A memory of water

It was May. She didn't have a uterus anymore so months were measured by the calendar instead of the too-often occurring cycle. The mornings were becoming colder but the days were still warm. 'Autumn is my favourite season'.

The youngest child runs in and out, in and out, jumping on the bed and bouncing while she attempts to eat her week-late Mother's Day breakfast-in-bed. The older child occasionally coming in to ask for sticky tape or 'Mama when is it Bodie's party?' She, reading Nadine Gordimer, drinking tea and wishing for a scarf around her sore throat. 'If I stay in bed I won't have to engage'

Two weeks ago her father-in-law died unexpectedly. She woke up to her husband standing at the end of the bed explaining why he was dressed and about to go so early on a Saturday morning. The funeral came and went. It was a Jewish funeral but he was being cremated. She had hoped for a burial. Throwing her clod of earth, hearing it thud on the coffin, might spark some form of catharsis allowing an involuntary expression of grief. Now she had to grab snatches of grief when they turned up.

Right now, at this time of life, she was holding so much. Holding her husband as he took a week off to grieve his father who in death was more present than in life. Holding her daughters who loved  their Poppy and were grieving in the creative way children do. They too were sick. Holding her clients, each of whom had their particular journeys and particular relationship with her. Holding her own grief - of her father-in-law, of her mother. Her mother. Also in the last two weeks her mother died. Not physically. What had died was the picture of her mother as being caring. It had been a thin thread anyway but the thread was gone. In its place were the words 'cold' and 'abusive'. It was a new thought which brought waves of anxiety and grief.

This bout of awareness of family-of-origin shit was knocking her around but she was handling it better. This time only a short temper and occasional grabs for extra time-out were the main side effects. No throwing furniture from the back verandah onto the grass or hiving off into the study to smash a coffee table. The powerlessness was the worst of the feelings. It made her furious, raging with anger as she made an attempt to regain power. She had worked out that the anger made it worse. Feeling the powerlessness, leaning into it and letting it envelope her actually eased it. It takes courage to feel powerlessness.

Her father-in-law was a welcoming man. As a child he had fled Nazi Germany, his parents sending him to England on his own. There were relatives there, so some security was provided, but he was 8 and he didn't know if he would see his parents again. They did escape, it was a near escape. His father had been bundled in the back of a car and driven around all night, for many nights, to avoid being taken. They fled Germany just before Krystalnicht. They were lucky.

Their son less so. The scars created by observing the violence and feeling the fear emotionally crippled him. He covered up by being positive which left him lacking understanding for his children and empathy for his wife. Despite his nominalism he was a good Jew- taking in the stranger, acting politically for justice, good at business. A stamp maker by trade he had a long term view and when the business numbers came in he made his money. When the stamp trade faded and technology took its place he sold up and retired. He was no more emotionally present but he had time on his hands and became more available to his kids supporting them buying cars, getting divorces, managing life. He became a solid backstop.

'I suppose I'd better get up' The girls had been watching TV for a few hours as they did every Saturday morning. This once a week tradition had happened for 3 days in a row and they were getting up to mischief. 'I love Saturdays' It was the one day of the week when she didn't strictly monitor every mouthful of food. Every night she would figure out her meal plan. Sundays and Wednesdays were her low food days with a fast in the middle of the day. Every other day except Saturday was a strict 1200 calories. She exercised on 4 days a week but would like to make it 5. It felt like a battle to reach her daily and weekly goals so when Saturday came she didn't have to care. Freedom for one day a week. She guessed that's more than other people allow themselves but then they probably weren't as round as her.

What was the plan for the day? Get some fish and chips and go to the park. Get some sun, let the girls run out some of their energy before the day cools down again. These days were simple. On these days the world was small and contentment was within reach. No big thoughts today. Some rumblings about the governments new budget - disabilities, health, education, family and students all lose; big business, medical research and defense are the winners. Typical Liberal government budget with an extra twist of xenophobia.

'Yes, today's a good day'

Another morning of TV. 'Oh well, back to school tomorrow'  Another Sunday. The day was expected to be quiet. Everyone was still recovering. Her husband went to church, as usual. It was part of his job. Some would joke that he only worked one day a week. The girls were getting mischievous again, especially the little one. She could feel herself getting frustrated. Not wanting to take it out on the girls she hid in the bathroom. 'Stupid, stupid... to trust...'

