Flying Saucers
(Tokoni, 04/28/2011)

When I was a kid, my mom would get really mad at us sometimes. I don’t know why, but it seemed that it would often happen in the kitchen. Or maybe it was just a coincidence – maybe I just remember the things that went on in the kitchen better. Or . . . well, I can sit here guessing all day. All I know is that it was, in a way, good training at “duck and dodge” for us kids – and perhaps a way for my mom to justify getting new dishware. After all, a woman gets tired of washing the same old dishes day in, day out after a time.

But these things would always start out the same – my brother and I on one side of the table, my mom in the kitchen area (we never really lived in a place with a formal dining room, so this makes sense.) Mom would be yelling about something we’d done or left undone – working herself into a feverish rage, screaming and shouting and calling us the names she so often used – one of her most popular was “you damn brats”. That one was so popular with me that a friend left from childhood (the only friend I know – and not a best friend anymore, but rather more of an acquaintance) – recalls her introducing me to anyone and everyone as “Here’s my son. Damn brat.” Oh well, I knew by the age of ten I was ‘bad’ and given to making many mistakes. I still struggle with that sometimes.

Anyway, after working herself into a frenzy, it would happen – and we always knew when it was going to happen, because the first thing she would do would be to yank open one of the kitchen cabinets. Then the rain would begin – a ceramic rain or dishes and saucers; glasses and cups – all headed across the table our way. And my brother and I, instead of running (I don’t know WHY we never just got the heck outta there!) – would dance and dodge, ducking and rising like so many shooting gallery ducks – listening to the dishes crash and tinkle against the wall behind us, getting showered in shards of glass and brittle pieces. You didn’t watch to see where the dish or saucer – or whatever – would hit after it passed by your shoulder – because you were too busy focusing on the next one, which would be flying through the air. Duck and dodge, duck and dodge – dancing all the way. I don’t know how it looked from her end of things – but for us it was sometimes more of a game than the punishment it was supposed to be, because we got really good at that. Ducking and dodging that is. (A skill that would come in useful a lot of times in other situations – but not here at home.)

I don’t recall ever being hit by one (but I’m sure we must of – how else would we of learned to dodge so well?) but I do recall what would happen after her rage subsided – or the dishes were all gone (I don’t know which). She’d storm around the table, look at the mess she had made, and then with a firm command, tell us to get busy cleaning ‘our mess’ up. And all those broken plates and things – I remember how there would be sprays of shards as the ceramic shattered on the wall, dancing quite carefully to keep your feet from getting cut – and then her handing us the broom and the dustpan, scolding us and warning us to get up every last bit. Because you didn’t want to leave a bit of it behind – nothing to remind her of her temper, or how she’d lost control.

And then, a few days later, a new set of dishes would appear. I don’t know what she told our dad; I somehow doubt she told him the truth – but my brother and I would glance at each other over our new plates and wonder: just how long will these new ones last?

Flying cups and saucers. No wonder my childhood was such fun!

(Now here’s the thing; come 5/3/2011: Yeah, and we are still finding it grimly humorous, a sense of darkening humor; one that almost (but not quite) … embroils a part of us in rage.  Who? …. the child feels not fear; but an angry frustrated and scared rage at his mother figure just then; that and a great sense of ‘unfairness!!’ screaming and crying in his mind (all of our own minds; he shares his thoughts; what a blessing – for he knows in the end he’s gonna have to clean this up; this crap has got to come to an end … a bitterly wishing child, sometimes wishing his life would end; age 8 then 10 then 12.)

And (we don’t trust this; we have issues with something called ‘recovered memories’ – because of something we’ll mention in our next post on this blog of our (feeling very sickened … very sickened; yes, nausea instead; both in mind and soul and body – just at the thought of the thing)… but there are dim flickers of being hit; and sometimes grazed in the head . . . or it might just be my imagination.  I’m thinking: we’ll never know; and while he’s not all right with that, we are: we are filled with compassion and love for this child of ours; this lovely child we keep on a sheltered beach, in this wonderful world of ours … )

Sighing.  Yes, being DID can be sometimes wonderful.  But sometimes it can be a problem; not that ‘we’re’ the problem; none of us are.

In some ways we are like a giant and loving family; crammed way inside – and one of our own has been hurt – and we must help ‘move him on his journey to healing’.  Even if it’s by doing this thing.

The telling of our next tale in this series*; this Little Shop of Mine.

*LO soft L’ing: I, M3, and some others – all of us in the string of controllers in mine; my own family and ‘mine’have been ‘dodging the issue’ ever since ‘the others’ have ordered us to “Begin Processing”, as the system puts it (a hard firm pushing order behind them words).  So we ‘Tweet’ and we “chirp” on other people’s blogs; showing our face on Facebook; other kinds of things – all in the interest of preserving the system stability – while the ‘drive’ of the system is pushing us “TO HEAL!” – and a dangerous kinda balance in between.  So we’re gonna continue to blog on my other blog (you know the one; the Jeffery’s Song one) – and perhaps maybe mess around, while we give that little boy in us time to recuperate some – while awaiting the next ‘battle’ – our own kinda battle … the one deep down inside.)