This is the calmest time of year for me, when I take a break from a couple of my responsibilities and commitments and try to find time to relax and breathe. Usually this means that I try to find time to read. I read all the time, but the material is often instructional or directed in a manner of trying to understand myself and the world around me. So, trying to remember that all work and no play can make Vanci a very dull, or crazy, girl, this is the season that I try to read for pleasure. I burned through a couple of novels pretty quickly, re-read a favorite fiction series, and realized too late as I stood in line at the library last weekend that I was out of reading material.
I happened to be standing by the 'new' non-fiction display, so grazed it quickly and picked up two books that caught my eye. On a quick pick, I ended up with:
The Rise and Fall of the Bible by Timothy Beal
Extra Lives: Why Video Games Matter by Tom Bissell
Both books concern subjects that I am intensely interested in in roundabout ways. The Bible as it concerns spirituality and my own particular brand of non-organized religion endorsed connection to a higher power and video games as I have a daughter who would live and breathe by the Playstation game clock if I let her.
I didn't expect to find any questions or answers to my struggle with the NFOO, estrangement, growth or recovery. Lo and behold.
I read fast. Crazy fast. It's a gift I've always possessed and it's served me well. Typically, I can finish a 700 page novel in my spare time - which is sparse - over the course of a couple of days. I picked up The Rise and Fall of the Bible first, and in three days I've managed to make it to page 5. Five pages in three days. This is somewhat below my standard reading pace!
I kept having to put it down, I realized, because it is a book that seeks to understand the factual beginnings of the Bible and how it is or came to be perceived as the direct Word of God. And just that idea of pursuing the course of trying to understand the reality of the book, rather than blindly accepting what I was taught, constricted my chest and made the words blur on the page. What was I taught?
The. Bible. Is. God's. HOLY WORD. Period. NO questions are allowed, NO discussion is allowed, and in fact, anyone who even remotely thinks about daring to wonder if there might be the possibility of room for even the smallest seed of doubt as to this is going to die a painful death before being sent to the depths of hell to suffer for eternity. The absolute crazymaking facts that this is what I was force-fed on a spiritual front while being abused on verbal, mental, emotional, physical and sexual bases by the Nparent espousees of such judgmental clop-trop is a sore subject indeed, but not truly my point in this post. Free thinking, suffice it to say, was not encouraged.
Now, I consider myself to be an open minded, free thinking intellectual woman. But still, those ingrained patterns of fear and retribution for putting even a toe outside of the controlled environment of the N's religious zealotry, no matter how short lived that phase was for them, is surprisingly strong. I'm not too wounded by it, but I'm grateful that I was able to acknowledge the existence of the feeling. Now I can begin the work to acknowledge it and change my patterns. And I will read every word of the damned book, too, eventually. The fascinating part is that I don't even know what the book is about at this point, but I do know that my fear reaction is very, very real!
I picked up Extra Lives... once I realized that the Bible book wasn't going to be an easy, pleasurable read due to my frantic emotional reaction, and it's been wholeheartedly enjoyable. It's a great commentary on how video games are made, what drives the design and marketing and why we see video games as such a large waste of time... but continue to spend oodles and oodles of time and money playing them. The author spends a lot of time in comparison of video games as a form of entertainment to other forms of entertainment, and on page 39 he says this:
"When I am being entertained, I am also being manipulated. I am allowing myself to be manipulated. I am, in other words, surrendering... When I watch a film, the most imperial form of popular entertainment - particularly when experienced in a proper movie theater - I am surrendering most humiliatingly, for the film begins at a time I cannot control, has nothing to sell me that I have not already purchased, and goes on whether I happen to be in my seat. When I read a novel I am not only surrendering; I am allowing my mind to be occupied by a colonizer of uncertain intent."
He goes on into a detailed analysis of how these mediums compare to each other and others; video games, television, etc. But what struck me about this passage are the parallels to my upbringing. Both these descriptions of 'entertainment' are really descriptions of what it is to be held prisoner to something, or someone.
It strikes me as an apt metaphor that my early childhood was a film. I was placed in the seat and had no control over any of the externals; the N's directed the course of the screening and I was helpless to do anything by try to keep up and follow the story. I was, in effect, incidental.
