Silver lining?
I am a firm believer that everything is life is for a purpose. I have always wanted to write a novel, the story that needs to come out is the story of my childhood, but that is such a painful one to write...
Thanks to CFS its gotten hard to sleep, brain just wont shut down, anxious thoughts chase each other round my brain in an endless stream. So I sleep with the TV on. But, again thanks to CFS, I am sensitive to sound and energy so of all the channels on cable, I choose to sleep to the soothing voices of the narrators on ID. unfortunately ID is a crime reporting network. I am inundated nightly with stories of murder and betrayal. My son tells me it will make me morbid.. he may be right .. or maybe its giving me material for my first novel.
Here's a taste - these are snippets to be woven into the main story.... TL hope you read this.
A mother’s story
September 6, 1992. That was the day my nightmare started. That was the day my baby left for school and never came home.
---
Searching .. I must keep searching. I can’t give up. My baby is out there somewhere and I can’t rest until I find her.
In those first few days the support was overwhelming. Friends, family, neighbors, total strangers. So many strangers. I hope my expressions of gratitude were sufficient. They all came out to lend their support and to find my angel. Day after day, night after night combing the fields, and alleyways and streets and gullies, covering every inch of our town.
Then the numbers started to dwindle. The news crews went away. Folks started to avert their eyes, and cross the street when I walked by. The few well wishers who stayed hurt even more, the pity in their eyes cut me to the bone. And the church folk .. their prayers changed. They’re not praying for my baby’s safe return anymore. They’re praying that I be blessed with strength to handle the road ahead.
Dear God please give me strength .. the strength I need to keep going until my baby comes home.
---
How do I describe the moment, the moment that I opened the door and Detective Hensen was standing on my doorstep. How do I describe the look in his eyes. So much sorrow, so much pain.
How do I describe the cry that emitted from my throat, the wounded animal sound that came from deep in the centre of my being. The centre that had nourished and protected my baby before she was brought forth into this cruel ..cruel world.
I don’t remember much else about that evening .. just the pain.
----
Even at the last minute as we stood on the steps of the city morgue, Detective Hensen tried to talk me out of it. Disfigured is the word he used. Disfigured .. how inadequate a word that turned out to be…
The smell stays with me. Perhaps its human nature to focus on one thing in these circumstances, when the senses are so overwhelmed with stimuli. It takes but a moment to take it all in. The walls, filled floor to ceiling with little stainless steel doors. Behind each door a mother, a brother, a child .. so many.. so many little doors.
And the tables, big steel tables marching down the center of the room. Many contained shrouded heaps. I’m being led to one table in particular. I look at their faces, sombre faces of the folk who think I should not be here. As if I could abandon my baby even at this hour.
The smell.. I fight back the bile rising from my stomach. That smell, seeping into the folds of my clothes, my hair, the very fabric of my skin. Antiseptic, strong industrial strength antiseptic. Bleach, makes my head pound that strong smell of bleach. It’s a sad attempt to mask the stench. My God, that stench , rotting meat and garbage and smoke and vomit.. I need to take my baby out of this place.
They’re folding the sheet back. Don’t worry baby, mommy’s here.
I really need to stop screaming like this, got to get myself up off this floor..such behavior is not becoming of a lady and Lord knows what kind of diseases I may pick up wallowing around on the floor like this. They’re trying to help me up.. I’m fighting. Why am I fighting? Why are those ..sounds coming from me. Horriible, deep guttural sounds..my throat hurts .. the sounds are going away, the smell too, I see the darkness coming .. blessed, blessed darkness.
---
I heard a child’s laughter today. It was a happy laugh, light, shimmering on the morning wind. I turned toward that laugh and my heart stopped.
Kristen!
Of course it wasn’t Kristen, Kristen would have been a grown woman today. The child was maybe five years old, with beautiful blonde pigtails with little pink bows in them. I remember the care with which I’d pick out Kristen’s bows, how I’d brush her golden hair, how proud we’d be as we walked down the street with our little angel. Everyone said she’d be a beauty queen one day .. and she was.
Another peal of laughter broke through my reverie. The child was being swung high in the air “again daddy, again” the little child voice pleaded and each time she got her way cascades of laughter followed.
I sank onto the park bench clutching my chest. I remember sitting on a similar park bench, watching a similar scene, back when things were as they should be. Before the beatings started. In a time when Jimmy-Lee and I still loved each other, still did things together and our golden haired angel was the centre of our world.
Even now I must remind myself to breathe slowly, the muscles in my chest will relax, the pain will go away. At least the physical pain will. They say time heals all wounds, but each day the hurt is felt afresh. Dear God, when will the pain end?
Thanks to CFS its gotten hard to sleep, brain just wont shut down, anxious thoughts chase each other round my brain in an endless stream. So I sleep with the TV on. But, again thanks to CFS, I am sensitive to sound and energy so of all the channels on cable, I choose to sleep to the soothing voices of the narrators on ID. unfortunately ID is a crime reporting network. I am inundated nightly with stories of murder and betrayal. My son tells me it will make me morbid.. he may be right .. or maybe its giving me material for my first novel.
Here's a taste - these are snippets to be woven into the main story.... TL hope you read this.
