Too Far The Reach...
my raw truth
(out on a limb, for family)
by D Dawn Munro

I feel so isolated from the sea of humanity that surrounds me sometimes. I've felt that way most of my life, sometimes even in church. But I've come to know that although my past has shaped me, maybe even made me unlovable by some, God loves and forgives me for anything I do that might contribute to that isolation. In that there is great peace.

My mother died when I was just a teenager. Oh, not that she deserted me, but that's how it felt, and I guess I have felt that way my whole life. It seems life has been a series of people walking away. But my studies have taught me that we set ourselves up to resolve past traumas by manipulating the present. Subconsciously, we choose the people who will go along with the scenarios we design, or the ones God chooses for us.

The reality is I did most of the walking away.

There was nothing my mother could do about dying. But it was many years before I could begin to feel her spirit still with me. And there was no one to guide me in subsequent years, no one to turn to after she passed away because my father had already deserted us by the time I was two years old. I developed rheumatic fever shortly after he made his exit, and the illness left me with a heart murmur. But worse were the psychological consequences. I became a child my mother had to keep medicated so that I wouldn't get excited and stress my heart. I wasn't allowed any real physical exertion either, like sports.

I think those early, doped-up years colour a lot of my reaction to personal conflict still. I'm hurt far more often than I am angry, even when I have a right to be offended. But don't misunderstand -- I have a temper, too, and it can show up unexpectedly, though most often in defense of others. That said, that wasn't always the case, especially with my siblings.There's not a lot to like about a kid growing up with such stringent requirements. As for being in charge, but told not to ever upset the younger one -- whew! When a sibling is saddled with the responsibility of caring for that kid, it can cause a lot of resentment. I once screamed in my sister's ear when she was on the telephone with a friend and ignoring me. I think I was about four years old at the time. Daneill broke her toe chasing me down the hall -- stubbed it on the kitchen table as she rounded the corner. But she was the one who was in trouble when our mother came home from work because I was hysterical, locked in our bedroom, banging my head on the door to be let out.

What can I say? I forgive my sister for all that passed between us, but she had a lot to forgive me for too.

But some wounds still hurt years later. That story is coming up, and it's one that has no happy ending because she passed away without any resolution between us.

My mother was a single parent, and had to work to support us, so my sister had to fill in, and she was only five years older than I was. Was it my fault? Of course not, but I wasn't the only one influenced by the lack of a father. Both my siblings were adversely affected lifelong, no matter how much they might deny it, or have denied it -- my sister in her resentment of me, of my candidness as we grew older, and my inability to keep my opinions to myself. My brother in his worship of the almighty dollar. Our mother struggled financially, and Dennis did what he could to help out. Eight and a half years older -- the eldest of three, and not terribly interested in 'girlie' activities like babysitting, washing dishes, ironing, and the like, although he did contribute some until he left home, Dennis was saddled with the responsibility of being 'the man of the house'. It was the nineteen fifties -- a man's job was to support his family -- a woman's, to raise the children and keep a home. From the time he was able to earn any money, part of whatever my brother earned always went to my mother. The toll it took on him is still evident today, if you ask me. He had his first heart attack in his forties, and to this day, works obsessively, although his health is anything but optimum. But more than fifty years later, did he have to dangle possible escape from the flop house I presently call home in my face? He did help tremendously with what was for him, a small amount of money, when I had to retire early thanks to illness.

But then, when I was finally able to collect a pension, the help he was sending was cut off. His next offer was to buy me a house, although he made sure I knew there were 'no guarantees'. He could have done it too, even here, in Toronto, where real estate is so expensive. He is what the wealthy like to call 'comfortable'. Yet when I showed signs of accepting his generosity, suddenly there were all kinds of reasons I should never own anything of my own (never mind that I have, more than once, and walked away from those properties when those marriages failed). Looking back, I honestly think it was Dennis's way of staying in touch with me though. I mean, the fact that any house might eventually need repairs, like a new roof, or new appliances, could hardly be considered a reasonable excuse to avoid home ownership, especially when I wouldn't have rent or a mortgage to pay. It's so easy to covet what we don't have! If I am honest with myself, my brother doesn't owe me a thing. I owe him. And not just the money he gave willingly before I collected my pension, either.

But I digress.

