Many of these writings were lost in their electronic version and were retyped from hard copy. I haven't had a chance to proofread and edit the entries the way I would like to. Please forgive formatting inconsistencies and gross errors and typos.
Dorothy Wordsworth, or “Dot” as I like to call her due to her endearing relationship with her brother William Wordsworth, wrote poetry, but is best knows for her Grasmere Journals. Pamela Woof writes in regard to Dorothy Wordsworth’s journals that, “she was no fiction writer plotting other worlds, but her own world is brought before us, satisfyingly historical and satisfyingly imaginative” (157). Coleridge is quoted in Woof as describing Dot as “’watchful in minutest observations of nature’” (159). Woof further notes that “domestic events, everyday images, steady the transcendent in Dorothy’s writing, and the momentary escapes give buoyancy to the domestic” (163). The excerpts from Dot’s Grasmere Journals and her poetry lend themselves to the descriptions of both Woof and Coleridge’s observations that Dot possessed an ability to observe details in nature and everyday life that many people overlook.
Dot is incredibly descriptive in her writings of both manure and the goings on around her. In her journal entry from September 3, 1800, she beings by telling how her day started, then saying, “I ironed till half past three, now very hot. I then went to a funeral…” (433). She describes the number of people in attendance at the funeral and that the deceased was “buried by the parish; the coffin was neatly lettered and painted black and covered with decent cloth” (433). In that same entry, she describes the “green fields, neighbors of the churchyard, were green as possible, and with the brightness of the sunshine, looked quite gay” (433). She finished the entry with, I did not finish ironing till 7 o’clock.[…] William and John came home at 10 o’clock” (433). This entry alone is an excellent example of Dot’s attention to detail, attention to the natural world and her ability to document the world around her and her domesticity. She draws the reader into her moment in time.
Probably one of Dot’s most famous journal entries, and the inspiration for her brother William’s poem, “Daffodils,” is her entry from April 15, 1802. In this entry, she literally “paints” a portrait of the “woods beyond GowbarrowPark,” when she describes the daffodils as:
[A] long belt of them along the shore…[…] They grew among the mossy stones…some rested their heads upon these stones on a pillow for weariness, and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake. They looked so gay—ever-glancing, ever changing. (434)
Dot records daily life, sometimes writing of the weather, what she and her brother did during the day, and the people they interacted with. When Dot writes of her interaction with nature, her writing seems to become more alive than at any other time. In her April 29, 1802, journal entry, she describes her and William laying in a trench, “listening to the waterfalls and birds…a sound of waters in the air, the voice of the air” (434-435). Later that day, she lay in the grass and “observed the glittering sliver line on the riders of the backs of sheep, owing to their situation respecting the sun…as if belonging to a more spending world” (435).
Her journals also provide historical information. Her October 4, 1802, entry records William’s marriage to Mary Hutchinson. Although Dot was probably not aware of the historical importance that this entry would one day provide, she again left us a moment in her time. The people that Dot encountered are also described. October 3, 1800, she describes meeting “an old man almost double” who “had a wife, ‘a good woman’” and whose “trade was to gather leeches, but now leeches are scarce, and he had not strength for it” (433). Not only does her entry describe “ordinary” people she met, but it also gives us, readers of the 21st Century, a glimpse into the life and practices of 19th Century England.
Yet, Dot’s poetry focuses more on nature, rather than domesticity or everyday life. In “Thoughts on my Sickbed,” and “When shall I tread your garden path,” Dot’s age, declining health, and memories of interacting with the natural world are apparent. In “Sickbed,” she writes, “I thought of nature’s loveliest scenes,/and with memory I was there” (51-52), while in “Garden Path,” she describes herself as “A prisoner on my pillowed couch,/Five years in feebleness I’ve lain—” (5-6).
The passion that Dot felt for nature, her love for it, and not only nature’s own life, but the life it gave her are evident in all aspects of her writing. Yet, it is her journals that not only record nature in its most minute of details but also serve as history records of her life, as well as the lives of everyone and everything around her, even documenting the time spent ironing in a day, that her passion for nature and detail is most apparent.
Works Cited
Woof, Pamela. “Dorothy Wordsworth, ‘Journal’.” A Companion to Romanticism. Ed. Duncan Wu. Oxford: Blackwell, 1999. 157-168
-----. “From ‘The Grasmere Journals, Wednesday 3 September 1800’.” Romanticism: An Anthology with CD-Rom. Ed. Duncan Wu. Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. 433.
-----. “From ‘The Grasmere Journals, Friday 3 October 1800 (exract)’.” Romanticism: An Anthology with CD-Rom. Ed. Duncan Wu. Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. 433.
-----. “From ‘The Grasmere Journals, Thursday 15 April 1802’.” Romanticism: An Anthology with CD-Rom. Ed. Duncan Wu. Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. 434.
-----. “From ‘The Grasmere Journals, Thursday 29 April 1802’.” Romanticism: An Anthology with CD-Rom. Ed. Duncan Wu. Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. 434-435.