It seems, then, that my late adolescence and early adulthood was more akin to the novel. I willingly allowed my mind to be occupied by a colonizer of uncertain intent.
Eventually, I made a break from the colony, and I think that I was able to do this once I realized the colonizer(s) intent; malicious, evil, abusive and terrible manipulation and control of me. I like the concept that the Narcs are colonizers because it seems to me that their true intention is to completely and wholly take over the world (of Vanci anyway.)
They've always been that way, you know, it's always been their goal. I think what changed is that me, myself and I made a break from the authoritative colony's rule.
Long fucking live the revolution!
Love,
Vanci
Showing posts with label intention. Show all posts
Showing posts with label intention. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
In Utero Scapegoat
The story of my birth is one that I have heard over and over again. It was the subject of company-for-dinner conversation from as early as I can remember and was dutifully trotted out in ENF's sermons once he became ordained. He hailed it as proof of a divine miracle. I recall the legend being told over and over again, growing in length and hair-raising detail over the years. I can't count how many times I sat through the torturous explanations of what had happened to bring me into the world, they were so many.
I do remember thinking that it was weird, how eager ENF and NM were to share this story with anyone and everyone who would listen, but I was a little girl and couldn't quite put my finger on what exactly was strange about it. We do grow accustomed, after all, to believing that our childhood homes are the norm and that our parents are just like every other parent, at least in early childhood. We've no experience with the rest of the world until we begin to spend time in it. A child's home really is his or her entire universe in those first few years. I only began the painful process of seeing that my 'family' was very different from other real families after many, many interactions with those other more 'normal' families many years later. Sufficient was the pain of these revelations - and the then-certain knowledge that my being aware of the differences would only cause me greater pain as I couldn't change the situation - that I shoved the revelations so deeply into my psyche that it would years of digging to get them back out in the light.
In a nutshell, the story goes, I almost died being born and my mother almost died in the process. At full term, the lining of the placenta detached from the wall of NM's uterus. This is dangerous and happens fairly frequently, but it's often manageable. Adding to the danger in my/our case, though, the placenta tore away from the uterus at the point where the umbilcal cord was seated in the uterine wall. Effectively, this cut off my lifeline and caused massive hemoraging for my mother. ENF rushed us to the hospital, which was a large one with one of the first neo-natal care units in the country. Through emergency C-section, NM and baby were saved. End scene.
It's a good story and one that bears re-telling, I think. It's dramatic and some would say miraculous and there's a good ending to it. I have to say that I'm awfully glad it didn't turn out differently. So, hearing about it in one context is pretty regular, I think. If I'd gone through something like this in delivering my daughters, I'm sure it's a story I would share.
I've been reflecting on the ways that I heard this story told throughout my childhood and young adult life, and wondering why it keeps popping up for me as a recurring memory. Why do I keep randomly thinking of the story of my birth? Today I had a mini-epiphany: in the hundreds of times that I heard this story of my birth, it was never referred to as the story of my birth. And this is where it gets weird.
This was usually presented by ENF as the story of how his wife almost died giving birth to Vanci. When he was busily slinging the story about from the pulpit, he told this as the story of the event that made him re-dedicate his life to god. When he told this story casually, he told it as the heroic tale of how fast he drove to get his wife to the hospital, or of his Datsun car that never ran again or the story of the police escort he was given due to the amount of blood in the car.
When he told it, the story of my birth was about him and what he almost lost, how heroic he was, what my near-death and that of his wife did for him spiritually and - of all things - what happened to his car because of this incident.
When NM told this story, she talked about her certain knowledge when she stood up thinking that her water had broken and saw blood instead that her baby was dead. She talked about how it was so lucky that OS was already with grandmother and that ENF had filled up the gas tank of the car. She talked about her monstrous scar and how she almost died from blood loss on the operating table and how she almost died again from the general anesthesia. She talked about how they gave her so much anesthesia that she was out for a long time (this part is hazy for me as I've heard different versions - two days, three days, all the way up to a week,) and then has gone on to express how awful it was for her to not be able to see her baby right away after birth.
When she told it, the story of my birth was about her and what she almost lost, where my sister was at the time, how heroic ENF was, how much she suffered and how hard it was for her to cope with the after-effects of anesthesia.
