Smoky Memories

Every time I try to remember something from my past, my memories get distorted and camouflage themselves in-between unorganized snapshots of what could have been. It’s as if I’m not supposed to remember things as they really happened.

In general I have difficulties evoking anything from the past, I can remember the big picture but I can’t recall the details of any specific situation. I remember very well all the houses I have lived in, but I can’t remember my neighbors’ names, my address, or any of my teachers’ names. I sometimes joke saying that I have an “autonomous selective” memory, where my heart and brain choose on their own and as they please, what to be kept and what to thrash away.

I can still feel the emotional pain, the need to escape, the will to disappear that kept hunting me during my childhood and until my early twenties… but I can’t recall the details of the things that made me feel that way. No matter how hard I try, my brain is still refusing to let me dig in for those answers that are buried within the memories. So I keep asking myself over and over: "What is hiding there? Why can’t I remember?"

More than ten years ago while living in Kenya I met a Hindu monk who upon my request read the lines of my hands. I will never forget the way he looked at me after observing for a long time my left palm (the one that represents the past). With tenderness he looked through my eyes searching for my broken soul, but despite his kindhearted effort, he could not pass the defensive systems I had built long ago. My heart was hidden behind an impenetrable wall, afraid of showing up, terrified and alarmed of anyone trying to reach deep enough. The monk couldn’t disguise his sadness, but showed understanding and respected my unconscious but tacit refusal to allow him reaching any further, so after a while he said: “You have had a very rough life; you are a survival who had suffered everything you needed to in this life, so from now on, life will be good. Open your heart, you are safe now”.

I wanted to ask him a thousand questions, I wanted to know what he saw… but I didn’t. Something inside me prevented me from seeking the knowledge I always craved for. Somehow I knew that it wasn’t right to force the past into my life through a stranger’s interpretation of my history. If I was supposed to remember, then the memories will come to me when ready, or else, they will keep smoky and sneaky forever and ever…

After so many ups and downs my heart is finally open and willing to give and receive. The wall is down and all defensive systems have been successfully deactivated, but my memories are still refusing to show up… It doesn’t matter how hard I try to get them back, they are out of my reach, and so I keep asking myself: "What is hiding there? Why can’t I remember?"

If dispersing the smoky memories is going to bring hate, bitterness and regrets, then I should let them rest in peace as they will not contribute to anything positive to my present. Maybe it is time for me to accept that all I need to know from my past is that it happened, that somehow it worked out, and thanks to it I’m who I’m today.


© 2010 Gabriela Abalo

Not your punching bag

There are two types of abuse, physical and emotional abuse. Everything can be abused, nature, people, animals, situations, etc, etc. The extent of the damage caused by the abuse varies as it directly depends on how and to whom or what the abuse is inflicted.
Sometimes abuse provokes reactions and triggers positive results, as it forces someone to stand by himself/herself. But more often than not, abuse causes long lasting damages, especially when the abuse is inflicted on defenseless beings (nature, children, animals, etc.).
Abuse is cruel, unkind, mean, heartless, merciless, brutal, nasty, malicious, etc, etc… it leaves deep scars which are not easy to ill or disguise. We often hear or read that “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” or “we attain the strength we have conquered” or “turn your wounds into wisdom”. But how do you explain that to a child that is being abused by his own parents? How do we stop that child from becoming bitter and resentful?
When one of my brothers was only fourteen he started living on the streets and with friends that gave him temporal shelter, but he did it out of no choice, since he wasn’t welcome anymore in our “home”.
I still remember how he used to be as a child and I can still see his sweet face trying to give me the strength he did not have. I can recall his weak attempts to mend what couldn’t be mended… I still have nightmares about the day that the top of his hand was placed on a hot stove and therefore badly burnt by our stepfather as a punishment for pilfering.
From the time he was physically and emotionally abandoned by our parents, his life started going down the ditch, he was always in trouble with the authorities, usually for stealing or drug consumption. At the time he was supposed to be nurtured by his family he was instead fostered by the streets… then his values and principles got distorted and his self-esteem was shut down by the fact that his very own parents did not consider him worth of love and support.
When he needed them the most, they turned their faces and lives away from him. They were ashamed and hated him for what he was doing to them; they considered themselves the victims and my brother the perpetrator. They never visited him when in prison or offered him any kind of support, as per their beliefs, he was rotten and getting exactly what he deserved.
All I got from him are good and bad memories from our childhood; we did not have the chance to walk into adulthood together as our paths where diverted by our parents’ choices and actions. So today we are complete strangers, despite my early attempts to keep close. Our lives are different, same as our life approach and values. Life events turned him into someone I would rather keep far away from.
I constantly write about choices and the responsibility we hold towards everything that happens to us, or that no one can cause you any harm without your consent. I absolutely still stand for that, but as everything else in life, even this fact has its exception… An adult do always have a choice, but a child does not!
As adults we have the responsibility to tender for our children, to look after them and nurture them with love and care. We can’t use them as a punching bag to release our very own personal frustrations; we can’t wash our hands from their lives as soon as they turn into a bad corner, as if we have nothing to do with it. We are their guardians, role models and masters; they need us to guide them while walking their way from childhood to adulthood.
I keep wondering how my brother’s life could have turned out had our parents been supportive, loving and caring. He had a good heart and was incapable of seeing anyone suffering, especially us; he was our protector and used to take all the blame to save us from our parents’ rage. He was a very intelligent boy and a brilliant student, whose teachers priced constantly and even predicted a bright future for him...
But things did turn out totally different, his good heart was smashed and his bright future destroyed by the abuses he was constantly subjected to. As a child he didn’t have a choice but to believe what he was told: good for nothing and a burden to his parents. He did try to prove them wrong and alleviate the best he could the burden he was, by working in a factory at a tender age and neglecting what he loved the most: his studies.
But it wasn’t enough; nothing he did satisfy our parents’ resentment, so they kept pushing and pushing until they got what they always wanted –rid of him and blaming him for that.
Until today our parents are unable to see the role they played in his life, they keep asking themselves: “What went wrong? He never saw us stealing or consuming drugs; for sure he got all the bad genes from his biological father’s side!”

