Sunday, April 04, 2010
You know, I haven't written so personally for so long, either in what I used to call poetry - but now just call 'my crappy style' because everyone I've shown it to claims to be unable to understand it - or in what used to be known as a 'diary'. The feeling of putting pen to paper is very special, as long as you feel you have plenty of stuff that really has to be indelibly committed to the page. Unless you really feel stirred up, you cannot do it properly. As the person who originally inspired me wrote in a letter, 'Always shoot from the hip; then, ironically, the heart speaks and there is natural flow.' I was 15 and a deeply depressed and deeply secretive teenager in need of a private friend. My inspiration introduced me to that. It was called writing. I referred to the transformation as '... being hurled into an active spinning colourbox...'
My writing became my method of self-protection as well as self-expression, and a way of trying to make sense of everything that happened. Especially events and knock-on effects beyond my (or anyone else's) control. That's it, a method of control. If I wrote everything down and structured it either into an example of 'my crappy style' a short story, or simply made it into a factual essay, then no one could say that what I felt wasn't real. Of course my grandmother and other relatives did that all the time. I don't know how I weathered that for so bloody long. I can only remember that my flotation devices, protective weapons, reliable friends and saviours were Rock Music and my writing. Of course I had to lock my writing away and wait until the house was empty before turning on The Who, Hendrix, Janis Joplin and the Velvet Underground at full blast!
I took sanctuary in writing in an unparalleled way in 1992, when my mother killed herself. For ten years, I wrote a constant suite of pieces expressing every rotten trick that grief played on me, the repeated avalanche of conflicting emotions and the disgusting machinations my grandmother used to shatter our lives further. She arranged the funeral for Valentine's Day, the birthday of my other grandmother (the two old women shared a natural animosity, that the grandmother I hate would play up as sport) How do I know she did that? Too easy; I saw her march up to the Rabbi, tapping her watch, dry-eyed as a general. Then, after making sure she had an audience in the cramped chapel, throwing herself on the coffin and wailing. The sympathy should be for her alone, that all said. She accused another family member of murder.
She made sure I was not asked to say my piece at the inquest. How do I know? She kindly phoned me the day after it had come and gone to announce an 'Open Verdict'. This was a tidy, complete lie, still is, and I shall never change my mind. So I could not inform everyone that I must have been the last person my mother spoke to as the pills and alcohol took effect: 'Have a good life, Felicia', over the phone. I knew something was wrong, as Irene's voice changed from seemingly tearfull to completely blank and expressionless, and she hardly ever used my name, prefering 'darling' or something. But I was in Wembley and she was well over a hundred miles away, too far now.
Oh incidentally, my grandmother also chose that conversation in September 1992 to tell me about how my grandfather had killed himself in 1946. Clearly, she wanted to abuse his memory too. Other members of my family could not understand why I wrote her out of my life for several years, ripping up the letters she sent, not answering the phone. And when I steeled myself to try and forgive her, she threw that back in my face too. So when she died, I turned up at the funeral just to support my Step-grandfather, who had never had the nerve to be like her. I stood stony faced in that same dull and freezing chapel, listening to shocked whispers racing around me: 'Look at Felicia, she's not crying!' That's right. Unlike this vampire, this boa constrictor, this worst kind of matriarch that we were seeing off, I had no desire to give a performance. I shall never forgive or forget any of this as long as I live.
God, it feels so damned good to get this out into Cyberspace. I'm finally doing it - never thought I had the nerve - the truth is now out there. I love you and miss you and I'm fed up of keeping all this to myself. Our family has never been able to talk about this, and I'm sick of it being conveniently written out of our history - just like my grandfather's suicide was written out. The pain is still raw in me, but I can do this because I've written about it so often before but locked it away and then filed it in a sheath binder somewhere.
I had an emotional breakdown in April 1999, and had a grief counsellor visit me for a couple of months to get me to make the 'Breakthrough'. You should have heard the screams; I turned that particular session into a Primal Scream scenario, letting rip at a family member who was already over a year dead. Made no difference to me, she was still toying with my feelings, so when I finally blasted 'I hate you! I hate you!', the poor woman who'd dragged it all out of me was shaking with shock in one corner of the sofa, and I was shaking in shock and relief in the other corner of the sofa! I apologised to for frightening her, but she was emphatic:- 'No no, you've done the spadework. Well done!'
Actually, I recommend other members of my family try doing this. It is clearly easier than talking to each-other. Let's face it, none of us like slanging matches, do we? I'm sick and tired of being told how I'm supposed to feel about this or that; whether it's unruly kids' behaviour, treacherous pavements on any of my jogging routes, lousy food at weddings and Xmas lunches, censorship on TV, 'controversial' rock music lyrics, undrinkable but politically correct coffee, work-life balance, what rings to wear on which fingers, Bob Dylan's continuing relevance or family tragedy.
I've been dealing with it, now it's everyone elses' turn.
So now I'm writing again, and I feel refreshed and strangely empowered. Maybe the difference is that what I say is in danger of actually being read by a wide concord of complete strangers around the globe, and perhaps by a small number of people who believe that they know me... You know, the latter group are the hardest to communicate to, because even now they probably won't accept my views. On anything. I'm the loose cannon, the little girl, the one my grandmother viewed as only worthy of emotional blackmail, scorn, manipulation, humiliation and outright lies. Well, here's the knock-on effect. It's a damned good thing I never want to have kids, because heaven help them if they turn out like me. It's not all my fault, you know. I'm just not the right material, girl.
