Pain.
I push against it. Challenge it, like a warrior intent on proving that I am indestructible, unwilling to flinch.
If I ignore it, I tell myself, then it will cease to have power over me.
Except, bit by bit it gnaws at my edges, tearing me down and just as I’m about to succumb to its grip, I have a moment of clarity…
…recognize the invitation…
…that surrender is the gift, and…
…that the pain is passage, and…
…in letting go..
…I absolve myself…
…of the need…
“I’ll cover the lying down!” I tell the two strangers, who have just entered my bedroom assessing what needs to be moved.
“Good idea!” the tall, lanky one named Josh answers.
The outside air is heavy with the threat of a downpour. Inside I pull a blanket over my prone body.
I hear the grunts of men hauling my china cabinet, the living room couch, the multitude of boxes, contents unmarked. How do you define years of accumulation? Silly really to still be holding on. They will go to storage and be swallowed up by the black hole of Thingdom, never to be thought of again.
Afterwards, the sour smell of sweat lingering in the air, I wander into the main living area drawn by the echo of my husband’s voice. He is now the only furnishing in the room. The dining table stands stark, alone in its space, the kitchen counters glare emptily.
Layers of our lives have been stripped away in a mere hours. There is more to go, but as this shell is vacated I feel a sudden pull of emotion. Is it sorrow? Doubt? More a philosophical shrug: What was it all about anyway?
The excitement has tired me and I return to my current profession: warming my side of the bed.
Tomorrow more strangers will come, set the house up so that it is no longer recognizable as ours. Having loaded the last essential goods into our truck, we’ll pull away, point the nose of the truck forward, and move on.
Wedged between one satisfactorily completed task and an overload of unfinished chores, I am a mess.
We have decided to sell the house, and on the advice of stagers, are tearing everything apart, sorting into three piles: garbage, Goodwill, and keep/store. Purging, we are discovering, is exhausting.
In order to do some touch up paint jobs, Ric left me at the RV alone last week. We’ve parked it at the lake for the summer season, and the solitude is welcoming. Except that I woke up with severe pain in my left jaw on Monday morning, and after getting up and having something to eat, I started to feel very peculiar – sweating, nausea, and a strange dizziness that felt like the ground was sucking me in. I called 9-1-1. Crisis passed, and remaining a mystery (heart checked out okay), I returned home at the doctor’s suggestion.
Sunday, the kids came by to help out. At one point, I brought out freezies, and two bites into mine realized I was having a reaction – the top of my mouth felt like it was blistering. I’d only had this reaction once before and it was while eating Welchade fruit snacks.
“These are Welchade freezies,” my husband pointed out. Apparently Welchade uses an ingredient that I cannot tolerate.
Then yesterday, while scrubbing the bathroom walls, I felt and heard three pops in my left side. Ric helped me to the bed and we immediately applied heat, but the damage was done.
Between the pain in my side, the lingering sores in my mouth, and an insect bite that wouldn’t stop itching all night, I have had little sleep.
We have two more days to get this house packed up before the movers come in and then the stagers and it’s listed.
No wonder I’m a mess.
(Image: psychicjessicac.com)
Kate Morton has mastered the art of writing a timeless novel: a compelling setting, well-developed characters, the weaving together of unforgettable storylines, and flawless description. The Lake House is a delicious read, the kind of book you don’t want to put down.
The Lake House centers around a beautiful estate abandoned under tragic circumstances: a mystery never resolved. D.C. Sparrow is the young detective who stumbles across the property while on an imposed leave. Unable to walk away from an unsolved puzzle, Sparrow delves into the estate’s past and encounters many answers to what has been haunting the old house and her own life.
Caroline Lee reads the audio version of this novel, her voice lending an authenticity to the tale.
The Lake House is a mystery, and a study of human nature, comparable to the classics.
Dear Parents,
Sorry I didn’t always do things in the way (or order) you thought I should, but quite frankly, your screwups made me seriously doubt your wisdom, and besides, what could I ever hope to learn from conformity?
p.s. I hope I turned out alright in your eyes.
