I am Vickie, Frank’s oldest child and only daughter.
Frank created my physical body with Helen and then forged my personality. To be Frank’s daughter was to be wrought as iron in fire.
Frank wrought me — his compliant subject for 58 years — through fierce love. He put blinders on me and whipped my sides to make me gallop forward.
The iron pole, solid within me, was only permitted to express itself through creative bursts of imitation.
And, here I sit, atop a hill he pushed me to climb.
© Victoria Evans
© Victoria Evans
“My Gorilla Mother”
I am Victoria, Helen’s daughter.
Helen was born into a world of shame and lack of nurturing. Sadly, a recipe for the introvert narcissist she was to become.
Luckily for me, though, my newborn face pressed against her soft breasts for four important months.
In my forties, I once observed a gorilla on a misty, green island surrounded by a moat, her creamy breasts swaying as she lumbered to break off yet another bamboo shoot.
Despite decades of barbs, put-downs, and criticisms, I kept angling for my gorilla mother to find me precious. Only during her last year did I finally lower my expectations to zero. I accepted that she would never reminisce over a memory or even offer me a glass of water.
Since a teen, I had longed for my gorilla mother to do something I now realize she could not do — reach through the bars and pull me to her warm bosom.
© Victoria Evans
© Victoria Evans
“I’m Weary”
Left brain, “I’m weary.”
Right brain, “I have never seen you take such a long journey.”
Left brain, “I am a project person and usually succeed. As my brothers and I crested into puberty, our narcissist mother withdrew care, hiding behind hypochondriasm and feigned exhaustion. In my teens, I attempted to fill the vacuum by baking. In my 20’s I flinched as my mother’s public criticisms increased. In my 30’s I tried retorting to her insults, but didn’t like what I saw in myself. In my 40’s I fed the lion — providing food to keep her at bay. But, still, the happier I got, the meaner she got. In my 50’s I turned into more of an observer.”
Right brain, “I should have stopped you, but how can you talk a child out of wanting her mother’s love?”
Left brain, “My turning point was in my late 50’s — resisting my narcissist survivor group’s decree — ‘Cut off the relationship.’ Sometimes I crinkle and smooth the memorial baggie of tissues I cried into that evening. I decided to stay in the relationship largely to like my daughter-self.”
Right brain, “Now that your mother is dead, how will you free yourself?”
Left brain, “I never understood water cleansing ceremonies, how can you clean the soul from the outside?”
Right brain, “You can’t.”
Left brain, “Then the freedom comes from not needing to try anymore. Also, I have created many loving relationships; I have those to bring me comfort.”
Right brain, “I am proud of you. I am your new mother. I will hold your hand, I will embrace you, I will love you.”
© Victoria Evans
© Victoria Evans
“Sweet Liberty”
Calm love was not to be found within the knotty family of my birth. “I hate myself.” “Work!”
Seeking control over my own mind. I — like Harriet Tubman — made my way to freedom via helpful homes.
The family I created, supportive friends, and forthright professionals helped me gain the courage to fight the implanted messages and release my allegiance.
Like Harriet — upon reaching the border into freedom — I look down at my hands and feet and they are my same hands and feet. But there is one difference — they are free.
“You’re precious.” “I love you.” “You got this.” Oh joy.
© Victoria Evans