-----. “From ‘The Grasmere Journals, Thursday 4 October 1802’.” Romanticism: An Anthology with CD-Rom. Ed. Duncan Wu. Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. 435.
-----. “Thoughts on my Sickbed.” Romanticism: An Anthology with CD-Rom. Ed. Duncan Wu. Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. 439-440.
-----. “When shall I tread your garden path.” Romanticism: An Anthology with CD-Rom. Ed. Duncan Wu. Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. 440.
You don’t love me. You don’t want to have sex with me. Your eyes lock with mine. Words spoken matter-of-factly. Elixirs of truth say differently. You love me. You hate me. Up. Down. Up. Down. Roller coaster zipping up and down, round and round. Topsy turvey. Motion sickness. Nausea rising.
You hate me because you love me. You don’t tell me this, but there are truths I know.
As we sit beneath the luminous full moon, you are at war with your demons, adrenaline pumping, hating me, because I don’t love you. Hating yourself, because I don’t love you. I am cold. You take my hands gently into yours, loving, caressing, warm. You fasten your gaze into mine. A roller coaster zips between us and grabs me for a ride. Woosh! I am sick again from the motion. Your demons have conquered you. Defeated and weak from your battle, you now battle me. What do you want from me? You want my love. You want my trust. You want my response. Response to a man’s touch. Your touch? But at that moment, you are not a man. Your demons have subjugated you, and all that stands before me is a hideous creature that wants to crush me and devour me, because I cannot be possessed.
Masculine. Macho. Masculinity dormant deep beneath the surface. Machismo reigning terror. Caveman macho. Gallant knight masculine. Tears well in your eyes. You ask me why I can’t see what is standing right in front of me, and you tell me one day I will realize what was before me all along. Love is coming. No, it’s already here. There, I said it, is what you tell me. This is the first time you say this without your elixirs of truth to prompt you. I am not deaf. I am not cold. I hear you.
Feeling safe. Talking. Crying. Running hot bath water, because I deserve it. I see what is standing before me.
Pork chops. Thick, center-loin pork chops dipped in egg, coated in my breadcrumb-Parmesan mix with my secret blend of spices. The pork chops fry while the small red potatoes and carrots roast in the oven. With fresh salad and French bread, oozing with real butter and gobs of fresh garlic and parsley and Italian seasoning, it is a dinner to make us all fat and happy—except I am cooking this meal for lunch.
Amara and Mike always elect me Queen of the Kitchen. I love to cook, and we all love to eat.
“I need to go to the store. Will you stay here with the girls? I don’t want to wake them from their naps,” Amara asks as I carry dishes to the sink. She and I met at the beginning of the year when we were working for the legislature. Her boyfriend is in jail, and Mike is one of his best friends. When Amara and I aren’t at work, the three of us are inseparable. On this particular day, we are at Amara’s house. She and her boyfriend have two beautiful little girls; the older one is three, and other is still an infant.
“Girl, you know you don’t have to ask. Of course, I’ll stay with them. Besides, I want to finish cleaning the kitchen.” I say as I wrap leftovers. “What’d you think of those pork chops?”
“They were awesome—like always. I probably gained twelve pounds!” She says chuckling. “I’ll be back in a little bit. I just want to get some diapers and pay the phone bill. You sure you don’t mind staying?”
“I don’t mind at all. Go. Don’t worry.” I reassure her. “We’ll be fine.”
“Okay then, I’m gonna go. I’ll be back in a bit.” She says, picking up her keys. Mike decides he wants to go with her. As they walk out the door, I walk into the hall, peek into the girls’ room to make sure they are still asleep, and return to my post in front of the sink to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. The soapsuds tickle my skin while the warm water caresses my hands. An occasional cool breeze, uncommon for an early August afternoon, dances through the window, bringing a cleansing and invigorating life to the entire house.
Amara and Mike are only gone minutes when from the kitchen window I see a man about my age, whom I don’t recognize. He walks up to the front door, and without knocking, walks in. It flabbergasts me that he feels comfortable enough to enter a home he doesn’t live in. I turn as he enters the kitchen and casually asks me, “I’m looking for Amara and Mike. Are they here?”
Perturbed by his lack of manners and failure to introduce himself, my response is assertive and business-like, “No. They went to the store. They should be back in a while. I can tell them you stopped by. Who are you?”
“Oh, they know who I am. I’m a friend.”
“Well I don’t know who you are, and Amara isn’t here, so I think you need to leave. I’ll have her call you when she gets back.”
I’m not sure if he doesn’t hear me or if he’s ignoring me, because he continues to walk, across the floor, toward the hallway perpendicular to the kitchen. “I need to use the restroom.”
“No. You need to leave.” His presence in the house is unsettling. My heart pumps harder, faster. I am apprehensive about him going into the same hallway as the girls’ bedroom. As I come closer to him, his dirty smell overwhelms the freshness of the breeze meandering through the house.
