| Letters and Diary Non-Fiction posted October 20, 2018 | Chapters: |
-Prologue- 1... 
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  |
Memoir
A chapter in the book Non-Fiction
Humble Thanks and Apologies
by michaelcahill
One of my life stories doesn't make any sense considering my persona. I'm not the likely product of such a story.
I suppose, in some ways, it's reduced my understanding of hardships endured by others and their reactions to them. Hell, I've endured hardships. I could tell a tale of woe that might curl some toes. I could even parlay my sad tale into a bounty of sympathy and pats on the head. I could, no doubt, use it to manipulate people and form excuses and reasonings dazzling and believable.
In truth, my life story, the one I've always been aware of, had little effect on me. It's never been something leaving me traumatized or bitter or even envious of others. I've considered it something to endure, trials and tribulations to experience until better times became manifest.
I'll give you a brief history. I now know my story begins at age two, and not at birth as I always believed.
My mother, and her side of the family, kidnapped me from the front porch of my father's side of the family when I was two-years-old. I do recall the event and the long trip to California with a few vivid memories, but not many. I know I was not traumatized or put out by the events. I knew my mom and her family well. I'm guessing they were part of my life as well as my father's side though I don't recall them at all.
My mother was schizophrenic. My grandmother was domineering and over-protective and controlling to the extreme. My aunt was plain mean. My uncle was irresponsible and fun. My other so-called uncle was a classic wino. It was a madhouse. There was a lot of screaming and hitting instigated by grandma but always taken to the extreme by my mother. My mother was dangerous. If she had a knife in her hand, she'd try and hit me with that.
I learned quickly to have no reaction to anything. Reactions escalated situations, calm hastened their end.
So, I could say, "Oh, my God, my mom tried to hack me to death with a butcher knife! I feared for my life as a child!" That would get some hugs and maybe a dinner at Sizzlers. The truth is, I knew full well the situation and was never in danger. She was clumsy, and I was quick and agile. She never got close. Grandma would realize she had gone too far and intervene and I would be long gone as mother howled at the moon.
They all followed my every move. They believed I was "up to something" at all times. Considering the circumstances, I was never "up to something". How foolish would I be to give them a reason to follow and accuse me? Maintaining my innocence was a bit of a compulsion … still is.
They also discovered I had talent. Talent is a relative thing. Pablo Casals has talent. I have talent as well. Ahh, so nice to hear our names mentioned together. To my family, I had the makings of a star. Families think that way. Sometimes, as in the Casals family, it is justified, usually, it is not.
It's true, I took to musical instruments and I did compose music and write poetry and stories. I even drew pictures. Being as they were all tone-deaf and couldn't draw a straight line, I can understand their view of me as a star. It's all relative.
In any case, in a family of untalented folk stood a single talented kid. In a family of mentally ill or at least highly dysfunctional folk, stood an uncommonly calm and gregarious kid. I always found it strange, especially the talent aspect. The calm seemed the practical response.
It never occurred to me that calm was an unusual response. When asked, "How do you remain so calm in the middle of such chaos?" I would reply, "it's the most effective response". To respond in kind only escalates the situations. People always found my reasonableness to be quite odd. They expected me to be a nervous wreck. They expected me to respond to the constant put downs and admonishments of my family with feelings of inadequacy.
To be calm, cool and collected with high self-esteem did not conform to the circumstances of my upbringing and family situation.
It also caused me to be less than understanding of those in similar circumstances who didn't handle it as well. "What's the problem? Just deal with it and move on with your life." I had no idea what a callous, uncaring response I was tendering.
Decades later, when my mother passed, I called a number on my mother's list of folks to call 'in case of". It turned out to be an aunt on my father's side.
I'll make a long story sho … shorter,. It turns out I was the famous missing child of the family, kidnapped decades ago to never be seen again. At the time, I was the first born of my generation, and the darling of my father's four sisters who raised me while my mother was in and out of mental institutions.
Sadly, my father had passed only a couple years previously, but all my aunts were alive and there to greet me when I arrived for a reunion. There were two half-brothers, and a half-sister as well. There were uncles and endless cousins galore. All this the source for many tales, at least from my perspective.