To take out the frustration she slams her fist into the other hand, over and over. Not enough. She starts punching her legs and head. 'What’s this about?' Big feelings and strange thoughts. 'Why did he leave me to go to church? Why didn't he stay and look after me?' The punching stops. 'This isn't making sense. He always goes to church. It's his job. I'm not so sick that he.... No, this is old. They left me. They left me with those people while they went to church... Yes, that's where this belongs' She showered and returned to the girls apologizing for being a bit cranky. They then put down a rug on the grass in the back yard and played cards.

In the back of her mind she was vaguely aware of the session she'd had with her psychoanalyst that week. It had been maybe the 10th session and the transference was well in place. By the third session she knew her mother stuff would play a big role. In fact she had discovered that her mother stuff played an intricate role in the relationships between her and all of her previous therapists as well as her friends and even some strangers. By the third session she had a glimpse of the pain that was ahead of her.

The 10th session had been preempted by waves of anxiety and a building sense that this would be the last session. 'She didn't see my tears. She just ended the session' Skype had its limitations but the psychoanalyst ending the 8th session and hanging up without reference to, or empathy for, her emotions had triggered her fears again about not being seen. This had been rolling around in her head for a couple of weeks before she felt brave enough to raise it with her therapist. When she did raise it her therapist agreed that she had not seen the tears. Fears of not being seen or understood came flowing out with the tears and the response of empathy and understanding allowed them to be calmed.

'Damn this mother stuff' It had been a tough session but some good had come of it. Finally she felt that she was separating herself from her mother. Now when she got cranky with the girls she felt sorry. Once upon a time she felt like she had abused them. She would be mortified and want to hurt herself; she would need to hide and cry. She had been psychologically fused with her mother. Now she was being set free.

The rest of the day wasn't a smooth run so she was very glad to have the girls in bed and asleep. The little one had a fever. The night wasn't going to be easy so the space now was very welcome. Trickles of anxiety ran through her mind avoiding her consciousness till she went to bed. Some tears and then reflection on the day. Loss of her father-in-law, loss of friends, loss of some aspects of relationship with her husband. Tears and then sleep.

5.17a.m. A little voice grazes the silence. 'Mama?' 'Mm?' 'Do you still think you have tonsillitis?' 'Yes... go to sleep' Another little voice. 'Mama I'm hungry' The girls were awake. Groan. Up to prepare food and medicines. 'Try to stay in the present. These girls are gorgeous and growing up fast' Porridge, rice with oyster sauce and a game of Sleeping Queens. Except for stamping her foot once she was doing ok with the day.

The kitchen table had the usual debris on it. Colouring pens, sticker books, a broken dinosaur bubble machine,the little ones favourite stuffed toy, a Where's Wally book with all the Wally's circled with hi-liter... Partly all this mess drove her mad and partly it seemed like a wonderful sign of life and fun. The kitchen opened out onto the back verandah. Looking out to the backyard was calming and fresh. As the morning grew into the day the sun began to colour the back fence.

There had been great hope in her twenties. Getting married, having children. Maybe even own a house but that seemed far away. All her peers were married and having children by the time she was 25. Some friends were marrying for the second time. She held little interest for them as they forged their domestic path. Get togethers were dominated by husband talk - sometimes in admiration sometimes mocking - and swapping birth stories. Once one of the women asked about her work but after one sentence her feigned interest dissolved into overt disinterest and scorn. That was the last gathering she went to.

She had been working with street kids. It wasn't particularly dangerous in fact some viewed it as glamorous. There were the night walks with her colleague who was a renowned youth worker; the days at the games arcade and the attempts to get to know the kids and gain their trust. To be honest she wasn't very good at being a youth worker though her second job in a council youth centre saw her gaining the girls trust and creating a safe place for them. It lasted a few months before she blew the whistle on a colleague who was feeling up girls who had sexual abuse histories. Unfortunately he had the boss in his pocket so there went that job. As it turned out the renowned youth worker from the first job had also been sexually inappropriate with some of the youth. The court case lost its legs when the main accuser disappeared.

Now though, in her therapeutic work with clients, she’d found her niche. This she was good at and it was enjoyable and satisfying. A winning combination. In fact life was proving to be a winning combination. Two beautiful children, a thoughtful and kind husband, living in a beachside suburb with good friends, a well established private practice, and plans for holidays. Her internal world was also coming to a place of order... slowly, over time.

