This entry gives a wonderful illustration of how those walls erect themselves. Hopefully, it can help others to recgnize where they may have created walls where really “garden borders” exist.

I write the memories I have sometimes as if what she said was true because that was how I interpreted them when I was a child. I have a clear memory of this women telling Frank and I how lucky we were before she left. So I wonder, even if she didn’t leave a note or say something before she died, if there wasn’t some grain of truth to my mothers explanation.

The hardest part of this whole Crazymom.com process, for me, is never knowing the exact truth of any of it. Many people talk about “their truth” or “their personal truth” and I think I get what they mean, why it needs to be described that way but it often seems to be a way to refuse to look for more pieces of a puzzle. The best part of this experience for me, so far, is seeing how different Mary, Frank, and I remember things. Some events loomed so large for me and they barely remember them, the same is true for them. Some details, dates, locations, are recalled differently. Stepping aside from my role in it and the frightening subject matter, it is a fascinating look at a family history seen from all the children.

I have also experienced the sense of feeling responsible for the sudden death of someone I love even when it does not seem logical. The most difficult experience for me to process was not a human but when I was responsible for the death of some small animals I loved because I had not given them back to nature and they dehydrated while I was away. To this day that experience still is part of my attitude of a sense of sanctity of life and the question of my responsibility towards life. It is interesting to note that I still have not quite processed that experience. Hmm. What would that mean anyway? To accept it maybe. To see it as it is or was maybe. To see that I don’t know some things. For instance, death. Still a big question mark in the place of death.

As I look in myself now and try to see my experience for what it was or is, I see that part of my suffering appears to stem from the feeling that no one else could feel what I was feeling. So, imagine a child who has a strong feeling of sorrow or even of joy but no one can share this feeling. Who else could feel the sorrow and responsibility that was my own? Who else could empathize? I look at my childhood self, my childhood experience and I see that I felt alone and sad and mad and guilty and so on. But mostly alone with these experiences. I look at this child and try to imagine what he would have wished for so that if I ever encounter such a child or person, I might see better what is needed. I look for myself but I will not share what I see here. To do so would deny you the possibility of looking for yourself. Plus, this medium is clumsy for subtle exchange.

I also remember that I discovered a part of myself in that time of grieving and I saw that I could turn off my emotions which I did and as far as I recall, I never cried from that day forward about anything. I remained cut off from my emotions in a way. The next time I cried was at age 16 when my high school girlfriend broke up with me for the first time. Since then I have spent years searching for a stronger connection with my emotions and my search has proven to me that something is possible.

As a final note, I would say that I do not blame my parents for any suffering of my childhood, although, I hope always to raise my children even better than they raised me. I even remember as a child yearning for a “better” life. So, this describes my condition.

Please know that I do not mean to equate my childhood to yours but perhaps you will at least find what I have written to be of interest.

That is the best ever food torture avoidance trick. Somehow rolled up in cloth napkins was not successful. Go figure. In retrospect I should have removed the food after dinner rather than leaveit for Mom to discover.

For me it is not a question of blame or even of logical proof. It is a question of trying to understand her point of view at the time that she wrote this particular journal entry. When writing in a journal I try to write for my own understanding. She seems to be trying to understand her situation and she obviously sees that something about her life is not quite right. She also sees that she does not feel love or intimacy. The rest of her exploration of possible reasons is only secondary to me.

It is interesting for me to note that I too have felt the inability to Love in myself. Rather I might say that I do not seem to love as I wish I could. Much more love seems possible and I see only shadows of this possibility.

In my house growing up we were allowed to choose one food not to eat. Liver was my choice. So I feel for you guys.

I recall a few humorous dinner episodes at your house. One time I burped very loudly and proudly at the dinner table. At first everyone was taken aback but I guess I appeared so clueless (plus I was a guest) so they had mercy on me. I asked what I should have done and they said that I should have gone to the bathroom to burp but then admitted that I was so loud that they would have heard me anyway.

The second event was a dinner where my parents were present. Frank and I were seated at a low table or sitting on cushions with my mom and eating chicken or turkey for dinner. The meat was so dry that neither of us wanted to eat it. But since it eventually became clear that not eating was not an option, both Frank and I stuffed our entire serving in our mouths which made it almost impossible to chew but rather humorous according to our understanding. To my disappointment, my mother made us spit it out and eat it in smaller bites.

My worst memory eating was when my dad made pigs feet stew for dinner. The taste reminded me of pig. It tasted like what a pig smells like when it is alive. If it was venison the term we’d use would be gamey. But this was the taste of a domestic pig so it tasted farmy. Animal farmy. Well, you get the idea. So, I know my dad was trying to make good food but. . . The farmy stew was paired with a side of big old string beans that were starchy and unpalatable. I forget what else we had but it was probably brown rice. Finding that there was nothing appetizing on my plate, I decided to mix everything together to see if I could improve upon my dinner. The result was a large pile of starchy farmy glop which was now cold and congealed. Needless to say I was compelled to stay at the table until I was done.

The greatest reprieve from the terror of unwanted food was the day I discovered that I could toss my unwanted food under my younger brothers high chair.

At my house now, my children are required to at least taste their food and there my be a few cross words thrown around but I don’t think that I am a food maniac or a pushover. Of course, I must defer to my children for their perspective.