My focus here though is my own development as a person, and how it is possible considering the facts available to me.
I never had all the facts.
I've never been hugged so hard, and so long, as those aunts, now older ladies, bestowed on me. They were strangers to me, but I was the dear baby who grew into the precocious two-year-old, stolen from their midst all those decades ago. It mattered plenty to them. I couldn't help but be touched.
The pictures told the story, not only of my life then, but of my life now. Snapshot after snapshot showed me, growing from infant to toddler with my aunts … ALWAYS cradled in one of their loving arms, or held by their hands. It was a sea of smiles and love. It was clear to me, I was showered with adoration and love, non-stop, for the first two years of my life.
In that moment my life made sense. By the time I was two-years-old, I had been shielded with an armor able to withstand any force. I knew on the deepest levels, the crazy family who raised me, also loved me. I knew it. I never had animosity towards them. I never felt bitterness towards my lot in life. Now, I knew why.
As I enjoyed the pictures and the love, the final small piece of the puzzle came clear. Guitars began to appear, and the sound of a piano filed the air. These ladies could sing, and they could play. It was as much a part of them as it was a part of me. Ahh … so that's where I …
I realize now why I've never understood some of the real pain people feel regarding their childhood. I always thought my story sounded just as dire and just as deprived. Now, I know, my childhood was rich beyond belief. I apologize for my lack of understanding. I do understand now.
It's all about love. If you have it, you have everything. If you don't, you have every right to yearn for it. I understand.
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One of my life stories doesn't make any sense considering my persona. I'm not the likely product of such a story.
I suppose, in some ways, it's reduced my understanding of hardships endured by others and their reactions to them. Hell, I've endured hardships. I could tell a tale of woe that might curl some toes. I could even parlay my sad tale into a bounty of sympathy and pats on the head. I could, no doubt, use it to manipulate people and form excuses and reasonings dazzling and believable.
In truth, my life story, the one I've always been aware of, had little effect on me. It's never been something leaving me traumatized or bitter or even envious of others. I've considered it something to endure, trials and tribulations to experience until better times became manifest.
I'll give you a brief history. I now know my story begins at age two, and not at birth as I always believed.
My mother, and her side of the family, kidnapped me from the front porch of my father's side of the family when I was two-years-old. I do recall the event and the long trip to California with a few vivid memories, but not many. I know I was not traumatized or put out by the events. I knew my mom and her family well. I'm guessing they were part of my life as well as my father's side though I don't recall them at all.
My mother was schizophrenic. My grandmother was domineering and over-protective and controlling to the extreme. My aunt was plain mean. My uncle was irresponsible and fun. My other so-called uncle was a classic wino. It was a madhouse. There was a lot of screaming and hitting instigated by grandma but always taken to the extreme by my mother. My mother was dangerous. If she had a knife in her hand, she'd try and hit me with that.
I learned quickly to have no reaction to anything. Reactions escalated situations, calm hastened their end.
So, I could say, "Oh, my God, my mom tried to hack me to death with a butcher knife! I feared for my life as a child!" That would get some hugs and maybe a dinner at Sizzlers. The truth is, I knew full well the situation and was never in danger. She was clumsy, and I was quick and agile. She never got close. Grandma would realize she had gone too far and intervene and I would be long gone as mother howled at the moon.
They all followed my every move. They believed I was "up to something" at all times. Considering the circumstances, I was never "up to something". How foolish would I be to give them a reason to follow and accuse me? Maintaining my innocence was a bit of a compulsion … still is.
They also discovered I had talent. Talent is a relative thing. Pablo Casals has talent. I have talent as well. Ahh, so nice to hear our names mentioned together. To my family, I had the makings of a star. Families think that way. Sometimes, as in the Casals family, it is justified, usually, it is not.
It's true, I took to musical instruments and I did compose music and write poetry and stories. I even drew pictures. Being as they were all tone-deaf and couldn't draw a straight line, I can understand their view of me as a star. It's all relative.