Dear Kids,
I know I haven’t always been the best role model and that you have questioned many of my life decisions, but I hope you will one day appreciate that I never gave up on life, and that I had the passion and willingness to be adventurous.
p.s. None of my mistakes were ever a reflection of our relationship – you know that, right?
Dear Self,
I know that I have bashed you around a lot, and some of it must have felt like punishment, and some like foolishness, and I know that I have tested every ounce of trust and faith, but isn’t that what life is about: pushing limits and growing?
p.s. I actually think I was both afraid and awed by you: as an ego, I mean.
Dear Life,
It’s been a journey, and every time I thought I had a handle on things, you’d always pull the rug out from under me, and I was never quite certain whether you were breaking or making me. It’s been a bit like navigating blindfolded while you drive.
p.s. I know this ride isn’t over yet, but I am getting older – could you go gently from here on in?
I am that kid.
First day of school, teacher proudly organized, in charge, forgets she is addressing humans not machines programmed to comply. I cannot tolerate oppression: authority already overbearing in my life. I am a pressure cooker, combustible, ready to explode, like an uncorked grenade counting down the seconds.
“We need to set some guidelines, Class,” she’ll say in her nasal attempt-at-composure voice, and the do-gooders will sit up straighter and smile encouragement, and I will not be among them. I won’t want to be there.
Then we’ll trundle off to the library – “Stay together, voices down” – and sign onto useless, old computers, and pledge to respect that which is unrespectable, and the bomb will go off. I am certain of it.
She’ll put us in little groups, assign the nerds with slow kids, and losers with high achievers (just to emphasize that we need extra control). Setting good examples, they call it. I call it bullshit. Some powder puff beauty and a scholarly jock wannabe, no doubt – plastics who are so far from what I could ever aspire to be. What are teachers thinking?
Want results? Just give me a corner, and leave me to my own devices. Give me the assignment and let go. I’m no dummy – don’t need anchors to hold me down. All I’ll do is fight harder.
By now I’ll be ticking, just as Teach asks us to sign our names on a piece of paper (of course, I won’t have a writing instrument – that would look too eager), I’ll stroll over to the librarian’s desk and help myself to one of his stash, most likely upsetting the whole bunch, spilling markers and pencils everywhere. The neophytes will giggle, and the hounds bray like donkeys, and the teacher, her neck turning a particular shade of mottled pink will descend on me nostrils flaring.
“Is this how’s it’s going to go this semester, Miss….”
“Ms.” I’ll correct her, maintaining an air of nonchalance. “It’s Ms.; I prefer not to be labelled according to my marital status.”
She’ll be taken aback momentarily, and then order me to pick up the mess and apologize to the librarian.
“Yeah; SORRY ABOUT THAT!” I’ll call across the room to where a man will be hiding behind the book stacks.
“Not like that!” She’ll fume.
“God, can’t I do anything right?” I’ll have the whole room now, eyes glued to my riveting performance.
“March right to the office, young lady!” she’ll spew, her rage now ice-cold. “I’ll be along shortly.”
“And?”
“And what?
“Then what will you do?”
Her wheels will be smoking by then, her mind reaching for something, anything to defuse the situation – to tame me.
“Call your parents!”
The dreaded call-the-parents.
“Good luck,” I’ll say dismissively waving as I make my exit. “Let me know if you find them.”
See what I mean: I’m that kid.
(Image: www.medicaldaily.com)
“I’ve started to write short stories again – something I haven’t done since I was a kid.”
“How’s that going?”
“It’s disturbing, actually; the endings are the same even after all these years.”
“Like what?”
“Me in a straitjacket, completely mad.”
“Oh, I see!”
As do I – there are never happy endings, just a worsening of the situation caused by my inappropriate actions.