“I just need to use the restroom and then I will leave.”
My irritation shifts to terror, as a sense of urgency overcomes me. My body becomes defensive, my stance uncompromising. I move to block his entrance to the hallway as I say in an overwrought voice that escalates to a shout, “No. You aren’t going in there. You need to leave now!”
“Damn! Quit trippin’! I am just going to the bathroom.” Not taking my rejection serious, he tries to push me to the side. Resisting each other’s efforts, he tries to get into the hallway, and I try to keep him out. Realizing that I am unable to overpower him, and that he does not intend to leave, I hurry to the sink. Surprised by my sudden abandonment of our struggle, he turns to see what I am doing. Before he can comprehend that my hand has found a large chef’s knife, with fierce determination, I drive it into his abdomen.Leave. Those. Babies. Alone. I won’t let you hurt them.
His skin provides some initial resistance, but it quickly yields to the force of the weapon. Once it penetrates the surface, it goes in effortlessly. It continues to go in. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Each pierce of the glistening blade becomes easier. The knife enters his body rapidly, as if he were a pincushion. In and out. In and out. My motions, automatic. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! My hand, a fist around the handle of the blade, pummels his chest…again and again and again, the same way I chop parsley and garlic—quickly, mechanically. I have no idea of how many times the knife pierces him, or how long it takes his body to wilt. Time means nothing to me; it is nonexistent. Although I am here, I have also left. Both present and absent.
My awareness returns as I look down on the punctured, shredded, and motionless body of a man I have never met, a man whose name I don’t know, but whose blood journeys across the kitchen linoleum. It forms branches and creates rivers and streams of deep, rich crimson from a larger lake whose floodgates have opened—like fingers reaching out for me, calling me to it, trying to grab me—chasing me. Come here...
I won’t touch him. I don’t need to. I already know he’s dead. I just killed him. Oh my god! He’s dead, and I killed him! Why…why…why? He didn’t give me any reason to hurt him. The pools and lines of blood rapidly grow in size, and come closer and closer to me, trying to capture me. What am I going to do? How am I going to explain this? I know he wasn’t going to go into the bathroom. He was going into the girl’s room to get them. The police won’t believe me. He didn’t even make it into the hallway, let alone their bedroom. Did he have any weapons on him? He wanted to hurt them. I couldn’t let him damage those precious babies! What am I going to do? My gaaaawd… what am I going to do?!”
I think of prison—my entire life—and as horrible as it feels, I feel triumphant. I protected the girls—protected them from him.
My eyes snap open. Sweat seeps from my skin as I lay trembling and unable to breathe. It feels like a huge cork has been wedged into the dryness of my throat. I want to cry, but I’m unable to release tears or sound. My chest aches as it works strenuously, feebly, to suck air into my cast-iron lungs. The harder I try to breathe, the more suffocated I feel. My heart is a fist—punching its way out of its confinement. Blankets that cover me are now binds holding me captive; I am a paralyzed prisoner. The whole episode was vividly real. The sound of the water running as I filled the sink to wash dishes. The feel of the warm water and soapsuds on my hands. The smell and feel of the breeze on my face and in my nose. And…the feel of the knife penetrating him, the satisfying feeling of penetration, the rich color of his blood, and his dirty smell—so authentic in fact, that after all my questioning, I’m still uncertain.
Was it really a nightmare? Is there any chance I might have killed someone? I replay the scene. Again and again and again. I realize that although I was at Amara’s house in the dream, in reality the house belonged to my uncle.
I begin to feel thankful for the awareness that I didn’t commit murder, but I’m still distressed by the fact that I could think such morbid, realistic thoughts. Do I, somewhere deep inside myself, have secret desires of killing? Am I really a psychopath? How could I so easily kill another person—even in a dream? I must to be crazy. What if I really killed someone? What if I open my door and there he is, lying dead and savagely destroyed outside of this room? I stay in the darkness of my room, confined to my bed. I know that no person of any level of sanity would dream such a horrible thing, and yet be so comfortable with slaughter the way I was, satisfied, as if it were perfectly natural, second nature—expected.
Part 3
Dreams of death and dying. Stabbing. Sword impaling. Impaling. Impaling. Impaling. In and out. In and out. In and out and…in. Mangled bloody body. Second-hand flesh. Cold, limp, lifeless form, hurting no more. Free. Free. Free...
Help me! Someone help me… pleeeeease! He’s going to hurt me! Please, someone… anyone! Screams try to escape me. My icy body trembles with terror. The harder I attempt to scream, the more silent I became. My mind hears the shrieks and cries, but my ears hear nothing. My mouth is sealed shut, unable to move. My throat is unable to create sound. Open your mouth! Work damnit! Scream! No one is going to hear you if you don’t make some noise. The rest of my body follows the lead of my mouth—rigid, cold, petrified. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to beg for help, but all I can do is sit—sit motionless and wait—wait for him—for him to come and get me. I stay, cemented to the big chair in the living room, heavy and immobilized by the weight of the concrete that has been poured into my body.
