Una's Cave in Gaetway
The second of January sees us do the house cleaning so badly needed – taking down the Christmas decorations, vacuuming, sweeping off the back porch, cleaning the bathroom, putting some clothes in the laundry room for others to have. At the end of the day we relax and enjoy the satisfaction of a clean home. In a way it is a small pleasure but these pleasures are critical in the process of healing. I guess it’s a coping skill of some sort, knowing what can raise your spirits, if even only a little, amidst so much pain. As well, having accomplished this, we feel ready to return to work tomorrow.
Alas, it’s not long before our pain returns. This time it comes from Una (4). Her sadness and grief rolled into one is a heavy stone sinking to the ocean floor, burying itself in the sand. Depression deep within us, our womb aching from its invasions and losses. And there is a door that leads us to the past. It creates a dread within, a fear of what may lie behind it. We open it, only a little, just enough for a glimpse, then shut it again. This is one way to do it, the Remembering, necessary in order to survive once again .. intact.
There is a rotten smell in here, the odour of illness and decay. A memory box lies waiting for one of us who is strong and brave enough to retrieve it and open it, The Time Traveller (2) receiving from The Keepers of Maura (2), a ritual of Remembering. Yet there is something different this time. The lid is lifted, slowly, gently, and a memory floats up into our conscious waking state, a smoke-filled image rising and enfolding us.
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Shana (4) likes her body, our body, Raven (3). She is not afraid of it like so many of us are. She does not shun it like some of us want to do. She loves its sweat, mucus, tears and snot, all of what it oozes. She holds the childlike curiosity of what she has been given, without censor, without dismissal, disgust or rejection. There are those of us who are embarrassed about what we carry, ashamed, as if somehow this carriage is different than any other human being’s body. It is slime but not for Shana. For her it simply is.
The image of a little girl, sitting, a blanket wrapped around her. Then Timothy (3) ... he is standing, also with a blanket around him. He is speaking to a man, telling him what happened. The man listens, looks as if he wants to comfort Timothy but we smell betrayal in him. This is a setup. See the child tell the secrets then punish him for it. You must not tell anyone Child, or bad things will happen to you. No one will believe you anyway but you must keep your mouth shut. Naughty boy! The little girl is smart. She knows all this. She recognizes this ritual. So she remains still, saying nothing to anyone. Alone in the world, unable to trust, unable to find comfort.
Una wants to talk. Be careful, Una. You tread a dangerous path.
A dream of a seat in a pit. Is this the same hole from the other dream, the hole we were put in and cement poured on top of us?
Once again, we need to take stock. New ones who have emerged. Phoetus (4), The Terrible Twos (2), Little Ruby (3) and Shana, all who live in Wyrd-Mama’s Belly. Also Split Face (4) who has helped Una survive. And Gaetway itself, a tiled courtyard that is an entrance to something more, each tile significant.
When we go to the bathroom there is an intense pressure, something pushing upwards against our cervix and uterus. It contains such fear, sickening nauseating terror. When we walk we must do so slowly. We haven’t the energy to move normally, not with a body that is bone bruised. We need to just lie down.
I feel like giving up. It all seems endless and hopeless, no comfort, no relief in sight.
The child can take things and expand them exponentially. The monsters become so much bigger, the darkness becomes so much darker. Fortunately, the child also has the ability to paint the light, things that deny the darkness, that keep it at bay for years, that wait for the adult to become. The adult then sees the monsters are mere humans, weak and sick, power hungry and full of guilt. But we are all still afraid. The monsters are still so powerful, demons who continue to make us tremble.
A drawing of bloody cloths reflects the ache in our womb. Deep and penetrating. Pain that gores us, a spear thrust upwards, forcing a trembling guttural moan from some place within.
Our resilience, our ability to adapt or “go with the flow” is not very good. Anything can set us off, careening out of control, and wondering where the brakes are. We cannot find our walkman and this triggers another avalanche of suicidal destructiveness. We draw ourself into a rage, unable to deal with the frustration. I think it’s a stage of development that we did not accomplish as a child. We are not able to deal with things that seem out of our control. Unable to ride the storm.
The trigger ... the loss of the other children. I think this hurts more than the abuse we received. Wishing they had taken us and yet relieved they had not. We hover over the toilet, retching, vainly attempting to expunge our wild emotions. Looking for the walkman was full of panic, hysteria just around the corner, the child realizing what is lost. Death screaming at her.
We were taught not to believe in ourself, not to trust our own words, that we were stupid and foolish, everything to ensure their power over us.
But we are not a child anymore.
Huh. The realization. Words we must fight for. Words we must try to believe, over and over. For some, it is almost easy while others doubt. So we push. WE ARE NOT A CHILD ANYMORE!!! They can’t ... no more ... gone forever ... we are free of them.
WE ARE NOT A CHILD ANYMORE!!!
Maybe we ended up in hospital the last two times because we were afraid of our own power, had no faith in our self-control. We thought other people had to control us, to not let our demons out. We were afraid of those devils within, afraid of our dark heart. But now? Maybe that dark is not an enemy but rather an ally, helping us to understand the most basic human urges. And may this ally is sure-footed and points the way. The ally as force that shows the reins in our hands.
We ask the massage therapist to focus on our lower back. We can feel trapped energy there. While she massages we feel a really strong urge to push, like a woman in labour. We tell the therapist and she says how interesting because she kept thinking the word “birth”. She knows nothing about Una, does not know we are multiple.
We sculpt a figure out of clay. Una as child, sitting with a strange mask on. On each side of her, protruding from her cloak, is a gray head peeking out. Two babies. They are not alive. “I have wrapped your cold bodies around me” [Sinead O’Connor] Una maintains them, will not let go of them. She is mother fierce, the way our grandmother was. You fight for your children all the way.
The wound as portal is the gateway. It is a point between our breasts. The entrance to our pain. The place of power and of authentic self. This is all who we are.
Little Ruby, glasses slipping down her nose, thumb in mouth, dragging a doll behind her, follows Shana for some reason. Trailing behind her.
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Finally, eventually, we fall into a place of peace. So rare. Home and dry.
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