I used to fear I was going insane as a child – not a far stretch considering that’s what happened to my older sister. This conversation is with my psychologist. Just when I thought things had settled out in my psyche, the dreams have started again – not so much nightmares as deeply disturbing.
I grew up in a house full of secrets, where chaos was the reigning element, and hope, if it dared rear its head, was quickly squashed. As a child it was difficult to see a way out of the pain, other than suicide or extreme acts of violence. I attempted neither – was the ‘good’ girl in the family – but it doesn’t mean I didn’t fantasize about it.
“I left home when I was seventeen!” I whine to my therapist. “It’s not fair that I’m still struggling with this.”
“How have you been feeling lately?”
“Tired,” a ludicrous comment (I have ME/CFS which is characterized by systemic exhaustion); “I’m sleeping more than usual, which is actually a good thing, given I don’t sleep well with this disease. Have lost interest in food…generally depressed, I guess.”
Damn! Depression is like that elusive fly that keeps buzzing around but I just can’t catch.
“You have lots of good things going on right now; is there something that has triggered it?”
In fact, there is – a conversation my younger sister and I had around Mother’s Day. While I have sought extensive help to support my healing process, my sister prefers to hold it all in, and then every once in a while bits spew out. Her mini revelation was enough to ignite the dreams for me.
“I don’t have a conscious memory of what she’s talking about, but the dreams would seem to indicate I was affected too.”
“Do you want to explore it further, or do you think you know enough to move on?”
I had been doing quite well – had gained enough perspective to be able to extract past wounds from present occurrences – yet, in my writing, there has always been something else lurking – another layer of hurt.
“I just want to know that there is going to be a different ending! I need to know that there is a purpose to all of this and that my life won’t end up tragically, but right now I can’t see any other options.”
And then it hits me – this is what I love about effective therapy – my upbringing was not about love and connection, it was about survival. I did not learn the skills that I need to have a fulfilling life experience, thus the need for re-parenting.
“Do you have a copy of Growing Yourself Back Up?”
“I do! Found it the other day when I was clearing things out!” I’m feeling lighter now, having identified the current dilemma and having an action plan in place.
No matter how innocent, children take on responsibility for the dysfunction that adults dish out. They absorb the abuse, violence, and imposed secrets as reflections of their own lack of worth. Consistency, enforced guidelines, and predictable parenting help build a secure sense of self, and a foundation of confidence from which a child can progress.
“Try to see the good things that have come out of it all,” my therapist offers kindly.
“You mean like resiliency?”
“Yes, that’s a good place to start.”
“
(Note: Much of my inspiration for writing comes from dreams, which I typically interpret in the form of poetry, but recently I have been challenging myself to write prose. A Bee’s Perspective is the poetic response to the dream behind this piece.)
Even as the floorboards beneath her heave and crack with a thunderous roar, Mackenzie remains fixated on the screen in front of her, unable to wrench herself from an all time high game score.
Upstairs, she knows, the children are alone, too young really to console themselves against the raging winds that encircle their tiny vessel of a house – a ship, she’d once thought of it, a dream come true. But that was so long ago and the build up to this storm had been so gradual, so inevitable, that she cannot pull herself away from distraction long enough to address the mountain of needs stockpiling around her.
A buzzing close to her ear warns Mackenzie that a bee has flown into her tempest and the threat of being stung and suffering an anaphylactic reaction is very real, and yet; she continues, hands locked on controller, eyes riveted.
Dave sits at the kitchen table, sipping his late night tea, absorbed in some absurd self-satisfaction, oblivious to the drama unfolding around him. His external persona is subdued – polite civility, he calls it – and he is more observer than participant, cannot tolerate conflict, prefers to let his wife deal with the household, the children, and other mundanities. His disinterest is far-reaching, and even as he sits, his very presence spurs Mackenzie on, driving her deeper into manic desperation.
The presence of chubby legs at the upstairs baby gate breaks her reverie, and in a moment of sudden clarity Mackenzie realizes the safeguard is not hinged, and she senses before she sees her son’s tiny body propelling forward, as the rails give way. Her arms reach out helplessly ineffective as the tot plunges, their cries a tangle of shock and woe.
