogether. There are “everyday” friendships as well as lifelong ones; friendships based on shared lives and shared experiences. As we go through life - change schools, change jobs, change hobbies, move away - our friendships change with us. We no longer have those connections which tied us together. I do not think these friendships are any less meaningful because of their dependence on proximity, and they are no less important to us. Currently, I have no “everyday” friendships. No one knows the petty details of my daily life; the minor passions, the small triumphs or the small mistakes. They are all invisible.

I was disappointed by the people who did not respond to my invitation, I was disappointed by cancellations. I was distressed by the idea that those who came would have too few people to talk to. I cried. Several times. My anxiety devolved into physical symptoms - a churning stomach, an inability to eat, a tension in my shoulders that screamed at every movement. And I will admit that much of my worry was superficial. In spite of my much vaunted perspective, I reduced Caspar’s party to some kind of measurement of my worth. Worse, some kind of measurement of my popularity. Wouldn’t those who came look around and think how pathetic my lack of people was?

But of course they didn’t.

It is mind-boggling how narrow our focus can become, how self-destructive we can be. How we can ignore all the things we should appreciate and simply wallow, as though our lives were hard. How we indulge our narcissistic depressions as though ennui and anomie were illnesses rather than chosen states of mind.

So here is my wealth of people and my belated appreciation. Please forgive me if it is boring to read. It deserves to be written.

For my cousin B, and all her family, who sent the most beautiful wishes and the most sensitive present, both of which moved me to tears.

For my Uncle J, isolated in truth on the other side of the world, who called me on the phone for the first time ever to give us his love.

For J and Dy, and my cousin D, who had other commitments but would certainly have been here if they could. For my cousin D’s children who are a richness in all our lives.

For R, who by rights should have been a friendship which passed with a change of jobs and yet for reasons unfathomable to me has shown me a loyalty over years which I could never do justice to. And for his family and his brand new son, all of whom I am yet to meet, and all of whom would also have been here if they could.

For C, my oldest friend, and the very measure of a friend, who needs to take care of herself right now, and not feel guilty about commitments she cannot keep.

For T, who stood up for me in court after a sexual assault, even having known me for such a short time; who lost his job, and held my hand for long months and who will always find me whenever we lose each other. Who, although he could not attend, took the time out of his full weekend to bring a present for my son whom he has never met.

For PC, whose love, like mine, is larger than our previous relationship. Who always answers my call when I need him, who provides me with second opinions when I am worried about Caspar’s medical treatment and answers all my questions patiently, even though he chose to leave his doctor’s life behind him years ago. Who, car-less, travelled all the way out here to meet my son in his first few days of life, bringing me French champagne and sushi. Who, car-less, travelled all the way out here to attend the party, although I have seen him rarely in the last two years. Who, basically, has been giving far more than he has received lately.

For H, a friend lost a decade ago, who has memories as warm as mine, and a heart as open as though it had only been days. Who has a generous spirit which made room for my selfish absorption then, and continues to do so now. Whose bear hugs at Caspar’s party brought me back to earth and the reality of all I have to be grateful for.

For K, my closest friend for many years and the only friend I have lost through a situation fraught with anger and broken trust. After years apart, she contacted me and came to Caspar’s party. Perhaps we might begin again.

For my neighbour G, who has tolerated my abandoned house, its overgrown yard and the constant vandalism there, who protected my interests before he even met me and has shown such non-judgemental consideration and support while I work to rectify the situation. Who would have been present if only a pipe had not burst.

For the 5 children who stay next door every second week, who come in to spend time with Cas and me, who pop over to bring us drawings and lollies, who were eager for Caspar’s birthday and who surrounded him at his small table, playing with his hair and pinching his cheeks. Especially for R and K and J, who blew up balloons and amused Cas while I prepared food and polished cutlery. Especially for E, who was distraught that day, as only an almost-teenage girl can be, and who emerged from her barricaded room to give Caspar his present. And especially for K, who gave up part of her own birthday weekend so she could celebrate with us.

And for Big Sis, whose patience with me has been sometimes strained but nonetheless limitless. Who helped me so much that morning, in spite of her spinal injury and her pain and still felt like she had not done enough. And for her B, who would not let me pay for ice and BBQ gas, who cooked so I could tend to the guests and who talked to everyone in spite of his shyness.

And, last but not least, for my mother. Always here in spirit, who loves me unconditionally despite our difference, who is my example and my rock. Who loves Caspar in a way that can never be matched.

There is a lot going on right now. Good things. Life things. Rather than being stuck in my fog, I am now flooded by things to do. I’m inspired again, motivated again, and that’s exciting. I won’t be taking a break - I’ve found that I can’t stay away from this blog - but I will be trying not to post every day. I’m currently considering 4 posts a week, Monday to Thursday, or every second day. I haven’t decided yet but regardless of what I decide, it can only improve what I write here.

I don’t want to burn out. I have a terrible habit of burning out and, although I used to get so much done before my candlewicks met in the ashen middle, with Caspar now I just don’t have the luxury of recovery time and I have to find new ways to be productive. That sounds so tedious, “productive”, yet that part is exciting as well. The idea of focussing my energies on the things that matter to me (including this blog), of giving them the quality and consistency of attention they deserve instead of flailing around helplessly torn between the things I have to do and the things I need to do, just seems… hopeful.

I’ve always felt as though I had a purpose but all to often that feeling has been theoretical, overwhelmed by the demands of daily things if not completely incompatible with them. At times it has been present as a burden; something I used to beat myself down with, a weapon made of imagined failure which cut me and starved me both literally and figuratively and multiplied into an army. At the worst times, it has been hidden from me entirely.

Purpose.

I don’t think purpose is something ordained at birth: I don’t think it is something given to us with the colour of our eyes. I think it evolves in us through experience: I think it is our discovery of what is important to us, the unfolding pattern of the things we care about. Whatever those things may be - and they could be anything from cross-stitch to a cure for cancer - when we are struggling to give them space in our lives, we don’t feel important. We lose our sense of connection to the world. Everything becomes grey.

Right now, in my hemisphere, life is not grey. The sun is coming out from behind the clouds and it is Spring. Life is happening again. I was asked to join an online writer’s group and am now able to post draughts from my novel, get feedback and interact again with other writers facing the same issues, so I am no longer going to put off until tomorrow what I can do today. I’ve been asked to help create a new charity, which will entail a lot of work but which will be very worthwhile. I have a stellar idea for another blog, one which will create a resource rather than a record of my personal thoughts, and I want to start on the planning for it. And I also need to put some energy into my desire to go back to university next year, fill out more forms, make phone calls, make sure I’m not just another file on the course co-ordinator’s desk.

I have a lot of purpose. And none of it is theoretical.

I’ve been immersing myself in my feedreader this evening and it it now past 1am so I have little to say. Or little time to say it. Take your pick. If you don’t know what to do with your time because of my self-indulgence, go and buy rice with the most priceless commodity on earth: Words.

I have bought hundreds and hundreds of grains of rice. Seriously… hundreds and hundreds! I got up to vocabulary level 48 but upon reading that there are only 50 levels and that hardly anyone gets past 48 I am determined to do better. Pride in abnormality, that’s my motto. Oh, and I get to feed people at the same time as I defend my ego.