It didn't help our fatherless family in those early years that my mother had alienated herself from her own, immediate family by marrying a musician at a young age -- he wasn't considered a worthy provider, and she wasn't thinking clearly, apparently. Through the years, I had aunts and cousins I rarely saw, except when I was very young. I had no grandparents either, because they had either passed away before I was born or done like my dad and deserted us by the time I was able to even know what grandparents are. (I only recently learned through a Facebook connection to one of my cousins that my maternal grandfather also walked out on my grandmother. History repeating itself.)

Anyway, that's the backstory I use to assure myself it is how I came to be a retired senior alone. I did a poor job of raising myself after my mother died. In fact, if I'm completely candid, I messed up badly. I see it quite clearly these days. I've never been one to go along with the status quo in order to hold onto a bevy of friends, and the few good friends I've had either passed away or faded into obscurity as a result of my gypsy lifestyle. I have moved around a lot. Health problems and a severely restricted income limit my ability to do anything to improve my situation currently. I need a car to even begin to search for another city in which to live that I can afford. Dennis discourages that too, although the carrot of home ownership would have cost him well over a quarter of a million dollars, and he knows I am saving for a vehicle. He's never offered to help in that regard. But I can't blame him. History is a good predictor of future behaviour, and even though it's been decades, he once paid off a loan I had for a car that I defaulted on; he'd co-signed. He did so without my knowledge, or without me agreeing to it, so I excused myself because I wasn't working (more on that to come). But the fact is, he was protecting his good credit.

If only we had the wisdom we acquire with age when we're still young!

The rheumatic fever I suffered at the age of two left me predisposed to a condition known as Fibromyalgia, and I have Osteoarthritis. Fibromyalgia is a rheumatoid-based affliction, affecting the nerves and muscles of the body. Osteoarthritis affects joints and bones. Not much left to add to the physical pain that never leaves. Some days are better than others, mind you. I have asthma, hypertension and also a pre-diabetic condition. I inherited the cancer gene too, if there is such a thing. I beat ovarian cancer in 2000, but it's always a worry -- my sister died of breast cancer or rather, a return of cancer after treating the breast cancer, and so did my maternal grandmother. Mom might have developed it if she hadn't died of a massive stroke at the age of forty-nine.

But recently I am exhibiting signs of heart problems. My appointment with a cardiologist was October 5th, this year. I discovered I have a problem with cholesterol, and I know my veins and arteries are small, thanks to the ophthalmologist who prescribed the bifocals I wear today. I have a circulation problem, and I remember that Mom's feet were always cold too.

But all that is just the physical ruin -- the rest is psychological. I am sixty-six, with a life lived mostly online, too proud and shy to let anyone know how much I might need a friend who doesn't live behind a computer screen, or a place to live where I am not bullied by a pot-smoking neighbour. I wrote that story some time ago, and it's so awful, it's as if I wrote fiction.

When my only sister decided she would say the words she had undoubtedly spent most of her life wanting to say (albeit subconsciously), and told me we would never see each other again, I gave up trying to connect. That was some twenty-five years ago. I could relate so many examples of how Daneill kept me at arm's length from the time we were kids, right up to discouraging contact with her and her children. I felt it was hopeless -- I mean, telling me every Christmas not to send gifts? They couldn't afford to reciprocate? I have never, ever given a gift in hopes of getting one in return, and I hope to God I never will. In my opinion, that was a pretty transparent excuse to keep me emotionally distanced from my nieces and nephew -- they lived a few hundred miles from me. I was not to "drop in" to visit, either. But when I would call, there was always some reason it wasn't a good time. Reluctantly, I was occasionally allowed, but even when telephoning, I always managed to catch my sister 'right in the middle of her soap opera' or 'sleeping'.

One Christmas I visited, I remember vividly. I didn't make my bed to my sister's satisfaction. I knew how to make a bed, of course -- I was a young woman in my twenties -- but it was simply another reason to exert control. That was our dynamic -- I was the younger sister she had looked after while Mom worked. Only I wasn't that kid anymore. I wasn't about to do the usual thing and cave into her demands. (Sometimes it is preferable to give in to another's demands just to keep the peace, as long as you know that's what you are doing and don't hate yourself for it.) But this time her accusation seemed too absurd. I fell into the trap. I told her the bed was neat and tidily made, but if she felt it wasn't, she could re-make it and it wouldn't hurt my feelings.