© 2010 Gabriela Abalo

Why doesn’t she love me?

“Hi, I’m back!” she said looking at Annie’s face with relief. The lack of answer didn’t bother her at all, and without an invitation, she sat at the edge of the stone and then resumes the conversation.
“She kicked me out of the house again, this is the third time she’s done that” - she pauses and after taking a deep breath continues saying - “I don’t know what to do, I’m tired of fighting! I don’t know how long I will be able to stay strong…” the tone of her voice reveals the emotional distress she is going through.
A warm and tender breeze kisses her cheek and hair as if trying to ease her sorrows. The silence is only broken by the birds singing from a nearby cypress tree. Looking directly into Annie’s eyes, she asks - “Why does she hate me so much? Why can’t she love me the same way she loves my brothers? What did I do wrong?” - with anger she fights the tears trying to show up on her face, as crying is not permitted on a strong girl like her.
“Yesterday, despite the rain and the cold she locked me out of the house and probably got soundly asleep in a few minutes, with no concern for my well-being. I heard one of my brothers trying to plead with her, but then gave up as he was almost shown the way out too. After an hour of crying out and kicking the door with no results I headed to Tory’s house, she always offers me shelter. But you have to see her face, she can’t hide the compassion she feels for me….” - Her brown eyes can’t disguise the sadness apprehending her, which contradicts the hard expression of her face. Her eyes are the window to her soul while her face is a well learned masquerade to conceal her real feelings.
She is only fourteen but looks older than she really is, years of suffering and emotional abuses have made a dent in her. She is being considered a wild and aggressive child by her schoolmates and teachers, making it so difficult for her to have any friends. Loneliness is her only companion, but sometimes the aloneness becomes too heavy to abide, so she comes to see Annie and the others for companionship and conversation. They always listen and never charge or criticize her, but she misses some kind of advice or guidance from them, after all, they have lived longer and had more experience. She knows there is nothing she can do to halt their unbreakable silence, but she is consoled but the inner knowledge that they listen and care.
“Today, Tory told me that my mother can’t continue doing this to me, that she is breaking the law and that the authorities can take me away from her. She wants to report her, so my mother can start taking better care of me. I begged her not to do it, because I’m afraid I may be sent to an orphanage… You know, my mom keeps telling me she will do it and I believe her.” She pauses and takes a deep breath in, as if trying to grow bigger and stronger. She doesn’t want to start crying, if she does, then she may never be able to stop, so she keeps breathing deep until the urge to cry is fully controlled.
After a while she speaks again, “Tory felt sorry for me so she promised not to do it this time, but she will if my mother does it again. The problem is that I know I will be kicked out again; any mistake will be used by my mother as a pretext to fight me, she will not stop until I’m gone… She did the same to my older brother, she kicked him out of the house when he was just thirteen, and never allowed him to come back.
I have nowhere to go, if she kicks me out again I will have to sleep by the door, despite the weather conditions and the time I have to spend outside. That will be the only way to fight her back, she will have to take me in sooner or later, as she will not want the neighbors to tell my stepfather what she is doing to me…” she looks around and after a short silence she asks: “Annie, did your mother love you or was she like mine? Aren’t mothers supposed to care and tender for their children? Why doesn’t she love me? I really want to know…” – as expected she doesn’t get any answer, but that doesn’t bother her as she is feeling better. Being able to talk about her troubles really eases her sorrow.
She keeps looking at Annie’s face, as if searching for answers, then she says - “Ok, is getting late, I must start heading back to hell. Today my stepfather is getting back home, so my mother will pretend this never happened, instead she will complain about how much she had to do and how unhelpful and disobedient I am. After all, this is part of her master plan to get rid of me one day!” - Saying that, she slowly began to rise up from the stone that she was sitting on, she then bends so as to be able to reach Annie’s picture and kiss her goodbye. “Annie, do you think she will ever love me or care for me?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, once again she breaths in deeply and slowly, filling herself with strength and willpower, the one she will need to face her mother’s rage. Then with determination she starts walking away from Annie’s grave and the ones around her, until she gets out of the cemetery.
………
Over twenty years have passed, and I still remember my afternoons at the local graveyard, the only place I used to feel at home. During that time I seriously contemplated the idea of joining my dead friends as an easy way to escape, but I guess my warrior spirit keep me from doing it.
I was told so many times and even read in many books that the people that harm us the most are the ones that teach us the most too. I believe that is true but sometimes it is still hard to digest, especially if the people who hurt you are your closest relatives.
From a physical level, I still feel the pain and the emotional abandonment, while the same question still bothers me sometimes: “Why doesn’t she love me?”
From a spiritual level I do appreciate the teachings that help me to become who I’m today, the challenge was rough but I had managed. Today I’m free and full of love, I have learnt to love myself just the way I am and to love the rest of the world the same way, just the way they are… including her!

© 2010 Gabriela Abalo