Crackling thunder....

(If you want to see what's going on with the "Accentuating the Positive" carnival, please read the previous post. )

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This morning, I received some interview questions from Emily at Wheels on the Bus. I know a lot of you might be getting weary of the interview questions, but please do read. Emily asked me some challenging questions. Given her consistent honesty about her background, I've decided to follow her lead.

This is the first of five questions.

1) I know you are far from family. Please tell us about one family member you do not often write about. Share a story or your feelings about your relationship with this person.

Wow. Well, it is a bit more than "far" from family. For all intents and purposes, I do not have a family.

Before I talk about the relationship I've chosen, I need to put this into context. Otherwise, it will leave people thinking "big deal" without realizing what a big deal it was for me.

My family of origin was possibly the chilliest, coldest collection of people you can imagine. As I've mentioned before, I was raised in a particularly affluent neighborhood and the entire focus was always on materialism and competition. There were no cozy nights around the fire. There were no "warm fuzzies" to be remembered. There were no pet names or hugs and snuggles. There were no bedtime stories. There were no birthday parties or sleepovers. No stuffed animals or hot chocolate on a cold night. There was no time for emotions or warmth. I jokingly talk about having grown up in an emotional refrigerator.

It wasn't really a joke.

My brother and I were accessories, kind of like the electronic gadgets in the entertainment center or the silk plants in the cabana in the back yard. We were part of a picture that was created for the outside world.

There was very little physical contact, positive or negative. We were not hugged or snuggled. My brother and I were to be seen and not heard which was an axiom rather commonly repeated to children when I was one. I don't think I am exaggerating to say that my brother and I were entirely emotionally abandoned and neglected.

This kind of thing leaves scars, no matter how much we might like to deny or diminish the impact. I still live with many of those scars. As adults, we try to minimize it so that we won't be perceived as just one more dysfunctional Beverly Hills dilettante who believes her life was horrible, horrible.. even in the face of all the opulence. No one would hear anyway, let alone believe any of us. Christina Crawford might be believed because that was physical abuse. People like me, no. We would just be perceived as spoiled brats, whining about not getting what we want. So I hid my background like a dirty little secret, even if I had to make up stories to conceal it. The stories kept me warm and made me believe that maybe I could even be "normal" one day.

It is as one writer put it, "My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie." (The Thirteenth Tale - Diane Setterfield)

And make up stories I did! I never told anyone where I grew up. The question was answered with a terse "Los Angeles" and I never discussed childhood memories. There were none worth relaying. I pretended to understand things I didn't understand. I played at sentiment like a child plays with a little animal. I pretended to understand. The "Oh I understand and isn't that nice" smile worked.. as long as you didn't look into my empty eyes.

It was exhausting, to say the least. Living a lie is exhausting.

It is only within the past several years that I have begun to tell the truth. That came with what I refer to as my "shattering" in Tucson. My personality literally shattered into a million tiny pieces and I had to rebuild. I spent hundreds of hours and hundreds of dollars on soul retrievals, shamanic journeys, New Age classes and meditation, trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I even tried a mainstream therapist. I ultimately had to accept that telling the truth was the only way out. The authenticity doesn't bring comfort but it brings me something more important. It puts the scarred, damaged person I am into proper context. At the end of the day, it is more satisfying to be known for who I truly am; flaws, damage and all. I don't have to pretend anymore.

"I love you" is not something that was ever said in my family. Ever. I never heard it as a child or as an adult from any member of my family, aside from the person I am going to talk about.

My aunt M. lived in Tucson but I didn't really give it much thought. I'd definitely stop by to see her but my expectations, to say the least, were low. I figured she'd feed me and send me on my way.

Aunt M. was probably the other family misfit if one had to classify her. She was small, tomboyish, loved yard sales and horses, had three big dogs in a house that was less than 600 square feet. She loved books and dogs and cooking. Oh, that woman could cook! She smoked like a haystack and was an alcoholic. Looking back now, I suspect she was a closeted lesbian. In her day, "coming out" wasn't an option.

My visit with her turned into a year-long relationship during which I took her for eye surgery, made sure she got where she needed to go as her eyesight began to decline even further. (I had no idea at that time that I would ultimately deal with the same eye disease.) I rented a small house near her so that I could walk over to see her often. We visited at least once a day. Sometimes just a check-in. We exchanged books. We baked bread together. We went to thrift stores. We played with the dogs.

But that first night.. the night I arrived.. is what stands out in my mind. She did feed me. She fed me pork chops, a baked potato, green beans, fresh garlic bread and milk.

It was delicious! We talked. And talked. About many topics.

She insisted that I stay with her rather than going to a motel. Although her place was small, she wouldn't accept any answer but "yes".

At the end of the day and a long, full visit, she said, "I hope you're comfortable. Don't let the dogs bother you. Please don't smoke in bed." She pinched my cheek and said, "I love you" before going off to bed.

I slept that night on her couch, cuddling with one of the dogs.

It was very significant for me. Aunt M. died in 1996 of cancer. She was diagnosed and died a few months after.

I think of 1996 as the year my mother died.

I was 44 years old and it was the first real "mothering" I'd ever experienced. Needless to say, I am very grateful for having an Aunt M. in my life, however brief it might have been. I think of those who didn't have even that.

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