Tuesday, November 11, 2008 at 7:31AM
From the kitchen my coffeemaker gurgles, the first sign that my day has officially begun. I hear cars whooshing by in the rain, a sound which takes me all the way back to childhood. Where did we live when I could hear traffic in the rain, and found it to be comforting background music to my simple little days?Today is Veteran's Day, but like the tale of my childhood woe, my yearly tribute to my dad (who fought on Normandy Beach) is beginning to sound redundant. This is not to minimize his contribution, or the after effects of his stint in the army, many of which lasted for the rest of his life. The other night I watched Saving Private Ryan again, mainly because there was nothing much else on cable. (Dad had wanted to see this movie--but never got a chance to-- because he'd heard it was the most realistic screen version of World War II. He'd heard that veterans would go see the movie and weep openly, so accurate was its portrayal of the grim miseries and realities of war.) I wasn't aware that Veteran's Day was right around the corner when I chose the channel. I couldn't look at some of the more graphic scenes of violence: for the first time I connected them with what my father must have seen and contended with and, somehow, lived through.
I wonder what kind of daughter he thought I'd grow up to be. I wonder if he had dreams for me, and if so what those dreams were constructed of. Being objective enough to see me not as just a woman or mother or nana, but as a daughter as well is not all that easy. In a very real sense I am no longer anyone's daughter. What an odd thought! I've grown so used to no longer receiving birthday cards from my parents that it never hit me like this until now: I'm no one's daughter.
When I consider the pure misery of my childhood I think I could have turned out much worse than I did. How does the heart keep hoping and believing in better days, against all odds and all evidence that there is not one single soul to act as Protector?
I laughed a lot as a child, a fact which puzzles and pleases me. Never at home though. At home I was solemn, obedient, taking my responsibilities (for they were many) seriously. But once I broke free of that sour environment to play with my friends, I became a little comedienne. Would this have pleased my dad if he could have witnessed me sending my playmates into gales of laughter with my funny quips? I think so. Humor was one of the human qualities Dad most admired in others, and treasured in himself. He possessed a humorous outlook in abundance; I think my ability to soften the stark realities of life for myself and others by using humor would have pleased him immensely.
From an early age I was an avid lover of words, poring over books in that deliciously slow way of children who are utterly focused on something they love. This too must have pleased my dad. As an artist, he was the first to point out to me (during my teen years after we'd reconnected) that writers are artists whose medium is words. I think if only I could have lost myself in my writing, made a career out of it and lived like the writer I was, he would have burst with pride.
Spiritually, I got things right in his eyes. My thirst for spiritual truth burned just as strong as my love for words, and this was something else pleasing to my dad, one more thing we shared in common. Though come to think of it, I was forever choosing men who lacked this spiritual thirst, and I'm not sure why. I recognized this quality in my father and admired it greatly. Why then settle for someone whose vision never rose higher than the earth beneath his feet?
I think Dad might have liked the woman his daughter grew into. I want to think so.
The sky outside my window is drained of color. Traffic on the busy street never really dies down. I've grown used to it; the only time it really bugs me is when it's so loud I can't hear my TV.
I don't know what kind of day this will be. I have so many things I'm juggling right now, some of them things I can't even blog about. But I have hope, and suddenly I see that for all his bumbling ways, hope is the one legacy from my father which has made my continual existence on this planet possible.
Welcome to the new site for Beautiful Dreamer!
After blogging for 3 years about my childhood abuses (which led to the development of my Dissociative Identity Disorder), I made the decision to bring my blog to an end. Other things seemed to be calling me, other pursuits just as worthy, such as the finishing of the memoir I began many years ago.
I hope you stick around and browse through my archives. You'll discover that when I began blogging I hadn't a clue as to what DID was all about. How was I to come to terms with my disorder? Should I confide in family and friends concerning my multiplicity, or keep it to myself?
All this took place against a background of loving my grand kids, being involved with my grown sons' lives, and dealing with such issues as poverty, ongoing health problems, drug problems within my family--and a son's nearly fatal motorcycle accident (resulting in brain injuries.)