Hopefully tomorrow I'll write about something less 'controversial', easier to deal with, and maybe even funny. I do have a sense of humour: I have reduced a couple of my workmates to shocked laughter with my Quasimodo impersonation. It wasn't even at full throttle! Good night.
My writing became my method of self-protection as well as self-expression, and a way of trying to make sense of everything that happened. Especially events and knock-on effects beyond my (or anyone else's) control. That's it, a method of control. If I wrote everything down and structured it either into an example of 'my crappy style' a short story, or simply made it into a factual essay, then no one could say that what I felt wasn't real. Of course my grandmother and other relatives did that all the time. I don't know how I weathered that for so bloody long. I can only remember that my flotation devices, protective weapons, reliable friends and saviours were Rock Music and my writing. Of course I had to lock my writing away and wait until the house was empty before turning on The Who, Hendrix, Janis Joplin and the Velvet Underground at full blast!
I took sanctuary in writing in an unparalleled way in 1992, when my mother killed herself. For ten years, I wrote a constant suite of pieces expressing every rotten trick that grief played on me, the repeated avalanche of conflicting emotions and the disgusting machinations my grandmother used to shatter our lives further. She arranged the funeral for Valentine's Day, the birthday of my other grandmother (the two old women shared a natural animosity, that the grandmother I hate would play up as sport) How do I know she did that? Too easy; I saw her march up to the Rabbi, tapping her watch, dry-eyed as a general. Then, after making sure she had an audience in the cramped chapel, throwing herself on the coffin and wailing. The sympathy should be for her alone, that all said. She accused another family member of murder.
She made sure I was not asked to say my piece at the inquest. How do I know? She kindly phoned me the day after it had come and gone to announce an 'Open Verdict'. This was a tidy, complete lie, still is, and I shall never change my mind. So I could not inform everyone that I must have been the last person my mother spoke to as the pills and alcohol took effect: 'Have a good life, Felicia', over the phone. I knew something was wrong, as Irene's voice changed from seemingly tearfull to completely blank and expressionless, and she hardly ever used my name, prefering 'darling' or something. But I was in Wembley and she was well over a hundred miles away, too far now.
Oh incidentally, my grandmother also chose that conversation in September 1992 to tell me about how my grandfather had killed himself in 1946. Clearly, she wanted to abuse his memory too. Other members of my family could not understand why I wrote her out of my life for several years, ripping up the letters she sent, not answering the phone. And when I steeled myself to try and forgive her, she threw that back in my face too. So when she died, I turned up at the funeral just to support my Step-grandfather, who had never had the nerve to be like her. I stood stony faced in that same dull and freezing chapel, listening to shocked whispers racing around me: 'Look at Felicia, she's not crying!' That's right. Unlike this vampire, this boa constrictor, this worst kind of matriarch that we were seeing off, I had no desire to give a performance. I shall never forgive or forget any of this as long as I live.
God, it feels so damned good to get this out into Cyberspace. I'm finally doing it - never thought I had the nerve - the truth is now out there. I love you and miss you and I'm fed up of keeping all this to myself. Our family has never been able to talk about this, and I'm sick of it being conveniently written out of our history - just like my grandfather's suicide was written out. The pain is still raw in me, but I can do this because I've written about it so often before but locked it away and then filed it in a sheath binder somewhere.
I had an emotional breakdown in April 1999, and had a grief counsellor visit me for a couple of months to get me to make the 'Breakthrough'. You should have heard the screams; I turned that particular session into a Primal Scream scenario, letting rip at a family member who was already over a year dead. Made no difference to me, she was still toying with my feelings, so when I finally blasted 'I hate you! I hate you!', the poor woman who'd dragged it all out of me was shaking with shock in one corner of the sofa, and I was shaking in shock and relief in the other corner of the sofa! I apologised to for frightening her, but she was emphatic:- 'No no, you've done the spadework. Well done!'
Actually, I recommend other members of my family try doing this. It is clearly easier than talking to each-other. Let's face it, none of us like slanging matches, do we? I'm sick and tired of being told how I'm supposed to feel about this or that; whether it's unruly kids' behaviour, treacherous pavements on any of my jogging routes, lousy food at weddings and Xmas lunches, censorship on TV, 'controversial' rock music lyrics, undrinkable but politically correct coffee, work-life balance, what rings to wear on which fingers, Bob Dylan's continuing relevance or family tragedy.
I've been dealing with it, now it's everyone elses' turn.
So now I'm writing again, and I feel refreshed and strangely empowered. Maybe the difference is that what I say is in danger of actually being read by a wide concord of complete strangers around the globe, and perhaps by a small number of people who believe that they know me... You know, the latter group are the hardest to communicate to, because even now they probably won't accept my views. On anything. I'm the loose cannon, the little girl, the one my grandmother viewed as only worthy of emotional blackmail, scorn, manipulation, humiliation and outright lies. Well, here's the knock-on effect. It's a damned good thing I never want to have kids, because heaven help them if they turn out like me. It's not all my fault, you know. I'm just not the right material, girl.
Hopefully tomorrow I'll write about something less 'controversial', easier to deal with, and maybe even funny. I do have a sense of humour: I have reduced a couple of my workmates to shocked laughter with my Quasimodo impersonation. It wasn't even at full throttle! Good night.
Labels: family, settling a score, suicide, therapy, writing
