Insomnia

I'm at it again. My back is to the wall and I'm finding it harder and harder to cope with everyday life. There is so much negativity and emotional garbage surrounding me that two days ago I stayed naked all day, unable to make up my mind if I should brush my teeth, shower and shave, do any of the piled up laundry or feed 'the girls' Tipper and Giselle.

I remained all day and into the night at my computer, believing that if I could stay focused on the Internet that I'd somehow avoid the flashbacks from my earliest days which hang around in my brain and cause no end of disturbance to daily life, sometimes rendering me as if carved of stone.

The words ring loud and clear even today that were repeated endlessly in my youth. 'You're just like your Father" she'd scream, "You're no damned good!" followed by, "Get the Hell out!"

I was five and six and seven and more as that message was drummed into my head almost on a daily basis. Francis got it too, just as much as me. But, being older, he remembered life before our father had had enough of her tantrums and rages and finally left us, Francis age seven at the time and me a confused and terror-stricken four.

The most bothersome memory is of her coming into my bedroom while I slept. I was small and terrified and helpless but this was something that, oddly, became routine to my childhood.

She'd enter in a full-blown rage and turn on the blinding overhead light, then gather wooden hangers from my closet and rip me from my slumber. She'd put me across her knee, pull my pajamas down to expose the bare flesh and beat my bare behind with a coat hanger until it broke in two. I screamed in pain and torment, which only fueled her inexhaustible wrath.

As I screamed the louder she got and she'd then change the "Get the Hell out!" to, "Shut up! Stop crying!" and I would see another broken hanger on my bedroom floor as she paused to grab another and then another until her arms grew tired.

Then she'd lift me high in the air and throw me against the bedroom wall. I cried uncontrollably and had no idea why she did that. I felt small and helpless and completely unworthy.

As I lay on the floor of my bedroom gasping for air she'd get up to leave but not without the admonition, "Shut up! Stop crying! Get to sleep! NOW!" slamming the wooden door behind her.

Sure, Mom. I'm sorry, Mom. Whatever it was, I won't do it again.

And then the hardest part would come.

I'd eventually calm myself and lie on my side in a fetal position with my pillow scrunched under my chin and feel a blow like a fist to my solar plexus fill me with the darkest gray murkiness that invaded my innards like the stealth of a morning fog slowly creeping and claiming the ground.

Through silent tears of terror and emptiness I set my mind to thoughts of God, and Jesus and Mary and felt their love ... real or imagined ... and eventually fell back to sleep with the sticky feel of tears drying on my lashes.

This was to continue into my teens. When I grew too big to spank she found a slim tree branch, still green and flexible and carefully wrapped it in white hospital tape. It fit her purpose perfectly.

I barely graduated from High School with grades so bad I can't remember them and, at seventeen, left home for good.

All my life I've been plagued with insomnia. As one of many psychiatrists was to remark, "You were never taught that bed was a safe place to be."

And, as daylight fades and darkness falls I become restless and fearful. This is what the French call 'The Blue Hour' and it's time to console oneself with alcohol.

The French are so civilized about such things.