The assignment for dream therapy is to rewrite the dream (in this case a memory) so that I come out the victor not the victim.
Memory:
I don’t even remember how I broke it. I just remember that I broke it and found myself standing in front of my mother lying through my teeth claiming it was my sister that broke it. She said who ever broke it would get their hands whipped with a dowel rod. That was the one thing I wasn’t able to dissociate from. I couldn’t leave when she hit my hands. I could feel every single lash no matter how hard I tried not to. So when she threatened with that I lied. My sister pleaded with me to tell the truth but I didn’t. Instead of walking away while the sister was whipped the mother had me stand there and watch her take a punishment that should have been mine. I was in the 4th grade and my sister was in the 6th yet to this day I can see her stomping her feet and screaming. I still flinch when saying it.
Therapy Assignment:
How would I have this end? Let me first say that typing the above was more than difficult because no only can I still see and hear that event but there are times when I can still feel the dowel rods. But thinking of a way to come out on top actually makes me smile. So here is the new version of that memory: Actual evens are highlighted in red.
I broke the dowel rod, it was me. (Note: I meant to type I broke the umbrella but instead wrote I broke the dowel rod. Let me start again…. goodness.)
I broke the umbrella. It was me.
Get over here!
I try to leave but I can’t because something keeps holding me there, saying I need to be around, I need to be present to witness this. The mother picks up a dowel rod and braces herself but it crumbles like old bread and falls to the floor. She goes to get the back up (always has a spare in case she brakes one). She finds it and is ready to lash but it flops back in a rubber band type fashion and comes down in a soft, graceful swoop, the kind of grace a dove would be proud of. I stand there, stunned. I can’t believe it. Her face is red, she’s furious. With every intension of teaching me a lesson she grabs me by the hair and tosses me in the car. We’re on our way to Central Hardware to get another one. I have my money because I’m the one that has to purchase them. She gives me her money to buy myself a Snickers candy bar. The car comes to a screeching halt and I reluctantly start inside and down the isle to the back of the store. I’m to choose a green one, an orange one and a yellow tipped one. I do so, grab a Kit Kat instead of a Snickers and head back to the car. We speed home where I hear her tell me what a disappointment I am, an ungrateful, disrespectful, rebellious, hard headed bitch. I don’t drop a tear. I’ve heard it all before. She keeps herself on high anger alert with verbal assaults during the drive. While in the throws of anger she opens the car door, anxious to get on with the torture she fails to see the pavement in front of her is not level. She falls flat on her face. I freeze. I don’t laugh, I dare not but I also don’t help her up off the ground. She wipes the dust off her business suit and limps to the front door, cursing, spitting, and sputtering. She fights with the key to the front door. More angry than before and eager to get in the house she over shoots the key hole and slams her hand on the wooden door hard enough to pull it back with a dowel rod size splinter. I don’t faint at the site of blood nor do I laugh, not even at hers. I’m silent, standing with the dowel rods in my hand (they feel feather light) and the Kit Kat waits in a small bag. Mother stands on front door step, her cussing and screaming ceased but her bleeding has not. We wait on the porch for the ambulance. This could be her time to think about her actions, a time to allow herself to cool off and tell me she never should have gotten so angry. She could call me by a name, any name other than bitch and whore and tell me that it’s just a stupid umbrella why did I get so angry? But she squanders the chance to show compassion and sits in bitter silence. I sit eating my Kit Kat, chocolate on my face, licking my fingers one by one thankful for feather weight rods that come down with the grace of a dove.
Alternate endings:
Ending A:
While she’s stitched up at the nearest mental ward for the criminally insane ER I sit in the waiting room eating my Kit Kat.
Ending B:
She jumps from the car. She’s in a hurry to damage the child that did her damnedest to do everything right the first time. She fails to see the pavement isn’t level and bashes her head, splitting it open to reveal nothing at all. No brain, not even dark matter that is sure to make up the contents of her heart. She lays on the pavement split, waiting for the paddy wagon to come take her where child abusers belong. I give her the Kit Kat. She’ll need something to munch on in her 4×4 cell. Child abuse is against the law Mother, didn’t you know that?
Ending C:
Introduce a flat tire on the way to Central Hardware. We get there but the store has closed for a holiday, a sudden unexpected holiday but someone has tossed a dowel rod in the trash. I fish it out. We travel back home, another flat tire. She bashes her head on the pavement, gets up, slams her hand on the door. In shock she stumbles backwards and impales herself on an orange tipped dowel rod I fished out of the trash.
Weakness lies in the heart of a man that would raise his hand to hurt a child.
A Mere Paper Oriental Umbrella- Re-write history-Wednesday, February 14, 2007-1:01AM EST
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