=burn diary=

I Make Mommy & Daddy Happy

My parents liked to stress how grateful they were that  unlike other kids my age I never demanded toys or candy or threw a tantrum if I didn't get my way. It never seemed to occur to them that my behavior had nothing to do with being a well-behaved child or that it was a result of their excellent parenting skills—but that it was simply because I was scared to death to express any desires of my own. Any instinct to vocalize my preferences had been thoroughly squashed out of me from the earliest age. As a result, I took whatever I was given and acted as if I were happy to have it. I also think I instinctively understood that my parents were unable to give me what I needed so there was no sense even asking. It would only frustrate and enrage them.

Neither of my parents seemed to have any strong affinity for spiritual matters but  I was a naturally very religious child.  I was very taken with the image of the crucified Jesus. From very early on, my nascent sexuality was joined to the notion of self-sacrifice and I began to eroticize various versions of sadomasochistic immolation. It seemed obvious to me that Christ dying on the cross was a metaphor for what I was experiencing when I had my childhood orgasms. That is partly what is going on in this picture. I am sacrificing myself to my parent's unhappiness and eroticizing the pain in order to better bear it. Unfortunately, it is a useless sacrifice. Nothing I can do, not even letting myself be crucified for their sake, can make them happy. 

Significantly, it is my father who has nailed me to the red cross, which might also be the "forbidden bed" of incest. Perhaps he is trying to overcome his illicit desires even as he relieves them via masturbation. He is punishing me for leading him into temptation but also for his perception, probably accurate, that my mother prefers my company over his. But if she prefers my company to his it is only because I pose no sexual threat to her, that I make no sexual demands. Our perceived bond is superficial. What my father doesn't realize is that my mother doesn't nourish me either, not in the way a child needs to be nourished by its mother.  In this picture, my mother walks away from the cross without so much as a backward glance at the suffering I offer up as a sacrifice. Perhaps she is disgusted at the evidence that my suffering has aroused me sexually. In this respect, I am as "bad" as my father. She has covered up her breasts because she has never wanted to be a woman. What she wants is to remain a little girl. She is looking for the sexless protection of a good daddy of her own, which she has always longed for and never had. 

We are three people who cannot save each other. This is a crucifixion with no resurrection, in which no one and nothing is redeemed.

Although the violence and the crude ugliness of this image may belie my claim, the fact is that I have forgiven my parents their transgressions. They truly did not know what they were doing. They were, in their turn, victims also. I understand this now. But, as Alice Miller has pointed out, I've discovered that forgiving isn't forgetting; more importantly, forgiving isn't healing. You can forgive someone for a grievous injury, for chopping off your hand, for instance, but that doesn't regrow your hand. The damage done isn't undone. As Solomon says in Ecclesiastes, the bent branch can not be unbent.  The body remembers the injuries done it—the pain, the fear, the stunted desires—all live on inside you. These cannot be "understood away." No amount of intellectualization can melt away the scars. 

Scars don't heal. But they are evidence that some sort of healing has taken place. They are what's left after something's been irretrievably lost. You can either cover them up or wear them openly, even defiantly. Scars are the medals life hands you in honor of your survival. Everyone has them. Someday—a day close at hand, I hope—I may even come to the point where I can wear mine proudly. Perhaps—is it too much to expect?—with a kind of gratitude. <—(Oh for crissakes, come off it. What noble sounding sentimental rubbish. I let my own rhetoric get away from me again. I'm a deeply scarred, disfigured, hideously crippled person & that's that. Nothing to be proud of or grateful for. I survived to this point mainly by dumb luck and  sheer terror of the alternative. It is really of little consequence whether I continue to survive or not so long as either way I keep the negative impact on others as minimal as possible. That's the best I can do. As Anne Sexton said, "Live or die, but don't poison everything. " That about sums up my position on the matter. )