I was sincere. But I spent Christmas Day driving, white-knuckled, back to Toronto from North Bay in a blizzard. Daneill threw me out, even knowing the weather conditions.

And then there was the disconnection from her oldest, my nephew, although by then it had already been years since we'd seen each other. She claimed she didn't know where her son was when he moved away from home. My nephew and I had always been close, whereas he and his Mom had major disagreements as he grew up.

Those are just a few out of hundreds of family slights over the years. But I know my siblings have some of their own, too, and rightly so, so I hesitate -- it's hard to write about more. I've probably revealed too much already. God knows, I don't want to hurt my sibling's kids, or the grandchildren -- this is cyberspace, after all, where everything lives forever. There are, however, two sides to every story. I only wish my sister was still here to tell hers, though I doubt it would match mine, and I doubt she would believe I wished she was still here with us. I loved her -- hero-worshiped her when I was a kid. Growing up and 'coming into my own' was the catalyst -- ours was a family made up of fighters. We fought for control constantly, probably because life was so tough without a grownup male to head the family, but mainly because we constantly struggled to prove how worthy we were, I think.

As for my brother, my mother once told me a story about my biographical father that has stayed with me all these years -- it was about my brother being scorned for not achieving a perfect score on a physics exam. Dennis's grade was 98 -- first in his class, but all my father was interested in was why he'd missed the answer to one question. I could stop my own story at this point, I imagine: it explains a lot about me, my drive for perfection, why I am often defensive, and guarded. But it also explains Dennis's arrogance. He is always right. Always. And of course, even though I am sixty-six years old, our estrangement for so many years hasn't helped him realize I am no longer the kid sister he left at home. Just this year, during one of the marathon telephone conversations we had, he brought up something that happened when I was staying with him and his wife while our mother was in hospital. Reminding him that it had happened more than forty years previously stopped him cold. But sadly, it didn't last.

Family dynamics. Few siblings manage to get through the years without scars, I guess. But it sure would be nice if the past could be laid to rest before we are...

I'm told my maternal grandmother was a stern woman; I guess I am too, at times. I try to have a sense of humour always, but I see through a lot, especially passive aggressiveness. Don't bother trying to tag an insult with an "I'm just kidding" -- it is what it is, and it's not funny. If I have said or done something you don't like, tell me, straight up. I'm a believer in honest communication, and I know I am far from perfect. But I also have a forgiving nature, and a deep desire to harm no one, although I've probably hurt too many to mention, not excluding my beloved sister. That 'honest communication' is always OUR truth, isn't it? In reality, there's our truth, the other person's truth and the real truth, somewhere in between.

But the instruction to keep Daneill's death a secret, to not let me know she was dying, was the biggest blow of all the ones life's dealt me in recent years. Thankfully, my brother disobeyed my sister's final wishes, at least inasmuch as letting me know she had passed away. I was able to attend her memorial service.

Yet Dennis, too, has selective memory. When I was physically assaulted at a job I held, I quit, and as a result, fell behind in bills, including the afore-mentioned car loan for which he'd co-signed. I went to him to borrow only enough money to pay my rent for a month. He insisted I move in with him and his wife, and in so doing, I committed an 'unforgivable' offense -- I stored much of what I owned in his garage, and when they asked me to move it, I wasn't able to do it immediately. It was more than forty years later that I discovered why he, too, like my sister, had shunned me. He felt I had ignored my responsibilities to him and his wife. What he forgot was that after I moved into their basement (with an empty guest bedroom upstairs), I was only there three weeks before he informed me that he expected me to pay rent that was more than the rent I had been paying on my apartment.

In his defense, however, he didn't know that I had travelled out of the country on business -- the money I was supposed to earn was intended to help me re-establish myself. Dennis thought I'd gone on an expensive vacation with my credit card, and that was the only reason I hadn't moved my things out of his garage so their cars could once again be parked inside. As it turned out, I had a problem getting the pay I had been promised, and by the time I did get around to moving all my stuff, it was gone -- he and his wife had given everything away.

But Blair, my other nephew (and Dennis's son), hasn't reacted to any of my postings, or responded when I have commented on his, although I have reached out through my only available source -- Facebook. I wonder what impressions he formed of me as he grew up.

