The Grandmother's
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR from CAUGHT UP Truth and Metaphor | An Imaginary Tale
The Grandmother’s
24
Unsupported and alone, with no sense of community or purpose, an ominous barrage of terror, incomprehensible feelings of dread with no memories attached to them, rose to the surface of her consciousness, threatening mental collapse.
“If I’m not safe in the rooms of Alcoholic Anonymous, I’m done for.”
At two years clean and sober, Petra began a relentless search for the grandmothers. Her dramatic and enraged story surrounding April’s betrayal had only increased her suffering. Riddled with buried secrets and self-destructive hidden agendas, she attended meeting after meeting looking for a home group that contained the level of emotional sobriety she had stumbled upon in Florida.
Several weeks into her quest, she found the kindness and wisdom of the old crone at a Saturday morning women’s meeting. Here were the women self-taught by brutal life experiences. The over-comers, women capable of looking into her chaotic being without flinching. The healers, the energy workers, the experts at guided meditation, the keepers of the Mother’s power. Strong, supportive white witches willing to take her by the hand. They walked in unison with a force she had all but forgotten, lost long ago in a bottle of alcohol and a pack of cigarettes.
Auntie Pat, joyful, plump, all laughter, kindness and kisses; a registered nurse trained in the energetic healing arts, agreed to be her AA sponsor. With gentleness and love, she ushered her into deep meditative states, taught her skills to regulate her nervous system and pointed out the connection between thought and emotion.
“Pay attention to the stories you tell yourself. You write your future in here,” she said, circling her head with an extended pointer finger, “before you ever see it out there.”
Petra met Charles at a yearly alumni event sponsored by The Palace. It was an opportunity for graduates to return to the facility and celebrate their sobriety with the residential clients.
“Does anyone have three years?” said Cheryl.
Petra responded to loud cheers and applause. It was no accident that her favorite counselor was doling out the three-year anniversary coins.
“It just goes to show you, no one can predict who’s going to make it. Against all odds…I’m so proud of you!”
Charles, who had received his one year coin, introduced himself. The two shared a similar sense of humor, a direct result of being raised by narcissistic mothers. They bantered back and forth, feeding off each other’s wit, enjoying the camaraderie.
Twice a month, they took long car rides back to the rehab to take part in a Q&A panel for the residents. He introduced her to his therapist, Renee, who specialized in healing the wounded inner-child and re-parenting techniques. At his suggestion, Petra agreed to weekly sessions. Their friendship thrived. It had been forever since a man took a genuine interest in her well-being. He gifted her a self-help book that focused on the what, why and how-to’s of re-parenting oneself. Devouring every word, she was almost finished reading when Charles telephoned.
“You won’t believe what happened to me last night! I was at this bar and these three old bags wanted to play pool. They needed a fourth. Halfway through the game, one of them started coming on to me. Can you believe it? How disgusting is that? And here’s the kicker: she had to be at least fifty years old!”
Petra, fuming, begged off and sat stunned in utter disbelief. She had turned fifty the month before, and, yes, three years of clean living had paid off. She did not look anywhere near her age.
What to do?
He was fifteen years her junior. There was no romantic component to their relationship, as far as she was concerned. She practiced some “restraint of pen and tongue” as Auntie Pat once suggested and waited until the following day to respond.
In an email she wrote: “Your comments last night shocked me. I’m feeling confused and hurt. You know I’m fifty, right?”
Several hours later, Charles replied by text: “I have spoken with my therapist. She thinks it best to sever all ties.”
Her PTSD episode was immediate, as bad as it gets.
A healthy mind is like a computer with several windows open and operating at the same time. One window is investigating event planning sites, another compiling a shopping list, another researching vacation destinations, and another is scrolling through social media. It is a normal multi-tasking brain, a regular moment in time. In contrast, a full-blown PTSD episode is a complete mental and emotional takeover. It invades and invalidates every screen. The present moment disappears without a trace.
Running up through the center of the computer screen in a person with PTSD is a raw nerve. It is always present, but most of the time lies dormant unless something activates it. Something like having your new best friend dump you in the trash like a useless piece of garbage.
—
In a single flash, all the regular everyday imaginings of Petra’s mind dissolve, absorbed into the raw nerve, and the rapid descent to hell begins. The outer world disappears, replaced by a blinding, murky yellow light, an intense thumping in the heart, neck and head; an overwhelming full-body terror. In her imagination, she sees herself trapped in a dingy freight elevator cascading down, down, down. There is nothing she can do to stop it.