In any case, in a family of untalented folk stood a single talented kid. In a family of mentally ill or at least highly dysfunctional folk, stood an uncommonly calm and gregarious kid. I always found it strange, especially the talent aspect. The calm seemed the practical response.
It never occurred to me that calm was an unusual response. When asked, "How do you remain so calm in the middle of such chaos?" I would reply, "it's the most effective response". To respond in kind only escalates the situations. People always found my reasonableness to be quite odd. They expected me to be a nervous wreck. They expected me to respond to the constant put downs and admonishments of my family with feelings of inadequacy.
To be calm, cool and collected with high self-esteem did not conform to the circumstances of my upbringing and family situation.
It also caused me to be less than understanding of those in similar circumstances who didn't handle it as well. "What's the problem? Just deal with it and move on with your life." I had no idea what a callous, uncaring response I was tendering.
Decades later, when my mother passed, I called a number on my mother's list of folks to call 'in case of". It turned out to be an aunt on my father's side.
I'll make a long story sho … shorter,. It turns out I was the famous missing child of the family, kidnapped decades ago to never be seen again. At the time, I was the first born of my generation, and the darling of my father's four sisters who raised me while my mother was in and out of mental institutions.
Sadly, my father had passed only a couple years previously, but all my aunts were alive and there to greet me when I arrived for a reunion. There were two half-brothers, and a half-sister as well. There were uncles and endless cousins galore. All this the source for many tales, at least from my perspective.
My focus here though is my own development as a person, and how it is possible considering the facts available to me.
I never had all the facts.
I've never been hugged so hard, and so long, as those aunts, now older ladies, bestowed on me. They were strangers to me, but I was the dear baby who grew into the precocious two-year-old, stolen from their midst all those decades ago. It mattered plenty to them. I couldn't help but be touched.
The pictures told the story, not only of my life then, but of my life now. Snapshot after snapshot showed me, growing from infant to toddler with my aunts … ALWAYS cradled in one of their loving arms, or held by their hands. It was a sea of smiles and love. It was clear to me, I was showered with adoration and love, non-stop, for the first two years of my life.
In that moment my life made sense. By the time I was two-years-old, I had been shielded with an armor able to withstand any force. I knew on the deepest levels, the crazy family who raised me, also loved me. I knew it. I never had animosity towards them. I never felt bitterness towards my lot in life. Now, I knew why.
As I enjoyed the pictures and the love, the final small piece of the puzzle came clear. Guitars began to appear, and the sound of a piano filed the air. These ladies could sing, and they could play. It was as much a part of them as it was a part of me. Ahh … so that's where I …
I realize now why I've never understood some of the real pain people feel regarding their childhood. I always thought my story sounded just as dire and just as deprived. Now, I know, my childhood was rich beyond belief. I apologize for my lack of understanding. I do understand now.
It's all about love. If you have it, you have everything. If you don't, you have every right to yearn for it. I understand.
I suppose, in some ways, it's reduced my understanding of hardships endured by others and their reactions to them. Hell, I've endured hardships. I could tell a tale of woe that might curl some toes. I could even parlay my sad tale into a bounty of sympathy and pats on the head. I could, no doubt, use it to manipulate people and form excuses and reasonings dazzling and believable.
In truth, my life story, the one I've always been aware of, had little effect on me. It's never been something leaving me traumatized or bitter or even envious of others. I've considered it something to endure, trials and tribulations to experience until better times became manifest.
I'll give you a brief history. I now know my story begins at age two, and not at birth as I always believed.
My mother, and her side of the family, kidnapped me from the front porch of my father's side of the family when I was two-years-old. I do recall the event and the long trip to California with a few vivid memories, but not many. I know I was not traumatized or put out by the events. I knew my mom and her family well. I'm guessing they were part of my life as well as my father's side though I don't recall them at all.
My mother was schizophrenic. My grandmother was domineering and over-protective and controlling to the extreme. My aunt was plain mean. My uncle was irresponsible and fun. My other so-called uncle was a classic wino. It was a madhouse. There was a lot of screaming and hitting instigated by grandma but always taken to the extreme by my mother. My mother was dangerous. If she had a knife in her hand, she'd try and hit me with that.
