When I was born, my parents moved to a bigger house. Instead of converting the room next to theirs into a nursery for the new baby, they made a home office for my father. No sweet decorations, no adorable wallpaper, no musical mobiles or princess furniture. Instead there were books up to the ceiling, a desk, a lamp with a low shade, filing cabinets, and a twin-sized bed for when my father wanted to escape from my mother. Oh, and a crib against one wall.
I remember nightmares I had in that crib. A parade of crazy animals once came marching out of the wall and terrified me. Another time my father's books ballooned to enormous sizes, swelling out of the shelves and burying me. I had no words, but I still remember the pictures.
So I grew up in an office. It was a dark and serious room, and I stayed there until I was old enough to manage the full flight of stairs that led to the bedrooms on the second floor. Then I got kicked upstairs with my brothers.
I remember lots of nightmares from my bedroom upstairs. I would have the bejesus scared out of me, and I would wake in the dark, too afraid to move. Often I would be sideways or upside down in bed, and I would lie there and look for light from the windows until I could figure out where the hell I was.
I remember trying to call for my mother, but I was so scared no sound would come out. I sounded like a baby bird. Eventually I would muster up enough courage to make the long march down the stairs, past the scary front door, past the darkened living room, and down the hall to my parents' room. Their door was always closed. I would stand there forever, trying to get up the nerve to knock. I knew I would be in trouble for waking them up, but by then I was too afraid to go back upstairs by myself.
After a lifetime of nightmares I've sorted them into four categories:
STRESSMARES are exhausting and endless - you can't find the right classroom, you're on the wrong train, your pants have disappeared, that kind of thing. They are semi-related to events from real life. They can be heart-pounding and unpleasant, but they aren't usually very mysterious.
NIGHTMARES are terrifying and random. Although in my daily life I avoid anything violent, scary, or occult, my nightmares are filled with everything from flesh-eating monsters, to evil ghosts (they look like multi-colored vapors), to being hunted down by guerrillas. These nightmares are vivid, detailed, and horrifying. Often I have to turn my head or cover my eyes in my own dream to avoid seeing something especially grisly or unspeakable. I have no idea where these horrible images come from.
NIGHT TERRORS are nightmares on steroids. I get covered with goose bumps and my heart pounds so hard it feels like it will crack a rib. If I ever appear to "die peacefully in my sleep," it will actually be because a night terror polished me off. Night terrors are hyper-real, all-consuming, and almost impossible to escape - plus they often come back. They feel like your brain has been hijacked by terrorists.
There is one more important category, and that is MESSAGE DREAMS. I believe there is a lot we could learn from our dreams if we only knew how.
Before I was diagnosed with uterine cancer I had three very specific, urgent dreams that something was wrong with my abdomen and I had to find a doctor. So I did.
For the last year or so I was plagued by recurring nightmares about being stuck with hundreds and hundreds of pins and needles. I'm a human pin cushion. My feet are studded with the flat, round tops of dozens of pins. My throat and mouth are filled with cross-crossing silver needles, so I can't breathe or speak. I pull fistfuls of pins and needles out of my arms and legs and throw them to the ground the way Pigpen shed dirt. Everything hurts.
I knew these dreams were message dreams, but the symbolism escaped me. Did the multitude of pins indicate a cellular problem? Maybe a blood disease? Diabetes?
Then it hit me like a blinding flash of the obvious. Voodoo. I was a human voodoo doll. The pins were attacks - a lifetime's worth; every incident of physical and emotional abuse and neglect, plus every insult, slight, and under-cutting word or deed. And I was frantically trying to pull them all out.
I have no doubt that in another culture my mother would have been a malevolent Voodoo queen. Not all Voodoo is malevolent, but - despite her convincing "poor little me" act - she was one hell of a powerful, vicious, destructive woman. She was like an insect that lived by sucking the nectar of joy out of the world, replacing it with rancid poison. It's easy to picture her with three primitive little dolls representing her children, who were nothing but aggravation and disappointment to her. She didn't want children; she wanted little robots that would perform on cue to make her look good, and then go back in their cages.
I don't pretend to understand the mind/body connection in health, but I know there is one. To me it seems quite logical that if your own mother spends every year of your life resenting, insulting, and disdaining you; neglecting, molesting, and abusing you; being jealous of you; and wishing you would go away and stop bothering her; this constant onslaught of hate has to have an effect.
If you read Entry #8, you already know that my oldest brother took my parents' wishes to heart and decided to make them happy by removing himself from the planet. My brother and I struggled with the same questions. Should I fulfill my mother's fondest wishes and just die? Or, in spite of her contempt, do I deserve to live?
For me, the Voodoo curses of a lifetime seem to be constantly doing battle with the forces of good, because I keep getting sick, but I'm not dead yet. I should be healthy. I have good genes. I don't smoke or drink. My cholesterol is perfect. I eat organic, non-processed foods, and drink only spring water, or lemonade made with fresh lemons. But I'm a wreck. Why?
•. As a toddler I got tonsillitis several times a year all through grade school. I lived on penicillin.
•. That turned into chronic strep throat as a teenager.
•. That became abscessed tonsils - a constant infection. The doctor recommended that I have a tonsillectomy, but my mother would not allow it. (In college I finally made my own arrangements to have my tonsils out, and stayed at my boyfriend's house.)
•. I had mononucleosis twice by the age of 20.
•. By age 23 I had shingles - an old people problem!
•. At age 30 the chronic migraines started after I had an epidural during childbirth. (I still get migraines 30 years later.)
•. I developed gall bladder disease, which the doctors missed, and eventually had emergency gall bladder surgery.
• I got Cushing's syndrome from being prescribed too many steroids for the migraines. The doctors missed that, too, until I was half dead.
•. I got uterine cancer because the Cushing's made me fat and knocked out my immune system (among other things).
•. The arthritis in my back is now so painful that I can't walk more than a few feet, and I need a wheelchair to get around.
•. Oh yeah - my teeth are ridiculous because my mother never took me to the dentist, and I'm paying for it now.
These illnesses could be chalked up to bad luck and bad parenting. But I also believe that abuse sets up survivors for a lifetime of emotional and physical difficulties. I believe Voodoo and ill intent can make another person sick, especially when the victim knows they are being cursed. That is a heavy burden.
Fortunately, I now know that this is not the whole story.
Researchers have tried to study the effect of prayer on health, but without a lot of success, because they asked random people to pray for random patients. For some reason, no one seems to have studied the effect of receiving moral support from friends and loved ones. I am positive that when friends, acquaintances, Facebook buddies, and even health care providers send good thoughts in your direction – encouragement, light, love, prayer, or whatever makes sense to them – their personalized good intentions can do a world of good.
Sick people were asked the single most helpful thing you can do for them, and the answer was: send a card. That’s it. Just let them know you are thinking about them and wishing them well.
Good thoughts can beat bad juju. How do I know that? Because I am blessed with wonderful friends who keep pulling me back from the brink. Thanks, guys.
And your snail mail address would be....?
ReplyDelete