A UNION WITHOUT UNITY
(Another in a series about my childhood.)
* * *
I was born into a union where there was no unity. A unit divided by a divorce decree before I was old enough to inure myself against the unendurable pain of an unreal reality,
In the twisted, tormented mind of my mother, I became a symbol of hate and love. the syndrome of her sensual soul. I was a battered child. The blood has congealed, the wounds have healed, but the scars remain to remind me.
I do recall a mother who, in unpredictable moments of need, fell upon me lustfully. She would hold a wooden spoon in her hand----a spoon she used to mix batter for her cakes and pies, the same spoon she beat me with a rhythm and ferocity you would not believe.
Each time would be the same. I would be ordered to remove my pants and lay, face down, across her knees. And she would beat my viciously. But gradually the slashes would slow in their intensity and frequency. Then my mother's eyes would lose their glaze and her face would soften and she would cry and comfort me.
Time would pass and her love would overwhelm me until the agony consumed her and the beatings would begin again with the same intensity. These nightmares run together in my memory. I cannot separate or remember them individually---except for one.
In the midst of my mother's fury her wooden spoon broke in two. I felt her grip loosen and wrestled free from her lap and scrambled to safety beneath her bed. On hands and knees she demanded I come from my safety one. "I'm not done with you," she said. I remained out of her reach in the middle of her bed. I trembled and cried and fell into a troubled sleep.
It was late at night, the house was dark when I awoke. I saw the weight of her body in the bed above be. I whispered to myself, "She said she loved me." And I think, I cannot be sure, but I believe I heard her cry. I climbed into the bed beside my mother. She held me in her arms.
I was born into a union where there was no unity. A unit divided by a divorce decree before I was old enough to inure myself against the unendurable pain of an unreal reality,
In the twisted, tormented mind of my mother, I became a symbol of hate and love. the syndrome of her sensual soul. I was a battered child. The blood has congealed, the wounds have healed, but the scars remain to remind me.
I do recall a mother who, in unpredictable moments of need, fell upon me lustfully. She would hold a wooden spoon in her hand----a spoon she used to mix batter for her cakes and pies, the same spoon she beat me with a rhythm and ferocity you would not believe.
Each time would be the same. I would be ordered to remove my pants and lay, face down, across her knees. And she would beat my viciously. But gradually the slashes would slow in their intensity and frequency. Then my mother's eyes would lose their glaze and her face would soften and she would cry and comfort me.
Time would pass and her love would overwhelm me until the agony consumed her and the beatings would begin again with the same intensity. These nightmares run together in my memory. I cannot separate or remember them individually---except for one.
In the midst of my mother's fury her wooden spoon broke in two. I felt her grip loosen and wrestled free from her lap and scrambled to safety beneath her bed. On hands and knees she demanded I come from my safety one. "I'm not done with you," she said. I remained out of her reach in the middle of her bed. I trembled and cried and fell into a troubled sleep.
It was late at night, the house was dark when I awoke. I saw the weight of her body in the bed above be. I whispered to myself, "She said she loved me." And I think, I cannot be sure, but I believe I heard her cry. I climbed into the bed beside my mother. She held me in her arms.
posted by Ed Weiland at 1:44 AM
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