Parental inversion

Mummy found out--and it was my fault.

I knew that because Daddy had made it clear what we did together, the two of us, had to be kept secret and he assigned me to keep that secret. I was the one responsible to keep her from knowing--knowing she had failed as a wife and he was having to find sexual gratification in her little girl instead. Responsible to keep her innocent, keep her happy and fulfilled and productive and--everything I wasn't.

The consequences of her finding out, he somehow communicated to me, would be really, really bad. She would feel bad about herself, ashamed, guilty, because she couldn't meet his needs. It was really, really important that she not feel bad. She might kill herself!

I knew my job was important because Mommy was so important. It was hard but Daddy praised me, made me feel proud I could do what she could not. He said I was really good at it. I loved my mother so much I would do anything for her, even this.

Still, there were times I didn't want to do it anymore. Times I thought, If only she knew, maybe she would stop it and I wouldn't have to do it anymore. Times I squirmed and thought about crying out for her. Did he warn me not to, did he really cover my mouth with his hand--or did I just know? She could not hear me from downstairs and even if she did, would she come? What if she came and actually saw what was happening--would she intervene and rescue me? Would she see I needed rescuing? If she didn't, would I be able to use my voice and say, "Help!"?

That was before. Then the worst happened. She came upon us unexpectedly and saw it happening. I froze. My heart caught. I couldn't breathe. She was there, in the bedroom. In the possibility of that paralysis of fear, there was a flicker of hope. What Daddy said must not happen, what I had longed would happen, what Daddy said I must not let happen--was happening right now. She knew. She was even saying so, telling him she had seen it and known what was happening, bringing the terrible secret into the uncomfortable light. It could go either way. It could be the disaster Daddy had warned about or rescue, with the relief of knowing it was over.

She was angry. She was saying angry words to him. I waited, hoping this meant I would be free. But he was angry back. It was like the tennis matches that had won him the Tri-State title. Slamming the ball back past her, lobbing it over her head, putting English on it so it bounced funny and her return dribbled at her feet. As I watched the master, watched how deceit was done, I learned what I did not want to know.

Game, set, match.

And watching, I knew he was playing his very best, all out--desperately in fact--for my sake. All the skill, all the finesse he had ever put into anything he had ever done (and he had done a lot, working his way up from "poor white trash" born to high wire artistes in a small, traveling circus to a doctorate in anthropology from a top university), he put into what I realized was defending me. I had messed up, I had blown it. Maybe by wanting her to know (there could have been no other way) I had failed to keep the secret. Her knowing was my fault.

But he made up for my wrong-doing. He saved the match, pulled it out when it was impossible to win, took the game right from doubles to singles so he could slug every ball himself--and he did that for me. He rescued us both, thereby protecting her.

From then on, I did my job like a trouper (just as he and his parents had done in the circus). Unwavering. She would never know, never again have reason to suspect from the slightest glance or sigh on my part that anything was wrong.



(September 13, 2012)

The Beast

There is also a wide metal band around my neck attached to the chain that is attached to the beast that is fear. Sometimes the band is around my wrist instead--or in addition to.

The Beast has turned into my cherished chow-chow Cherokee. It's not a bad Beast after all. (When Cherokee died, I instantly vowed I would not even THINK about that, would not look back even to the good memories, would not let in the grief, lest it overwhelm and choke me. I have since renounced that vow--but I still don't let myself go there.) This beast is safe, like Aslan, she will walk me out of the stable.

Who am I kidding? The leash that binds us is still a chain. This Beast is not a pet at all. Just because it is mild at the moment means nothing. It has strong teeth and sharp claws. It could turn and harrow me in an instant.  

har·row ¹  (hr)

n.

A farm implement consisting of a heavy frame with sharp teeth or upright disks, used to break up and even off plowed ground.

tr.v. har·rowed, har·row·ing, har·rows

1. To break up and level (soil or land) with a harrow.

2. To inflict great distress or torment on.

Yes, that's the right word.

I am the sacrificial lamb, maybe for all humanity. Somebody has to be. I am the world's trash can, the world's toilet, all the garbage--

It hurts Me when you do that. 

(September 6, 2012)

Trying to breathe

That was his summary of what happened last session (August 11).


I have been having some nightmares, waking scared or sad. G says there is a primary or alter who holds anxiety, still fears intimacy. I still have a knot in my psyche where I do not allow myself sexual pleasure. Giving is fine.

Now I am seeing I have never distinguished sexual love from lust. If I am enjoying sex, lust takes over and fills my mind with flashbacks and fantasies and dirty words. Here, in G's office, Teddy bears on the couch, pictures of his children on the bookshelves, pictures of him proudly holding fish he has caught, we command the spirit of lust to leave in the authority of Jesus Christ. . . .

It comes to me suddenly: Letting myself enjoy sex would involve letting go. Letting go of control. Letting go of being on alert for danger from without. I can't afford to let go when I am on duty, when it is up to me to protect myself.

And then, of course, there is the knot of conflict about my right to feel pleasure.


The little skinny, starving self in the doorway is facing into the dark stable now, although the big clogs on her feet are still facing out. The dark wolf creature is still crouching in the cell, half-filling it. He is tied to me--or I am tied to him--but even when I am next to him in the cell he does not threaten or scare me. He does not seem to care that I am there. He does not turn his head to look at me. He is just there.

Is it love she can't take in? Like the time I had asthma and couldn't breathe, couldn't take in any of the cool night air that was all around me, was gasping, panting, dying for lack of the very element I was immersed in?

(August 23, 2012)

Calm

G says what I am experiencing are "the classic signs of integration."

(August 23, 2012)

Clothed from on high

The shape of a woman
overshadows me,
a crystal outline
lifting out of the mud.
Clear, silent, still.
Holy?

As she clothes me
with herself,
melting to conform to my shape,
I think,
This is me!

I look at my hands
as if for the first time,
turn them over,
closing and opening them.
Warm, they tingle.
Are they part of me?
Have they always been part of me?
I gaze around the
strange, familiar room.
It makes me dizzy,
as if I've had
a little too much wine.

I report all this to G.
She is like my skin, I say.
It's like I am feeling 
for the first time.
Is this the original self?

Bless her, says G.
She is your essence, soul, spirit.

When our time is up
still awed and disoriented
I leave the room
to rejoin my husband.

I am overwhelmed
with love for him,
as if seeing him
for the first time.

(August 11, 2012 #3)