I also missed my youngest niece's wedding. Apparently the whole family was there. I was informed at the time of Daneill's death that I wouldn't have been invited anyway, even if we all had stayed connected. Here's the truth as I see it: I was ostracized before that niece was much more than a toddler. I had tried, multiple times, to stay in touch, but at one point my sister had bluntly told me they were her kids, her family. You'd think I would have learned to keep my thoughts to myself by then, wouldn't you? But I didn't, and I paid the price.

That was a side of my sister most people never saw. My nephew did, and I guess it drove my sister crazy that he and I had common ground. I had looked after him and his younger sister when he was a baby, before the youngest one was born, and he and I could always talk openly. But that streak my sister inherited, we all inherited, drove him away. It broke my heart to hear he almost didn't attend her funeral. Thank God Darren did attend. I don't think he could have forgiven himself if he hadn't. The man I know has a heart of gold, and a family of his own now, as does Jennifer, his youngest sister. The middle one hasn't been in touch with me since Daneill told me she would never see me again, and I have nothing but rumour to try to understand why -- I guess Krista has her own version of the truth too. I only hope she eventually comes to realize that I did and do love her. If there is any blame to be laid for the damaged result that was our family before those kids were born, I put it at my father's feet, a man who left his wife and children and never looked back, leaving in the car my mother had bought and paid for with the money she earned as a hairdresser. She'd owned her own beauty salon before my dad forced her to move up to Northern Ontario, chasing his dream. It was a dream he also deserted, leaving his partner to become one of the richest, most acclaimed citizens of our small town.

I have a lot to be sorry for in my life, but one thing I am not sorry for is my ability to 'wear my heart on my sleeve'. I probably should regret it because it has made me a pariah, even with my own family. It made both of my siblings uncomfortable, even infuriated them with some of the things I said. That is real loneliness, estrangement from blood kin. But it astonishes me how other human beings find honest communication so upsetting. I'm not saccharine-sweet, not 'gushy', but I am affectionate and forthright about my feelings -- and yes, even when the feeling is anger, even when the tale is ful of skeletons.

But I'm also as different as night is from day when it comes to my siblings. Some might use the excuse that I was "spoiled" as a child because of my heart murmur, and the fact that I was the youngest. Perhaps I was -- maybe those people would be right. I know I was close to my mother, and shattered by her death. But I remember throwing myself on the casket at the graveyard, and my brother being embarrassed and admonishing me. I was my mother's youngest, and we learn from experience, don't we? My mom had been raising two children before I came along. Maybe that's why my sister and her youngest were able to be as close as they were. We learn from our mistakes.

Why would it be so intolerable for my brother to see me terribly grief-stricken, especially since not a year had passed since I'd lost my own child? (The consequence of that was, and still is, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.) The answer, as I see it? Control. Which, when we think about it, doesn't exist. In a desperate attempt to avoid pain, we try to control our circumstances. But as the old saying goes, if we want to make God laugh, make a plan.

I don't, and never will, subscribe to 'stiff upper lip' behaviour, especially with loved ones. I certainly can and do show restraint when it is necessary, but I believe that among intimate friends and family, it shouldn't be required, at least most of the time. Maybe that's the real result of being medicated to keep emotions at bay throughout my formative years. I detest insincerity, and it seems most people (not just my siblings) don't want honesty, except from a distance (i.e. -- from behind a computer screen). They want platitudes, pleasantry, soul-killing, pretty lies.

Social media works for me. There's a lot said about how it is causing the new generations to de-personalize interaction. I say that social media is not at fault, not the root cause -- social media is a symptom. Being human is hard. Being vulnerable is hard. Being honest can get you no end of grief. But isn't that real love? And isn't it healthier to express your feelings? I hope my 'raw' truth serves to help rather than hinder, to supply my nieces and nephews, great nieces and nephews, with a bit of family history. But it MUST be remembered that it is MY truth, and no one else's.

Showing love is difficult. It would be wonderful to have the company of those I still love right here and now. I'm afraid, though, that my reach just doesn't extend that far anymore. I wouldn't be comfortable, and neither would they be at peace. But maybe, just maybe, this story has a lesson in it, a gift for Christmas to those I love -- it's never too late -- until it is. We must 'live, love and laugh', yes, but even more important, we must let go, and let God have control.
~~