“The kitchen window is open too,” I tell Megan as she walks through the house shutting and locking widows.
“Well get your ass up and close it. Damn! Why do I have to close all of them? Your legs aren’t broken!” She says with a blend of humor and annoyance. Please don’t make me get up. Please. If I just sit here quiet, maybe he won’t know I’m here. Shhh…be quiet. Shhh…shhh…
Somehow, I manage to release myself from the hold of this invisible perpetrator. I make my way, zombie like, to the kitchen window, close it and lock it, and move away as quickly as I can—just to be safe. Megan, my roommate, and I were watching television, on this warm, sultry August evening, just before midnight, when the house unexpectedly filled with blackness. Logic reassures me that there is no reason to be alarmed. From our living room window, we see that the lights are out on the entire block.
“Someone must have hit a power pole,” Megan says, “but we should shut and lock the house just to be safe.” Although rationally I know it’s nothing more than a power outage, something inside me tells me he’s coming to get me—to hurt me. Boogey Man’s gonna get you… I don’t feel like he wants to kill me, and I didn’t know who he is. I only knew that this predator is a man who desires to hurt me somehow, someway.
“Well since we don’t have any electricity, I am going to bed.” Megan says matter-of-factly. Isn’t she afraid of him?
“No! I know! Let’s pretend we’re having a slumber party. You know, we can take flashlights and tell stories—just like we did when we were kids and we were supposed to be sleeping. Ah, come on! It’ll be fun!” Act normal. Act normal. Normal? I’m not afraid. I’m not. I’m…not....
“Are we going to tell ghost stories too?” Megan asks with tired cynicism.
He’s not a ghost—he’s the Boogey Man! “I guess we could, but what if we get ourselves too scared?” I force a chuckle that only I know is fake. “Besides, what if there’s some weirdo running around? Please, whatever you do, don’t let him get me. You know, there’s strength in numbers.” You have to convince her to stay with you, or he’s gonna get you. Boogey man gonna get you! “Just think, if we go to sleep some psycho ax-killer might come in and hack us into tiny, unidentifiable pieces just like in those horror movies.” I force myself to laugh and make it sound like a silly, far-fetched idea—a sales pitch to stay awake—especially since I rarely sleep before dawn, but I know the truth. “Anyway, you know there is no way I am going to be able to sleep this early, and with no light or electricity for me to read or watch TV, I’ll be harassing you to wake when I’m bored and can’t sleep.” Keep going. She’s almost convinced, but do not, under any circumstances tell her the secret. “Come on…It’ll be like when we were kids.” I can’t tell her what was really going on with me. She’ll certainly know that I’m crazy—that I’ve crossed the border into complete madness.
Megan and I grew up next door to each other, like family. We fight and curse each other, and yet we have an unbreakable loyalty to each other. I am the sister Megan never had, and she is the sister that I wish my sister could be.
“Okay, I will stay up for a while, and then I am going to bed.”
“It will be fun!” Still shaken and terrified, I am soothed by the knowledge that Megan will stay up with me. I know he won’t prey on me with someone else around. I’m safe as long as I’m not alone.
I have no idea how long the power remained out. I can’t recall what Megan and I talked about during the darkness, but I can remember I found security in the distraction and my fear passed by the time the electricity returned.
Megan and I said good night, and I went into my room and fell asleep.
Part Four
Greasy, jet-black, baby-oiled hair. Hamm’s beer, old and nauseating. Smell of stale cigars enveloping, choking. Buried alive beneath weight unbearable. No air to breathe. Small, coarse, curly black wires. Purple-headed, spitting snake, slithering, slithering—strike! Be still! Shhhh…be still. Fly away, fly away…little watcher from the sky.
Mere days separated my dream killing and my fear of falling prey to my unknown predator, but there had been countless other dreams and nightmares. Sometimes, terror would visit me in the middle of the day, sometimes in a public place, and always without warning. The demons that lived in my mind would seize me and hold me hostage. I would become stiff, and rendered powerless by a smell or a sensation, and once again I would be unable to breathe—numb—lifeless, my body torpid, with not a lone tear able to find an escape.
I had always felt my mental stability was anything but stable, and at times, even as a small child, I wondered if one day I would go completely crazy. It seemed that lunacy was finally making its appearance—at the young age of 24. I spent every day waiting, just as I had waited for him. Waiting for the day that I would truly go over the edge—to become one of “them”—the crazies who were damned to institutions, thewalking dead. I carefully presented myself to the world as every bit a person of sound mind. It would only complicate matters if people really knew what was going on in my head, my own prison, my very own hell—all mine. All mine…
Part Five
Prince of Death, take me from this hell. Prince of Death, liberate me from these demons so they can harm me no more. Rescue me. Rescue me. Rescue me…
I had one friend I could share my secret with. One friend who I could tell about the prison riots of my own mind. One friend who made me feel better. Made me forget the pain. Reassured me of my sanity. Al. Al and I spent countless nights together. Sometimes we hung out alone. Frequently we hung out with some of my friends, but he never, ever, told anyone my secrets. Shhh…it’s a secret. Our secret. You can’t tell anyone. Promise? He never mentioned the murder or madness. He never spoke of the pain or my predator. My secrets were safe with him—until one night, that night. We partied with friends after work from 7 o’clock in the evening until we decided to head home at 5:15 in the morning.