How many times has she taken this ride?
In a slow, methodical manner, she plummets. She cascades past countless floors, all housing their particular horrors. It is impossible to predict how far back she is going, or what awaits when the doors open. She has no clue what she will see, hear, or feel.
Distracting herself, she asks strangely reasonable questions, considering her circumstances: “Did he just break up with me by text? Does he think we’re an item? Has my therapist betrayed me, too?”
The doors open to an avalanche of emotion. It is her four-year-old self, larger than life, suicidal, desperate, alone, terror-stricken, overcome with grief and self-loathing. Up the raw nerve, the child rises hijacking the present moment. Nothing else exists, only the little one’s pain and suffering. A harmonious, sober life obliterated in mere seconds.
From a distant corner of her mind, frantic, Petra begs, “How do I get back?”
Grabbing the book Charles gifted her, she blazes through the last twenty pages. Concentration is next to impossible, what with the searing light flashes and the loud, incessant humming. She understands that her wounded child has instigated a hostile takeover.
To the book, she says, “Come on, come on! Tell me what to do.”
And there it is.
On the very last page: “Ask her to stop.”
Can it be that simple?
Her throat constricted, she ekes out the words, “Stop! Please, you’re hurting me.”
And it works! The murky cloud, the humming, the thumping, the suicidal thoughts, they all dissipate.
—
When it is over, she says to herself, what she always says after an episode: “I HATE THAT LITTLE BITCH!”
And then, she called Auntie Pat, who instructed her to, “Come over immediately.”
On the way to Auntie Pat’s, Petra made a 911 call to her therapist. She explained what had happened.
Renee’s response?
“You’re fifty? I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years.”
As a professional, she could not elaborate on Charles’ side of the story, but her immediate focus on Petra’s age made certain things clear. He had romantic feelings for her. That much was obvious, and while he knew she was older than him, he remained blissfully unaware that she had reached “old bag” status. Either way, he’d put his foot in his mouth and was taking the coward’s way out.
“What a dick!”
Petra had a moment of uncharacteristic compassion, saw the humor in it and let him off the hook. Besides, they had only been hanging out for a little over three months. It seemed more important to uncover the source of her reaction to his behavior.
Episodes are never about what is happening in the present moment. Sensory and emotional stimuli spark buried memories because they somehow mirror the previous experience. A smell, a sensation, a peculiar turn of phrase, a sound, a flippant dismissal; triggers come in countless forms. Life, packed full of feelings and sensory experience, becomes an unpredictable, frightening and dangerous place for people with trauma-related illnesses.
“Oh, my God! Poor April. She’s just like Charles. They’re both fucking terrified of making a mistake. Jesus Christ! None of this has anything to do with me. Why am I taking it so personal?”
Opening the front door, Auntie Pat, expecting a basket case, instead welcomed a rather composed Petra. After hearing the entire story, she recommended a guided meditation to discover a way to help the wounded child.
“Sit down with your back straight. That’s right. Good. Now, plant your feet firmly on the ground.”
She guided her into a slow, deep, rhythmic breathing pattern and asked her to close her eyes.
“See yourself standing on a grassy knoll. Feel the earth under your feet… I am placing a transparent bubble of protection all around you. You are safe and in complete control… Allow the bubble to rise into the air… Float over the landscape and watch for a perfect place to land. When you find it, make a gentle descent… Where are you?”
“I’m next to the stream, in the valley of my childhood.”
“What do you see?”
“A path toward a waterfall.”
“Okay, you are going to follow that path. I am right here with you. No more talking. I want you to follow your imagination. If you feel frightened, open your eyes or call out to me. You are safe. I will protect you.”
—
The warmth of the ground beneath Petra’s feet is comforting. It is familiar. Sun-drenched black shale laced with shiny flecks of mica crumble beneath her bare feet. As she approaches the waterfall, it draws her through to the other side, where the path continues through bedrock.
Reading fear on her face, Auntie Pat interjects, “Where are you?”
“I’m behind the waterfall, heading down into a cave.”
“You’re okay. I’m right here. Keep going.”