For 3 years I poured my heart out, sharing with total strangers the depths of my brokenness and the total audacity of my tenacious will to grow and heal beyond my redheaded-stepchild self.
I hope that some sentence or paragraph of mine will jump off the page at you, daring you to pursue your own healing journey--or challenging you to a deeper compassion for those you love, who may be struggling every moment of their lives to live with memories of unspeakable acts of perversions against their younger selves.
I will no longer be blogging here---but please browse the archives to your heart's content. From time to time I'll be by, adding more blog posts to my archives.(I've 3 year's worth to cut and paste!) Feel free to leave comments, or e-mail me with any questions you may have about DID or any other topics addressed on this site.
Beautiful Dreamer
For a year (when I was 15) I lived with my dad. How delightfully strange it was to go from being raised by my truck driver step dad, to living once more with my father the artist.
Dad wasn't the neatest person in the world; his painting supplies were likely to turn up just about anywhere in the small apartment. Open any drawer, closet or cabinet and you'd find something pertaining to his artistic talent: a dried up tube of paint, a rolled up sketching he'd never finished (which I always tried to finish for him in my imagination--though I fervently loved these rough drafts just the way they were in all their incompleteness.)
Years after I moved out, Dad mentioned coming across some of the writings I'd left behind. Those were tumultuous years for me, for I had gone from the strict, sheltered world of my mother's household to a place where no restrictions were put on me. My life became chaotic and scary. So when I moved out eventually, there's no telling what I thought to take with me. I was in such a sorry state emotionally by then that it's just possible I wouldn't have put any value on my writings.
The writings Dad described: did I really write them? It's possible I copied them out of a book, as an example to myself of the kind of writer I wanted to be. I did that a lot. When I suggested this possibility to Dad he adamantly disagreed.
"You wrote this stuff," he assured me, his keen eyes twinkling with fatherly pride. "You have your own writing style, I spotted it right off the bat. Beautiful stuff, just beautiful. Why don't you send your stuff in? Get it published?"
I felt nearly as uncomfortable under the weight of his praise as I'd once felt mortified under the weight of my step-dad's mocking of my writing dreams. Why did I feel so embarrassed to have someone compliment my writing? Was it because I'd never before (except once in a blue moon in an English class) heard anything positive about my talent?
Being an artist himself, Dad wouldn't have flattered me about my talent. In fact he probably would have told me straight out if he thought I had none. So did that mean I really did write the stuff he said I left behind, and was it really that good?
Excitement builds as I revel in my utter audacity at giving myself permission to pursue my writing dreams above all else. That's why this little stroll down memory lane, I suppose. I've so few good memories of my growing up years that this memory of Dad's pride in my writing really stands out.
I've a little corner of my basement outfitted for my writing sessions. At a garage sale a few weeks ago I picked up an Ikea bamboo carpet which I put under my writing table. How cozy to write my heart out while the washer agitates and the dryer gives out the pleasant scent of Downy! Though the basement is painted an ugly color (I don't even know what to call it), it's good to not have the distractions I'd be contending with if my writing environment were 'just so.'
Writing is something which spans my earliest years all the way to my present day nana self. How delicious to have something which has lasted decades, something no one can rob me of.
How delicious to write.
beautifuldreamer
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I hope you don't give that up. You are so talented. You're right-- no one can take it from you, but you can throw it away. I hope you don't. July 8, 2009 | tricia (papercages@att.net)
I feel especially in tuned with this post. I have always wanted to write something that speaks to someone else, or something that is loved by all. Daydreams.I really hope you continue to pursue your desires. You never know, you could be the next JK Rowling! And, I would know, I knew you "when..." July 8, 2009 | Ivory (ivoryquinn54@yahoo.com)
"How delicious to have something which has lasted decades..."Yes you can write. And you have some wonderful turns of phrases.Kate July 18, 2009 | Kate (kate_wuggin@hotmail.com)
Thank you, Tricia! I'm determined not to give up . . . July 18, 2009 | beautifuldreamer
Growing up in 60's suburbia with dreams bigger than my family's dysfunctions.