Driving home, I see the flashing illumination of red and blue. The siren shrieks. I pull over. The officers approach my vehicle. They see me; they don’t see Al. They only smell him.
“Ma’am, have you been drinking?”
“I had a couple.” I learned from my first time to never admit the exact amount.
“We need you to step out of the car please.”
On the side of the freeway, cars race by. Zoom…Zoom…Zoom..Zoom. Zoom. I can jump into the lane. If I time it right, they won’t be able to stop me. This will all end. I’ll make sure I do it right this time. I’ll defeat them! No more madness. Do it! Do it! Do it! Now! Jump, jump, jump … jump …….. jump ……… jump ……… ……..what are ‘ya…chicken?
“Ma’am, we would like you to stand on one foot, bend your other leg at the knee, put your arms out like this, and tilt your head back” says Officer Goode.
“Did you take her license?” Officer Mau asks. I recognize him. He’s one of them. I can see the evil behind his eyes. He’s a demon too, but he’s disguised. I know. I’ve seen demons before. I can smell you. He hurts people, but I won’t let him hurt me.
“Yes. She already gave me her license.”
“We’re taking her in, right?”
Officer Goode places the cuffs on me as gently as he can, and guides me to the center of the back seat in the patrol car. He gets in after me and sits to my right and begins questioning me. Officer Mau makes degrading, humiliating, comments to me from the driver seat. One, two, three. Three people in a police car. He doesn’t realize that I knew who he is. Even though I have never seen him before, I know him. He’s one of them.my time to strike, “Hey, Asshole,” my stare solidifies. My demons are geared up for battle. Through the rear-view mirror, Mau and I make eye contact. Our gazes lock. It’s
“You think you’re a tough guy, don’t you. I know you. I know who you are. I know your secret. You get off on little girls, don’t you. They make you feel soooo good, huh? They make you feel strong, don’t they? I bet they make you feel in control.” Suddenly he’s silent, refusing to look at me. His silence confirms what I know. “Do you like sticking your big man dick into little tiny girl holes? Does that make you feel good? Do you tell them that if they tell anyone, they’ll have to go to jail? What do you tell them? Do you have a daughter? Do you and she have a secret—just between the two of you? What’s the matter, tough guy? You sure are quiet now. Talk your shit now. Say something, fucker. Say something! Say something, dammit!!! What, you’re not such a tough guy? Are you scared? Did I just tell your big secret? Say something.” From the depths of my stomach I bellow, “Talk, bitch!” Mau doesn’t take his eyes off the road. As quickly as my roar came, my cool demeanor returns. I finish my interrogation with, “Or are you scared because I just hit the nail on the head?” My eyes remain locked on him, while my mouth forms a smirk of cocky victory.
Officer Goode, with his calm patience gently repeats, “I know you’re upset. Calm down. Just settle down. Settle down.”
I spend the night at the newly built main jail. Unlike my last visit, I have a private room, no prostitutes or dope fiends. There are no bars, only glass and concrete. I sit in my temporary dwelling—alone. I sporadically slam my head into the glass and the concrete walls. Maybe I am angry because I didn’t have “Mama,” the old street walker, to watch over me like she did last time. Maybe it is because I felt that Al had let me down. After all, it is just as much his fault. He promised me I would be okay. He told me he would take care of everything. He promised. He had penetrated me— at a level of 0.18, albeit his invasion was by my invitation.
My visit in the tank is a little longer than it was in the past. Maybe it is because I let Officer Mau know that I know who he is. Maybe it was because they know I am a lunatic. Am I? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know…
I am finally released on my own recognizance. When I walk out into the daylight, Amara is parked in front of the jail.
Lonely child with pinpricked and poked flesh…carved covering…sliced skin. Demons be gone! De-part! I will control the pain. Hear me! I will control the pain. I will…I will…I will…
Amara and I exchange few words while she drives me to my house. I’m exhausted, physically sick, and emotionally beaten.
As I walked in the door, Megan comes out of her bedroom, still in her pajamas, and asks, “How are you? Are you all right?”
“I wish I was dead. I’m probably going to lose my job over this.” The legislative session just ended, and I’m off work until the new session starts in January. I’ll deal with work then.
