The mental capacity of a 55 year old survivor at 5, to the mental capacity of a 5 year old at 55.
My journey began on a blustery cold night in early April 1964. The woman who would soon be my mom, standing in a blizzard on the side of the road, staring at the smoke coming from her car engine. Her three babies in the back seat, scared, cold, hungry and crying. Oddly enough, she didn’t feel her babies were in danger. And she didn’t have the mental capacity to feel any danger for herself. After all, nothing could ever prove to be as horrifying or disgusting as her childhood was. But life would surely prove her wrong. It seemed to be hours before a passerby finally stopped to assist her. A fair looking man with a soft spoken voice and eyes that could melt your heart. Even in the middle of a blizzard. He was in no way mechanically inclined. But he did offer to give her and her babies a ride home. He had just got off work and had stopped by the local pizza place and was on his way home to eat his pizza and stare at his blank walled, tiny studio apartment, and a TV with foil for an antenna. Once they arrived at my mom’s apartment, he offered to help carry the children in. She greatly appreciated this gesture and accepted. He carried the youngest as Mom held the tiny, cold hands of the two older girls and led them to her door. Inside the apartment wasn’t much warmer. She turned the thermostat up, just a couple degrees though, as she hadn’t received her child support check for two months now. She still loved and adored her ex husband and longed to be held, but what she missed the most was the comfort of knowing she was being taken care of. Face it. In the early sixties, being a divorced mother of three was not exactly the best social standing. Even sometimes frowned upon. She felt the heat come on and she put her girls in a circle with a blanket over them around the vent. She had almost forgotten the man who rescued her on the side of the road was still standing by the door. He stood there, holding his now, cooled pizza. Offering to share his pizza with her and her girls, he rescues her again! The girls were delighted. They had only had pizza at birthday parties for other children in the neighborhood. It felt very much like a holiday to them. By the time the girls were done eating, my mom had fallen asleep on the couch. The soft spoken man, who had already rescued her twice that night, would set course of destruction by nights end. While Mom lay on the couch sleeping, he got the three girls cleaned up after dinner and helped the prepare for bed. Once the girls were all tucked in and fading to sleep, he closed the door to the only bedroom in this tiny cold apartment, and began to claim what he thought he deserved. My mom woke with a startle, to see the man who had been hero only moments ago, now preparing his manhood to penetrate the small glimpse of hope she had left. It seemed to take forever. But she was no stranger to this. Her own father had the same problem. For the both of them, their manhood was not the best image of portraying their strength. Not so surprising, their way to compensate was similar. Violence, dominance and self gratitude. When he was finally done, she did as she had always been instructed to do when her father had finished. Bathe, apply foundation to the face to disguise, soon to be appearant bruising, curl up on the couch, in a sad, weak and broken fetal position, pretending to be asleep. But no sleep came for her that night. As the man who had rescued her twice and then taken from her what she did not want to give, was sitting on the girls version of a couch, an oversized bean bag chair. As the sun began to peek thru the thread bare curtains, she mustered the strength to pick herself up. So stiff from not moving all night and so sore from the violent encounter from the man who would now take her father’s place as her abuser. She offered him coffee. He declined and asked for hot chocolate. He became outraged that she did not have what he wanted. She tried explaining she couldn’t afford hot chocolate, but before she could explain, he had left the apartment, slamming the door so hard, that the arch shaped window shattered to the ground. She slid to the cold, tattered floor in the kitchen and remained there, unaware of time, until her girls joined her hours later.
Cross roads. Does she see him again? Should she see him again? Could she have believed this behavior was normal? Acceptable? Could she have believed she deserved this? Or, could her own childhood have destroyed her so bad that she literally had no capacity to feel? Maybe all she had left was the primal instinct to survive. Or perhaps, deep down inside her, she hoped that sooner, rather than later, one of these events would be horrific enough to end her struggle to continue on with this life, carrying so much pain, damage, fear and yet, at the same time being so hollow, disconnected and alone in her own shadow. The shadow she had hoped to leave behind her. Unspoken. Buried so deep within the walls of her soul that she no doubt that if these shadows ever surfaced, her body would crumble and fall to the earth, blending with the soil, and noticed by no one.
Follow to see if this woman feels like you. Thinks like you. Behaves and reacts like you. Will she use her remaining strength to save her girls ? To save herself? Or to simply use it to bury her shame even deeper than she has ever been required to, to just breathe?
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