I learned quickly to have no reaction to anything. Reactions escalated situations, calm hastened their end.
So, I could say, "Oh, my God, my mom tried to hack me to death with a butcher knife! I feared for my life as a child!" That would get some hugs and maybe a dinner at Sizzlers. The truth is, I knew full well the situation and was never in danger. She was clumsy, and I was quick and agile. She never got close. Grandma would realize she had gone too far and intervene and I would be long gone as mother howled at the moon.
They all followed my every move. They believed I was "up to something" at all times. Considering the circumstances, I was never "up to something". How foolish would I be to give them a reason to follow and accuse me? Maintaining my innocence was a bit of a compulsion … still is.
They also discovered I had talent. Talent is a relative thing. Pablo Casals has talent. I have talent as well. Ahh, so nice to hear our names mentioned together. To my family, I had the makings of a star. Families think that way. Sometimes, as in the Casals family, it is justified, usually, it is not.
It's true, I took to musical instruments and I did compose music and write poetry and stories. I even drew pictures. Being as they were all tone-deaf and couldn't draw a straight line, I can understand their view of me as a star. It's all relative.
In any case, in a family of untalented folk stood a single talented kid. In a family of mentally ill or at least highly dysfunctional folk, stood an uncommonly calm and gregarious kid. I always found it strange, especially the talent aspect. The calm seemed the practical response.
It never occurred to me that calm was an unusual response. When asked, "How do you remain so calm in the middle of such chaos?" I would reply, "it's the most effective response". To respond in kind only escalates the situations. People always found my reasonableness to be quite odd. They expected me to be a nervous wreck. They expected me to respond to the constant put downs and admonishments of my family with feelings of inadequacy.
To be calm, cool and collected with high self-esteem did not conform to the circumstances of my upbringing and family situation.
It also caused me to be less than understanding of those in similar circumstances who didn't handle it as well. "What's the problem? Just deal with it and move on with your life." I had no idea what a callous, uncaring response I was tendering.
Decades later, when my mother passed, I called a number on my mother's list of folks to call 'in case of". It turned out to be an aunt on my father's side.
I'll make a long story sho … shorter,. It turns out I was the famous missing child of the family, kidnapped decades ago to never be seen again. At the time, I was the first born of my generation, and the darling of my father's four sisters who raised me while my mother was in and out of mental institutions.
Sadly, my father had passed only a couple years previously, but all my aunts were alive and there to greet me when I arrived for a reunion. There were two half-brothers, and a half-sister as well. There were uncles and endless cousins galore. All this the source for many tales, at least from my perspective.
My focus here though is my own development as a person, and how it is possible considering the facts available to me.
I never had all the facts.
I've never been hugged so hard, and so long, as those aunts, now older ladies, bestowed on me. They were strangers to me, but I was the dear baby who grew into the precocious two-year-old, stolen from their midst all those decades ago. It mattered plenty to them. I couldn't help but be touched.
The pictures told the story, not only of my life then, but of my life now. Snapshot after snapshot showed me, growing from infant to toddler with my aunts … ALWAYS cradled in one of their loving arms, or held by their hands. It was a sea of smiles and love. It was clear to me, I was showered with adoration and love, non-stop, for the first two years of my life.
In that moment my life made sense. By the time I was two-years-old, I had been shielded with an armor able to withstand any force. I knew on the deepest levels, the crazy family who raised me, also loved me. I knew it. I never had animosity towards them. I never felt bitterness towards my lot in life. Now, I knew why.
As I enjoyed the pictures and the love, the final small piece of the puzzle came clear. Guitars began to appear, and the sound of a piano filed the air. These ladies could sing, and they could play. It was as much a part of them as it was a part of me. Ahh … so that's where I …
I realize now why I've never understood some of the real pain people feel regarding their childhood. I always thought my story sounded just as dire and just as deprived. Now, I know, my childhood was rich beyond belief. I apologize for my lack of understanding. I do understand now.
It's all about love. If you have it, you have everything. If you don't, you have every right to yearn for it. I understand.
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