She looks at me. I can tell she’s hesitant to speak. “Um…you’re mom called last night…”
“Fuck her. I have nothing to say to that bitch.” My mother is the last thing I want to deal with. I tried to reach out to her a couple months ago, when everything was starting to spiral out of control. I called to ask her to meet me for coffee, but she was too busy with work. I still don’t know how she couldn’t hear the quivering and panic in my voice when I spoke. She remained light and giddy when she asked me what I wanted to talk about. She trivialized my feelings. She trivialized me. I didn’t want her to do anything she didn’t want to do. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal” I told her just before I hung up the phone. I haven’t talked to my mother since.
“She wants you to call her. She said she got your letter.” Yeah, the letter that I wrote the last day I spoke to her. Every bit of my fear, anger, madness and hatred came out in that letter. The penmanship looked as if someone with an 800-pound hand wrote it. My tears left warped spots on the paper, stinging salt signatures. That letter contained all the pain, rejection, and revulsion that she had given me for so many years, and I decided to return to its rightful owner.
“Why does she suddenly want to talk to me now? Did you tell her where I was last night?” Now she wants to talk to me? What about when I sent the letter—almost two months ago? What about before that when I tried to talk to her?
Megan responds with a nervous, “yes.” Her eyes try desperately to understand the bitter, angry, disheveled woman standing in front of her.
“Thanks for the message. I’m going to bed.” As I walk into my room, I lock the door. Dropping onto the bed as if my legs were kicked out from under me, I curl into a tight ball and pull the covers over my head. I don’t cry. I pray that I never wake up. I’m already dead. Long ago I died emotionally and spiritually. What remains is only the casing of a human.
Just as I began to drift to sleep, I hear them laughing. They know they’re defeating me. The demons are having a celebratory party.
Part Seven
It’s early in the evening when I wake up. I drag my damaged, cumbersome body into the kitchen, look for something to saturate Al’s residue—the reminders of our time together last night. Megan, bless her heart, tries to be sympathetic. She tries to talk to me, but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m pissed that I’m still alive.
I sit at the table eating when I hear a knock at the door. Megan gets up from the big living room chair and answers the call. It’s my mother. As she walks in, Megan disappears into another room.
“I got your letter,” she says, towering over me as I sit at the kitchen table.
“Oh.” I continue to eat without looking at her.
“What the hell is going on?”
“What do you think?” I respond aggravated. That’s a stupid question. I already know she talked to Megan. “I fucking got arrested. I spent the night in jail, and I’m probably going to lose my job. That’s what’s going on. Fuck.” I won’t look at her. I don’t want her here.
“Look at me please.”
“No. Say what you have to say so you can leave.”
“I want to talk to you about your letter.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Just forget I ever sent it.”
“I’m not going to forget it. Will you talk to me?” My mother is different. I’ve never seen her like this, so calm.
“There’s nothing to talk about. I said all I had to say in that letter.”
“Let’s go have coffee.”
“I don’t want to. I’m going to finish eating, and then I’m going to go back to bed.”
“If I come back in a few hours, will you go have coffee with me?” Is this really my mother? She actually seems like she’s trying. My mother? She isn’t yelling at me. She isn’t screaming at me like she did all those times I did something she didn’t like.
She won’t leave until I either talk to her or agree to meet with her. I do what I need to so I can go back to the safety of my room. “Fine. I don’t care. Whatever.” I say without ever taking my eyes off my plate.
Part Eight
In the nearly vacant pancake diner, my mother sits on one side of the booth, I on the other. The lack of customers makes it feel like they closed the place just for us. We linger, awkward, silently debating what to order, both knowing that it is only a matter of time before we address the real reason for our meeting. Either it’s all gonna come out, or we’re gonna fight. Either way, I don’t care. I stare at the etched glass dividing the booths. I look at the hanging silk ferns. One, two, three. One, two, three. I turn so I can see them all. One, two, three…one, two. Three, six, nine, plus two equals eleven. Eleven hanging plants. I read the signs for special, limited-time-only pancakes. I stare at the empty tables. I look at everything except my mother. I notice the stark contrast of the dark night sky outside the window, and the bright lights inside. I look at the decanters of syrup: pecan, blueberry, boysenberry, and strawberry—the color of blood, thick and sticky. My fingers run over the shapes of the smooth glass containers, the sporadic rough edges on the plastic handles. One, two, three…plus one. Three plus one equals four. Four jars of syrup. Suddenly, without looking up, I said in a low, angry, confrontational tone, “You never comforted me. You never hugged me. You never made me feel safe.”
As she starts to speak, I raise my head to look at her. My eyes shoot darts into the centers of her eyes. “You wouldn’t let me. I tried, but you wouldn’t let anyone near you. You never let anyone touch you.” She looks scared, nervous. Is she hiding something, or is she afraid? Ear, eye, nostril. Nostril, eye, ear. Mouth. One, two, three. One, two, three. One. Three plus three plus one equals seven. Seven holes in a person’s head.
“Did you ever wonder why?” My voice becomes tense. I’m ready to brawl. “I’ll tell you why. Because someone hurt me. That’s why. Someone did things to me that he only should have done with his wife.” I begin to cry. All those tears that for so long were unable to escape have finally found their way out, and they begin to flee in hoards. And, I notice that my mother begins to weep.
