May 4, 2000

     When i went back to visit some friends and my children, a few weeks ago, my daughter described an assignment she was given at school.  Apparently she is in some kind of home and family studies class, and (with another student) has to present an essay to the group as a whole.  The topic she and her friend chose was family violence, a topic that felt like a zing right to my heart as she described it.  And zinged even harder as she looked to me for help.  But like always, she bats those eyes of hers that are the same mixed up colour as mine, and i am incapable of saying no.

     i wish i had.

     The first idea was that i would actually be brought into the classroom and would discuss with the students what it was like being raised in a dysfunctional household.  But we aren't sure of time constrictions, and the availability of my getting there, so i offered to write a short essay instead.  We haven't totally ruled out the possibility of my going there, but at least she will have my written words as a backup.  

     And i must be honest.  i am not positive i can handle sitting in front of a class sharing what i experienced, without crying.  Do i really want to cry in front of a room of seventeen and eighteen year olds?

     But i am having such a hard time getting started on the essay, and my time is running out.  i am digging deep inside me to try and understand why this is happening.  When Master and i first met, i began a "story".  It chronicled as much as i could remember (or let myself remember) of my life up to about age thirty.  It took a very long time to do, and the pain cut deep while i was doing it.  i think that pain is part of the problem; i'm not sure i want to revisit it.  But i am also afraid that i will go back to the past and discover that i am left feeling cold and clinical.  i don't want that either.  If i can't "feel", then how can i write anything that is worthwhile?

     There is something else though, that has been floating like a loose thread through my mind.  i think i am afraid to share the experiences with my daughter just yet.  She is aware that there were problems.  She has a pretty good idea of what types of problems they were.  But until now she hasn't asked a lot of questions about it.  Her exact words to me were "I don't know if I want to know this stuff about Grandma."  

     my mother wasn't a good grandmother, in the traditional sense of the word.  my daughter and she shared the same birth day, but i don't remember any time that my mother allowed them to share the celebration together.  She didn't take the time to really know my children.  Yet my daughter found a niche for an idealized version of this woman to rest in her mind, and i am reluctant to disturb that. 

     Still, she did ask for my help on this project.  

     Demons of the past.  Do they ever go away?     

                    shadoe