I've never, in all those re-tellings, heard either of my parents express how heavy their hearts were with grief as I lay almost-dead in an incubator for a week. The closest they've ever come within my earshot was to express how upsetting the information they received from the doctors was because they couldn't seem to make up their minds as to whether I'd die, be braindamaged or some other awful fate. They've said that lack of oxygen was a concern and that I'd lost sixty percent of my blood at delivery. That I was small and didn't seem to thrive. That it was a miracle that I survived and that ENF prayed while NM was in surgery and promised his god that he (ENF) would rededicate his life to god if god would just save NM and the baby.
I'm pretty sure that they think that god saved me because of ENF's prayers. Maybe he did, who the hell am I to know? But I'm getting the distinct impression as I re-visit the re-tellings that there were a few common themes to all of the stories:
1. NM almost died several times laboring to bring me into the world; the implication being that I almost killed her.
2. ENF saved her, whether through proper maintenance of a vehicle or through god, depending on the audience.
3. Even before I had a name, I caused them pain.
I'm pretty sure that I was a scapegoat before I was even born. How sad. How very, very sad. What a heavy burden to lay on a child.
In reading back through what I've written here, I can see that words are failing me. From an exterior view, this could just be the story of a child who was almost lost in childbirth. But, taken as a whole and with what would then become future proof of my faults as told by my Nparents, it becomes clear that this story was only the beginning of my scapegoat status.
As a child and a young adult, I also heard the stories of how sickly I was as a toddler. Apparently I suffered from ear infections and was, to quote NM "so very difficult, you just didn't ever seem to feel good." I didn't speak until I was three, I've heard, and then just began speaking in full sentences: my first words in order of appearance were 'mama,' 'daddy,' and 'I want a sailboat.' NM liked to haul this out as proof of my obvious intelligence. I can't help wondering what I knew and had already learned not to say.
As these memories have appeared more and more frequently to me lately, I've been trying to puzzle together why this story, of all the stories I have from childhood, seems to signify. Why does it keep popping up to resonate with me?
I've turned to my own experience as a mother, as I often do for clarity and understanding, and I know what I have thought and felt and said when my DD's have asked me about their births. There's some push inside me to minimize the telling of the amount of pain I went through while in labor with them. I tend to tell them more about what I did while I was in labor - colored in Scooby Doo coloring books, hey, it helped - than to expound upon the many ways that I hurt or suffered or labored to bring them to the planet.
There's something there, I think, that my psyche's trying to push to the surface. I think it must have to do with intention. I wonder if the Nparents intention in telling, telling and re-telling the story of my delivery was to lay the foundation that I would so firmly beat myself with later in life: that I OWED THEM.
What do you think? I can't quite put my finger on it...
Love,
Vanci
I do remember thinking that it was weird, how eager ENF and NM were to share this story with anyone and everyone who would listen, but I was a little girl and couldn't quite put my finger on what exactly was strange about it. We do grow accustomed, after all, to believing that our childhood homes are the norm and that our parents are just like every other parent, at least in early childhood. We've no experience with the rest of the world until we begin to spend time in it. A child's home really is his or her entire universe in those first few years. I only began the painful process of seeing that my 'family' was very different from other real families after many, many interactions with those other more 'normal' families many years later. Sufficient was the pain of these revelations - and the then-certain knowledge that my being aware of the differences would only cause me greater pain as I couldn't change the situation - that I shoved the revelations so deeply into my psyche that it would years of digging to get them back out in the light.
In a nutshell, the story goes, I almost died being born and my mother almost died in the process. At full term, the lining of the placenta detached from the wall of NM's uterus. This is dangerous and happens fairly frequently, but it's often manageable. Adding to the danger in my/our case, though, the placenta tore away from the uterus at the point where the umbilcal cord was seated in the uterine wall. Effectively, this cut off my lifeline and caused massive hemoraging for my mother. ENF rushed us to the hospital, which was a large one with one of the first neo-natal care units in the country. Through emergency C-section, NM and baby were saved. End scene.
It's a good story and one that bears re-telling, I think. It's dramatic and some would say miraculous and there's a good ending to it. I have to say that I'm awfully glad it didn't turn out differently. So, hearing about it in one context is pretty regular, I think. If I'd gone through something like this in delivering my daughters, I'm sure it's a story I would share.