It is over in an instance, and neither husband nor the baby’s older sister startle from their reveries, and Mackenzie, the now limp body of her child crumpled at her feet, hears the drone of the bee’s buzz, her last conscious awareness before succumbing to the vacuum pull of a personal vortex.
(Image: witnessandtestimony.blogspot.com)
The nurse has just left and with her all the warmth in the room. I close my eyes and try to hold onto her essence a little longer: soft brown eyes tenderly gazing into mine, the gentle way in which she tucks me in, how she twists the blinds to blot out the night sky, and how when she pauses at the door to turn out the light the glow from the hallway illuminates her outline making her look like an angel.
“I have a son your age,” she told me; “he’s mischievous too.”
Then she smiled and with her honey voice said: “Sleep well, for rest is the best way to heal.”
Rest, I’ve heard it said, does not come easily to the wicked, and so I lie here in the sterility of this hospital room, steel bars enclosing my bed, straps ensuring limited movement and will myself to see in the darkness, checking for invaders.
Did I mention how much I despise spiders? It was spiders that brought me here.
I have a habit of checking for the ungodly creatures before I allow myself to fall asleep; have spent many nights listening to the discordant sounds of my family’s chaos – Father’s voice a constant sharp command against the murmured apologies of my Mother, the cries of a sister – while scanning the floral patterned wallpaper for any deviance.
I love my room, had coveted it for a long time before it finally became my own. I love the uniformity of the white rows of flowers tenderly intertwined with a lattice of green leaves set against a sky-blue background. I love how the pieces flow together: perfectly lined up rows, hung to match up precisely so that the seams are not visible.
My bed is an old-fashioned three-quarter bed, with four posters and a majestic headboard all carved in finest maple. My bedspread, spun with cornflower blue and just a sprinkle of silver, shimmers like light dancing on water.
I used to sneak in, when the room had belonged to another – a sister, absent for much of my life, a ghost really. Why they kept it for her when she was never home, I couldn’t understand. I’d try the room on, slipping into its silence like donning a Sunday dress: feeling all special and grown up. I felt the certainty of sanctuary within its walls.
As second youngest, I was condemned to share a room with the baby – a pink room with twin beds pushed against the walls, facing the doorway. Heavy red corduroy curtains and spreads mirrored my anger as every day I was sentenced to an early bedtime, condemned to watch over my sister even though she was four years younger. I’d turn my back to her, pretend to be asleep so that she’d stop talking, pray that she’d give in to slumber. Most nights she’d awaken, screaming, and it was my job to quiet her, keep her from wandering in search of Mother, wary of Father’s certain wrath. Mostly, I’d lie awake despising myself for not intervening when the arguments moved into the bedroom next door and the sounds became physical, punctured by my mother’s moans.
Movement in the corner of my hospital room jolts me back to the present. Shadows! I think. Someone must have passed outside my door casting shadows on the wall. I know I am susceptible to flights of fancy – a trait that has landed me here – so I try to take measured breaths to calm myself.
Father had been here earlier, his gray-blue eyes pained when he looked at me.
I did it for us! I’d wanted to plead. I had to save our family!
Of course, the words wouldn’t come. Only grunts escaped my throat, and I found myself tearing up, a trait of weakness that only served to shame me.
He’d looked away, his eyes focused on some far off place. I wished he’d say something – even his anger preferable to silence.
At last, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a packet of sweets, and then realizing my state of compromise, shrugged and put them on the bedside stand.
“For when you’re better, then,” he’d managed, rising to go. He patted the bed, promised to return tomorrow, and then was gone.
No talk of Mom or my sisters. He abhors me, I realized. I am petulance now, no better than a pesky insect.