Void of light, the earth, damp and cool to the touch, alternates between a sticky glue-like substance and the slippery over-watered clay on a potter’s wheel. Tiny water droplets drip in a rhythmic pattern as the walls tighten around her. It is pitch-dark, coal-black, impossible to make out the steep path’s contours. Blindly, she reaches out her hands and uses the walls on either side to guide her.
Observing a dim light in the distance, she inches down toward it. The path becomes more restricted, forcing her to crawl the final few meters. Covered in wet clay and shivering with cold, she reaches an opening that leads into a cave lit by a solitary candle.
A little girl, streaked with dirt, emaciated, and deathly pale, backs away into a crevice. She is terrified of the intruder; the woman who hates her, who imprisoned her. Petra, over-whelmed by the self-imposed brutality of her surroundings, takes a seat on the ground with her back against the opposite wall, knees drawn up for warmth.
It is her first face-to-face meeting with this part of herself.
“I’m not sure how this happened. I didn’t mean for this to happen. If you’ll let me, I’d like to help you.”
“I don’t need your kind of help.”
Petra, having learned a thing or two from her first decade of sobriety, drew upon a skill set designed for helping wounded young people. She looked for a way to make herself smaller. Since they were both sitting on the ground, she laid down on her stomach, put her chin in her hands and waited. The child responded. She inched her way over and laid down on her stomach as well. In a childlike imitation, she placed her chin in her hands and released a nervous giggle.
Over-come with compassion, smiling with tears in her eyes, Petra said, “Do you want to get out of here?”
The child nodded. In unison, hand in hand, they rose to their feet and journeyed back through the cavern to the surface. In her imagination, she transported the little girl to a deserted yellow sand beach with giant red rock formations and emerald green water.
“I don’t know what to do next, but, at the very least, I can bring you to this beautiful beach where the sun is shining and you won’t be cold anymore.”
“You’re leaving me?”
“I have to figure out why this happened and how to help you. Here’s my promise. I won’t rest until you’re back where you belong, and I won’t leave you alone for long. What’s your name?”
“My name is Victorianna. Please, come back for me.”
—
Petra opened her eyes. A serious de-brief ensued. According to the ninth step of Alcoholics Anonymous and with Auntie Pat bearing witness, she made amends to her wounded child, promising to do: “Whatever it takes to make things right.”
The following morning, she headed out onto her screened-in porch, a cup of coffee in hand. It was a lovely space, surrounded on all three sides by giant pine trees. The early morning sun sent the thinnest streaks of light through its lush canopy. Petra, caught up in its beauty, noticed that the birds seemed more melodious than usual. All thought and any recognition of self evaporated into a supernatural calm.
She placed her cup of coffee on the table next to a comfy chair. As she stood, preparing to turn and sit, a gateway to another dimension opened. It was as if a veil, as thin as a single layer of skin, dissolved into an opening between worlds. The portal revealed the face of the most beautiful and radiant woman she had ever seen. She recognized her, but could not place from where. Her eyes, a stormy sapphire blue and perhaps every color in the spectrum, all at once, had a depth that spoke volumes.
An electrical sensation of love flowed from her into Petra’s heart, spun several times in rapid succession before bursting out through her unsuspecting human form, saturating the woods, the birds, the forest floor, everything in sight.
Beyond any human understanding, she knew this supernatural being, had always known her, but more than that, this being knew her. The otherworldly visitor was well-aware of all her misdeeds, her failings, her propensities to lie, cheat and steal, every self-destructive act ever committed and all her secrets, even the ones she kept hidden from herself. And, yet, here she stood, with her penetrating gaze, assuring her that, yes, even as she knew all her moral failings, she still loved and accepted every part of her.
As quickly as the portal had opened, it closed. Petra came to as if waking from a dream.
Shaking off a mild stupor, she said out loud, “How could I forget where I come from?”
She thought, “What a strange thing to say,” followed by, “Auntie Pat is going to love this shit!”
If you would like to support my work, I invite you to make a donation. “Buy Me a Coffee” is a friendly metaphor, not real coffee. Each “coffee” is $5 and you can buy as many as you like. It is a one time much appreciated gift. Thank you for caring!
A harrowing tale, shot through with unlikely humor and fantastical creatures.
This autofiction (autobiography meets fiction) novel revolves around a lifetime spent underwater struggling to find the surface. The narrative follows the journey of an unlikely heroine from the bondage of childhood trauma to self-awareness and freedom.
It is a roller coaster ride from the depths of hell to triumphant success that finishes with a big Hollywood ending.