I've been reflecting on the ways that I heard this story told throughout my childhood and young adult life, and wondering why it keeps popping up for me as a recurring memory. Why do I keep randomly thinking of the story of my birth? Today I had a mini-epiphany: in the hundreds of times that I heard this story of my birth, it was never referred to as the story of my birth. And this is where it gets weird.
This was usually presented by ENF as the story of how his wife almost died giving birth to Vanci. When he was busily slinging the story about from the pulpit, he told this as the story of the event that made him re-dedicate his life to god. When he told this story casually, he told it as the heroic tale of how fast he drove to get his wife to the hospital, or of his Datsun car that never ran again or the story of the police escort he was given due to the amount of blood in the car.
When he told it, the story of my birth was about him and what he almost lost, how heroic he was, what my near-death and that of his wife did for him spiritually and - of all things - what happened to his car because of this incident.
When NM told this story, she talked about her certain knowledge when she stood up thinking that her water had broken and saw blood instead that her baby was dead. She talked about how it was so lucky that OS was already with grandmother and that ENF had filled up the gas tank of the car. She talked about her monstrous scar and how she almost died from blood loss on the operating table and how she almost died again from the general anesthesia. She talked about how they gave her so much anesthesia that she was out for a long time (this part is hazy for me as I've heard different versions - two days, three days, all the way up to a week,) and then has gone on to express how awful it was for her to not be able to see her baby right away after birth.
When she told it, the story of my birth was about her and what she almost lost, where my sister was at the time, how heroic ENF was, how much she suffered and how hard it was for her to cope with the after-effects of anesthesia.
I've never, in all those re-tellings, heard either of my parents express how heavy their hearts were with grief as I lay almost-dead in an incubator for a week. The closest they've ever come within my earshot was to express how upsetting the information they received from the doctors was because they couldn't seem to make up their minds as to whether I'd die, be braindamaged or some other awful fate. They've said that lack of oxygen was a concern and that I'd lost sixty percent of my blood at delivery. That I was small and didn't seem to thrive. That it was a miracle that I survived and that ENF prayed while NM was in surgery and promised his god that he (ENF) would rededicate his life to god if god would just save NM and the baby.
I'm pretty sure that they think that god saved me because of ENF's prayers. Maybe he did, who the hell am I to know? But I'm getting the distinct impression as I re-visit the re-tellings that there were a few common themes to all of the stories:
1. NM almost died several times laboring to bring me into the world; the implication being that I almost killed her.
2. ENF saved her, whether through proper maintenance of a vehicle or through god, depending on the audience.
3. Even before I had a name, I caused them pain.
I'm pretty sure that I was a scapegoat before I was even born. How sad. How very, very sad. What a heavy burden to lay on a child.
In reading back through what I've written here, I can see that words are failing me. From an exterior view, this could just be the story of a child who was almost lost in childbirth. But, taken as a whole and with what would then become future proof of my faults as told by my Nparents, it becomes clear that this story was only the beginning of my scapegoat status.
As a child and a young adult, I also heard the stories of how sickly I was as a toddler. Apparently I suffered from ear infections and was, to quote NM "so very difficult, you just didn't ever seem to feel good." I didn't speak until I was three, I've heard, and then just began speaking in full sentences: my first words in order of appearance were 'mama,' 'daddy,' and 'I want a sailboat.' NM liked to haul this out as proof of my obvious intelligence. I can't help wondering what I knew and had already learned not to say.
As these memories have appeared more and more frequently to me lately, I've been trying to puzzle together why this story, of all the stories I have from childhood, seems to signify. Why does it keep popping up to resonate with me?
I've turned to my own experience as a mother, as I often do for clarity and understanding, and I know what I have thought and felt and said when my DD's have asked me about their births. There's some push inside me to minimize the telling of the amount of pain I went through while in labor with them. I tend to tell them more about what I did while I was in labor - colored in Scooby Doo coloring books, hey, it helped - than to expound upon the many ways that I hurt or suffered or labored to bring them to the planet.
There's something there, I think, that my psyche's trying to push to the surface. I think it must have to do with intention. I wonder if the Nparents intention in telling, telling and re-telling the story of my delivery was to lay the foundation that I would so firmly beat myself with later in life: that I OWED THEM.
What do you think? I can't quite put my finger on it...
Love,
Vanci
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