It was a speck of orange that had caught my attention that night. A tiny, almost imperceptible speck. Was I imagining it, I wondered. Surely not. Even as I held it securely in my line of vision, it started to grow, as if rising out of the depths of the wallpaper, which I then noted, was bubbling itself, a small corner coming lose.
I leaped from the bed and ran down the hallway, only to stop myself at the top of the stairs, remembering that we were not to disturb the adults. My heart racing I tried to think of a weapon – a shoe, a pillow – anything to catch the beast in its tracks – stop the onslaught.
I was soon to discover that the situation was beyond my control, for as I reentered the room a gust of cold, wet air accosted me. The wall itself it had disintegrated and the wallpaper, like the sail of a great ship, now billowed into the room, and for a brief moment I felt a glimpse of relief as the spider was no longer in view, a sentiment that was quickly extinguished when I noticed an army of orange bodied, eight-legged creatures approaching from the adjacent wall.
I needed help, but the dryness in my throat strangled any attempts at sound, and I found my body, no longer my own, soaring down the hallway into my parents’ room where I located my solution.
If water did not hamper the spiders, then surely fire would.
The nylon of the bedspread grabbed hold of the flame and the room exploded with a thunderous roar, a ball of orange flames dancing across the floor setting the curtains alight, the menacing wallpaper curling, receding in the heat.
I felt victorious in that moment, more alive than I can remember, spurred on by the intensity of the force…
And then there was pain – an excruciating, mind-blowing pain, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I don’t remember much after that except the fleeting thought that this was it – that I’d finally found the end I’d fantasized about so often.
But it was not to be. I have traded one nightmare for another, had not known the extent to which burnt flesh, like synthetics, bubbles and melts in a leathery disfigurement, leaving a shriveled monster in its wake.
I often wonder what might have happened had I let the storm overtake me that fateful day. Would I have been washed away on the back of some ice-cold frigate, sailing across oceans of treachery – a pirate’s captive, or a castaway – destination unknown, fearlessly surviving hand to mouth, a beggar child, abandoned, forgotten?
Or was it alien forces that threatened my childhood home: tiny robotic creatures – deployed missiles – seeking out their targets with precision and accuracy, bound for each one of us: a mission to infiltrate and displace all signs of humanity, body snatchers intent on taking over the world.
Sadly, instead, I lie here, a permanent fixture in this room, its buttery yellow walls the only consolation for the sterility of the furnishings. These walls are concrete, I imagine, and if I squint just the right way, I can imagine swirls in the yellow. A thin trail of moonlight casts shadows in the corner, and a for a moment I catch a glimmer of sparkle – an almost imperceptible thread of silk. The markings of a spider’s presence.
I try to sit up, but am rendered immobile by the straps that hold me in place. I may not be able to see the intruder, but know there will be no rest until it is obliterated.
(Image: arbroath.blogspot.com)
The Nest, by Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney is an ambitious work weaving together many diverse characters and their overlapping storylines. The central plot focuses around a family of four adult children all awaiting their slice of the coveted “nest”: trust money set to be released on the fortieth birthday of the youngest sibling. Predictably something happens to thwart their dreams and each sibling finds themselves scrambling to deal with the fallout.
Apart from admiring the scope of labour involved in writing The Nest, I found it difficult to appreciate the novel. I persisted mainly because of the acclaim the novel has received, but also because I thought I’d read that it gets better in the end. It doesn’t.
The book touches on many topics relevant to today’s society, however; most of it feels contrived, superficial, even cliché. Don’t count your chickens …could be the byline for the title, which is the main message of the novel. The main characters are entitled and self-absorbed, a trait that we are led to believe stems from their mother’s alcohol induced indifference.
The audio version of The Nest is narrated by Mia Barron, who is particularly fond of emphasizing the final consonants of words: good becomes gooddd. Perhaps that contributed to my frustration.
Whatever the reason, I can only recommend The Nest as a light, easy read. I won’t be recommending it as a book club selection, although we could talk about the missed potential.
Did anyone else come away dissatisfied by this read, or am just expecting too much?