A mother’s story
September 6, 1992. That was the day my nightmare started. That was the day my baby left for school and never came home.
---
Searching .. I must keep searching. I can’t give up. My baby is out there somewhere and I can’t rest until I find her.
In those first few days the support was overwhelming. Friends, family, neighbors, total strangers. So many strangers. I hope my expressions of gratitude were sufficient. They all came out to lend their support and to find my angel. Day after day, night after night combing the fields, and alleyways and streets and gullies, covering every inch of our town.
Then the numbers started to dwindle. The news crews went away. Folks started to avert their eyes, and cross the street when I walked by. The few well wishers who stayed hurt even more, the pity in their eyes cut me to the bone. And the church folk .. their prayers changed. They’re not praying for my baby’s safe return anymore. They’re praying that I be blessed with strength to handle the road ahead.
Dear God please give me strength .. the strength I need to keep going until my baby comes home.
---
How do I describe the moment, the moment that I opened the door and Detective Hensen was standing on my doorstep. How do I describe the look in his eyes. So much sorrow, so much pain.
How do I describe the cry that emitted from my throat, the wounded animal sound that came from deep in the centre of my being. The centre that had nourished and protected my baby before she was brought forth into this cruel ..cruel world.
I don’t remember much else about that evening .. just the pain.
----
Even at the last minute as we stood on the steps of the city morgue, Detective Hensen tried to talk me out of it. Disfigured is the word he used. Disfigured .. how inadequate a word that turned out to be…
The smell stays with me. Perhaps its human nature to focus on one thing in these circumstances, when the senses are so overwhelmed with stimuli. It takes but a moment to take it all in. The walls, filled floor to ceiling with little stainless steel doors. Behind each door a mother, a brother, a child .. so many.. so many little doors.
And the tables, big steel tables marching down the center of the room. Many contained shrouded heaps. I’m being led to one table in particular. I look at their faces, sombre faces of the folk who think I should not be here. As if I could abandon my baby even at this hour.
The smell.. I fight back the bile rising from my stomach. That smell, seeping into the folds of my clothes, my hair, the very fabric of my skin. Antiseptic, strong industrial strength antiseptic. Bleach, makes my head pound that strong smell of bleach. It’s a sad attempt to mask the stench. My God, that stench , rotting meat and garbage and smoke and vomit.. I need to take my baby out of this place.
They’re folding the sheet back. Don’t worry baby, mommy’s here.
I really need to stop screaming like this, got to get myself up off this floor..such behavior is not becoming of a lady and Lord knows what kind of diseases I may pick up wallowing around on the floor like this. They’re trying to help me up.. I’m fighting. Why am I fighting? Why are those ..sounds coming from me. Horriible, deep guttural sounds..my throat hurts .. the sounds are going away, the smell too, I see the darkness coming .. blessed, blessed darkness.
---
I heard a child’s laughter today. It was a happy laugh, light, shimmering on the morning wind. I turned toward that laugh and my heart stopped.
Kristen!
Of course it wasn’t Kristen, Kristen would have been a grown woman today. The child was maybe five years old, with beautiful blonde pigtails with little pink bows in them. I remember the care with which I’d pick out Kristen’s bows, how I’d brush her golden hair, how proud we’d be as we walked down the street with our little angel. Everyone said she’d be a beauty queen one day .. and she was.
Another peal of laughter broke through my reverie. The child was being swung high in the air “again daddy, again” the little child voice pleaded and each time she got her way cascades of laughter followed.
I sank onto the park bench clutching my chest. I remember sitting on a similar park bench, watching a similar scene, back when things were as they should be. Before the beatings started. In a time when Jimmy-Lee and I still loved each other, still did things together and our golden haired angel was the centre of our world.
Even now I must remind myself to breathe slowly, the muscles in my chest will relax, the pain will go away. At least the physical pain will. They say time heals all wounds, but each day the hurt is felt afresh. Dear God, when will the pain end?
Replies
I do hope that this is not really a reality to you, Max. What a nightmare!! You certainly can write. You said some of this was from your own past. I hope didn\'t go through this kind of loss, goodness.
I also see the taking away of your own life by CFS interwoven into the loss described in such detail here.
If you want to write, I think you have the \"stuff\" to do it!! You go! xoxo
You\'re talented Max. Thank you for sharing. I can\'t watch anything remotely scary these days. I rented the movie with Hugh Jackman and Jake gylenhal...about the two girls that were kidnapped. Wow. SO violent! Not good on my adrenals but I had to know how it ended. Wore me out. Lesson learned. Lol
Hugs...
Thanks guys. Your encouragement is appreciated. This one is not from my experience, I pray I never have to deal with the loss of a child. Glad I sounded convincing.
Great expression and depth of feelings. The first of this could be a good way to begin the story as it catches the readers attention. I don\'t read thrillers or crime stories much and that limits my ability to know how this looks compared to how others do this kind of story.
Sorry I hadn\'t read it before. I was being lazy and relying gmail to keep me aware of new posts. I hope you do keep writing. I believe that life\'s experiences give us the grist for understanding others and for sharing with others how people feel going through different life experiences. I want to see more writing from you. :)