“Who? Who hurt you?”
With no hesitation, I blurt out “Your father.” I’m now sobbing. My tears have finally found the voice that has been lost for so long.
My mother’s gaze shifts from me to somewhere unknown. Her head shakes faintly from side to side as she exhales a quick disgusted puff before her eyes return back to mine. “My god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.” She begins to cry harder. “I thought you were safe. I really did. Her hands shake as they nervously squeeze her napkin into what looks like a piece of chewed gum. “My earliest memory of him doing it to me was when I was ten.” She looks down at her hands, then she looks back at me. “I thought that I got you out of that house in time.” Suddenly, we are allies. “I thought that by getting you out at three you would be safe.” For the first time, I notice that my mother had beautiful brown eyes that hold their own stories. We are both fighting the same demon. “It all makes sense now,” she says, as if she has just been blessed with an epiphany, “all the behaviors. At times I wondered, but when I tried to hint around about it, you avoided the subject.”
“I blocked a lot of it out.” I say. I find myself surprisingly more comfortable than I was only moments ago. “This summer it started to come back to me. His black hair was oily. He smelled of stale beer and cigars and cheap after shave. I remember the wiry, coarse, curly black hair on his belly, below his navel, and on his legs near his groin. He had scars on his abdomen.”
“Yes.” She looks like she wants to vomit. “Yes…he did...” She can see him too.
“I remember. I remember his body vividly.” We both sit silently, possessed by the memories that haunt us. I break the silence. “I always thought you hated me, that I was a burden, and I hated you for that. I hated that you ever had me. I wondered why you kept me, because I always felt that you didn’t want me.”
My mother looks shocked, but her face becomes confident as she looks into my eyes. “I love you. I have always loved you. I kept you because I wanted you. I tried to get you to let me in, but you were so guarded.” Her hand reaches across the table and rests on my hand. I remember. I remember seeing pictures of my mother and me when I was an infant and a small child. She was holding me and playing with me. She looked proud, so doting, so…happy.
We continue to talk, and I cry, for that little girl who is finally telling her secret. For the girl who has spent so many years alone in her private hell. I cry because I finally have the mother I never felt I had. All my hatred for my mother begins to fade.
I cry for my mother. She has been a pincushion too. Only I learn that he was more violent with her. He raped her until she was eighteen, when she left the house. I learn that in an effort to escape him, she moved away from her parents’ home immediately after high school graduation. She was on her own only a few months when the man she was dating raped her. My father. He is my father—not my dad—my biological father. I have never known him. My mother never knew him either. She found out that everything he presented to her was a façade—his name, address—everything. Finding herself with child and with no means to feed another mouth, she moved back to the only place she could, her parents’ house. We lived there until I was three.
My mother cries with me. We cry because the pain is no longer alone. It has found a way out. We finally understand each other.
“Have you told your grandmother?”
“No. I’ve only told you. I can’t tell her. It’ll kill her. He was her husband. What woman wants to hear that about her husband? Especially when he has been dead for fourteen years.”
“I think she would want to know. I also think that it will make her understand what you’ve been through and why you’ve done the things you have. She loves you very much.”
It’s true that my grandmother loves me. Of her nine grandchildren, I am her favorite. She has been my maternal figure all the years that I have felt no maternal bond with my own mother. She is always there for me. She always let me know that no matter what I do, she loves me. “Would you feel better if I told her? If you want me to, I will.” As painful as the conversation is, it’s also cleansing. My scabs are slowly being picked away allowing the puss to ooze out. Although removing the scabs is painful, the pressure is diminishing with the release of the poison. The pain is dissipating. I am receiving what I have longed for all those years—a mother—my mother—who is nurturing me and caring for me, her scared and hurt baby girl.
Part Nine
Come here little girl. I won’t let him hurt you anymore. I’ll protect you. I love you.
The following day, my mother comes to my house again. Unlike the last time she visited, I am happy to see her. She came to check on me and to just be with me. She also tells me that she called my grandmother.
“What did she say? How did she handle it?”
“She cried. She’s angry at him. She said she’ll never take flowers to his grave again. She also thinks you don’t want to ever talk to her again.”
“Why?”
“Because she was married to him. She blames herself. She thinks she should have known. You really should call her when you get the chance.”
I love you, Mommy.
My mother and I spend the rest of the afternoon together talking and watching television. While I nap, she stays near me. I feel better having her there. I feel safe. Protected. I felt more at peace than I have ever felt in my life.
Part Ten
The Boogey man isn’t real. Besides, if you see him, just tell your mom. He’ll say he’s gonna hurt you if you tell, but really, if you tell, it takes all his power away.