'I think you're a donkey' The little one was holding a conversation with Siri. 'Let me look that up on the web' Back to reality. Time to get off the screens and into the sunshine.

'I noticed I was feeling anxious today thinking about seeing you' She was in session with her psychoanalyst. 'What's the anxiety?'  'I think its about engaging and knowing that I'll become afraid again like last week and I'll need to question your interest in me.' 'Perhaps you're not interested?' 'Its not that I'm not interested. I'm scared. I do this with everyone. I jump in and engage and then have to leave. It becomes too much... I can't rest. I need to be prepared in case you leave or fall asleep. I find it tiring being with people... It's better than it was. I used to find people lacerating to be with' 'Do you have a part of you that observes you, that is very vigilant in watching you as you relate to others?' 'Yes, I wonder if I'll offend someone or be hurt by someone or make a fool of myself.'

The morning routine getting the older one to school had gone well. Entertaining the little one was also going well - playing Sleeping Queens over breakfast, creating cardboard snakes with forked tongues, doing nail polish on the back verandah, cooking cupcakes together. She was being the good mum she knew she could be despite the lack of space over the last two weeks with the girls illness. 'Time... to pounce' and the little one bounced on to her lap.

Working with her client that afternoon went well and she had a walk-in. It was the first time someone off the street had enquired about counselling and made an appointment, just like that. A week before she had said to herself/God/the world, 'it's time for some new clients' and within a week she had two new clients. It was like this with her. She breathed out her need and breathed in God’s/the universes' response. Clients, accommodation, jobs. They all came easily.

Dinner, baths, bed. A story about the Prodigal Son (what does this story mean?) and the old classic Cinderella. The little one doing headstands out of sheer tiredness while the older one tries to discipline her. They were so different. When the older one got tired she slowed down, whinged a bit and flopped around. The younger ones energy ramped up the more tired she became. She had been known to run in circles yelling 'May date, May date' over and over. No one knew why she yelled this but it made it funnier.

'The women, as they prepared me for the men, they would speak to me softly and gently, but their words were used to keep me still and guide me through the preparations. They spoke like a mother speaking gently to a child but their words manipulated, imprisoned, terrified me.' 'You feel like you weren't captivating enough as a baby to gain your mothers attention but you gained the attention of your abusers so this must have split you' 'Yes but their attention, in the end it came full circle because they weren't interested in me but in what I was for them. In the end their attention confirmed that I was not captivating.'

The days began to roll on again. A cycle seemed to be in play. A run of good days would be followed by a run of bad days. The trigger could be sleep deprivation, eating badly, feeling out of control. Or a tough session with her psychoanalyst. Or... Sometimes it was clear, often not.

Things between her husband and her were definitely easing. They could joke more together again. He seemed to have recovered his sense of humour and she laughed almost unfailingly. It was a hallmark of their relationship. They could hold hands now without compromising her sense of safety. It had been true that when the memories of the ritual abuse had torn through to her consciousness her life had been torn, shredded.

Usually diligent in her private practice administration, she failed to pay rent or renew insurance. Her Association membership also had been forgotten. The client work continued until she made significant mistakes resulting in a four month Sabbatical. It should have been longer.

Friends and colleagues that she felt she had a connection with seemed to disregard the depth of pain and trauma she was experiencing daily. Instead of experiencing empathy, she felt judged. Admittedly she was unstable and it showed but she had hoped for more understanding.

The paradox of intense intimacy as she processed some of her story with her husband, and loss of any physical intimacy, had its own fallout. Though they walked their paths together and shared deeply they both felt deeply alone and uncared for by the other.

And with her children she tried so hard to mininise the impact of her implosion. There were some days, not many considering, when she could not function, wandering around the house in a pain-filled daze. There were some days when her powerlessness or rage got the better of her. She endeavored to keep that away from the girls and succeeded over time. Daily tasks were difficult and during the acute stage she rarely cooked. Her husband, understanding some of what she was experiencing, filled the gaps.

Yes, things were a lot better these days. Daily life was manageable and often enjoyable. Jokes and laughter had re-entered the home. She and he were holding hands and seeing a therapist to help them recover their physical and sexual intimacy. Professionally she had moved away from her judging colleagues. Her mind map reflected her desire to broaden her skill set and theoretical base, and create new and paradoxical networks. She had imploded, fragmented, burst like a water bomb on a hot day hitting the ground, soaking in and evaporating leaving only a memory of the water. And, like a homeopathic remedy, in the water memory there was great healing.