After my mother leaves, I call my grandmother. I am emotionally drained and physically exhausted, more than I ever felt before, but it is a good feeling. I feel that I just engaged in an extensive battle, but that I had walked away victorious. I realize that demons live where snails live—in the dark, in the cold, and in the dirty. They are secretive, and they feed off flowers in bloom. And like snails, you rarely see one’s demons; you only see the trails of devastation they cause.
“Hi, Nana.”
I can tell she’s trying not to cry. “Hi, sweetie.”
“I know my mom talked to you and told you everything. How are you?”
Don’t worry about me. How are you? I hear her fear, her sympathy, and her anger.
“I’m great.”
“How can you be great? She sounds irritated, as if she doesn’t believe what I am saying.
“I’m great because of this. This is good news.”
“How the hell can it be good news? That son of a bitch hurt you. He hurt an innocent child.”
“Exactly. That is the good part. All these years, all my life, I felt crazy. Insane. I thought my madness would kill me, and I wanted to die. Now, I realize that I wasn’t crazy, but rather I was reacting to something someone did to me when I was too small to fight, to afraid to tell. I thought I had a terminal diagnosis. Now I know I don’t. It’s the difference between a malignant tumor and a benign tumor. My tumor is benign. It’s going to take a lot of work to remove it, and there will probably be some scarring, but I can still lead a normal, healthy life.”
“I guess I never looked at it that way, but okay. I’m still pissed at him, and I swear I will never take flowers to his grave again. That bastard!” She cannot conceal the disgust she is feeling. She has no concern for proper language when she is upset. Not only did he betray her, but he hurt me. She asked me, “What are you doing tomorrow?
“Nothing really. Why?”
“I’m going to make pork chops for dinner. Why don’t you come over tomorrow and we’ll have dinner.” I can tell that as much as I need to know she believes me and still loves me, she needs to know I don’t blame her and that I still love her.
Eating isn’t particularly interesting to me at this point, but I know it’s important for her to see me. “Nana, you know I can’t resist your pork chops. What time do you want me to come over?”
“How about five or six?”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
“Do you need anything?” She asks affectionately. “Are you going to be okay? Do you need me to bring you something, or do you want me to come over?” She asks.
“Thank you, Nana, but I just want to go to bed. All of this has exhausted me. I’m drained, and I want to go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
“Good night, Nana.”
Later, as I lay awake, drifting off to sleep, I think about everything that is going on. I am throwing away all the pins as I removed them from my cushion. I am also letting the stuffing out so that it no longer holds pins. Yet, I realize you never really get rid of pins. Sometimes they aren’t visible to the naked eye, and you don’t know they are there until you or someone you know is pricked, but they always find a pincushion somewhere to poke themselves into.
Part Eleven
Demons, be gone! You are ordered to leave. You will not haunt this child any longer!
The next day, I go to my grandmother’s house for dinner. As always her pork chops are delectable. After dinner, we watch television. Neither of us mentions her husband. We don’t need to. If I need to talk about it, she will listen, but I also know that with this new knowledge, she is experiencing her own emotional turmoil toward him. We find peace simply being with each other.
As it grows later in the night, I tell my grandmother that I am going to go home. I am tired. We say good-bye, and I walk to my car. I stop, hardly conscious I have done so. I survey the dark and deserted street. I smell an all too familiar odor. Someone is smoking a cigar.
I stand motionless for an instant, before I draw the cool, moist night air into my lungs.
I thought of you today. I walked outside my door, and as I stood in my front yard, I felt the warmth of the sun kissing my skin. Immediately I thought it would be a perfect day to peacefully lounge in beautiful surroundings and escape to a place otherworldly. That’s when I thought of you.
You and I have a dynamic connection that has grown and cultivated slowly and grows ever steady like the mighty oak.
With you, I feel a spiritual connection: the need and desire to help others, to try to achieve a sense of purity in life and who I am, but also an acknowledgment of a darker side—a side that is nefarious and pushes the limits of our priggish society. Few people can simultaneously draw those conflicting sides out of me, and yet make me feel the delicious temptation of the unification of such opposites. You see the most surreptitious side of me—that side society deems uncivilized. I thank you. Although this contradiction has always existed in me, being dictated by societal norms, I have suppressed it. However, you have allowed me to feel free and enlightened. You have taken from me everything I have hidden behind, leaving me completely naked, and as a result, I have been forced to look at myself. How can one know purity without knowing perversion? True ecstasy is the recognition of the two forces and the joining of the two into a rhythmic and harmonious existence.
This exquisite connection that we share has been my muse. I have found the embers of my passions, my sensuality, and my creativity rekindled. What we share is pristine. Not because it is entirely good, but because it acknowledges the dark as well as the light, and that identification alone indicates honesty, and honesty is always pure. Every day I am near you our my thoughts shift to you, I am revisited by the muses, and nothing could be more beautiful.
This understanding of each other is itself spiritual. Though we each maintain a certain mystery about each of us, we have a sacred connection that is empathetic, yet still seeking exploration.
I am both blessed and enchanted by this relationship we share.