MOTHER'S DAY 2/ROBY'S 2008 LETTER

Someone asked me if I was a mother, on Mother's Day. I said no. Upon further reflection that was not quite correct. I was a second mother to Barry Silverman who was born when I was 15. More on that with pictures later. And in some perverse way, it was my job to take care of Shirley also even though she was the mother. She trained me 'to do' for her. We did not have your typical mother- daughter relationship.

She behaved more like a sister than a mother, maybe because she was so young when she had me - 17 or 18. See photos. It was my job to take her emotional temperature at all times, walk on eggshells until the next explosion. Love, hate, repeat.

She got rid of, I mean, she divorced my biological father, Stanley Miller before I was two years old. Why ? She told me they were living with Stanley's parents, no money for their own place. She told me she wanted her own apartment so she divorced him. Within a short time, she went to court to prevent Stanley from seeing me. Why ? "He refused to pay child support. And he always showed up very well dressed when he came to see you." In fact the man was sick, could not hold down a full time job and died when I was 8 years old. I found this out later when I went looking for the Millers.

This little girl was traumatized throughout childhood from physical and emotional abuse. This little girl was already very Angry. Shirley was scary despite the beautiful outward appearance. My EMDR therapist told me "when the primary caregiver is unpredictable the brain does not develop properly. You end up in 'flight or fight' mode. The Amygdyla, "a roughly almond-shaped mass of grey matter inside each cerebral hemisphere, involved with the experiencing of emotions' is affected.  He also told me "not everyone would have survived it." It was like growing up in a war zone. Unpredictatable. Volatile. You never knew what was going to happen, what would set her off. What happened when Barry came along ? Stay tuned.

Back to the little girl. Her anti-authority persona was already fully formed at this age. She already decided not to listen to any other Authority Figure. She had to do what Shirley said otherwise there would be pain. But she refused to listen to anybody else. Only my mother could tell me what to do. Example: In first grade, Miss O'Keefe corrected my penmanship assignment with a red pencil. (Penmanship: ancient art of writing with a 'pen' or pencil) When she walked away I erased it. She messed up my paper. To my horror, she came back ! She saw I had erased her marks and in a soft, gentle tone said, "carol I was only trying to help you." Oh. In my mind I heard "I am telling you what to do."Another pattern destined to be repeated.

Perhaps now would be an appropriate time to write about The Malden Years, i.e. the Julius Silverman years. I wrote about Dorchester ad nauseum. Whenever I thought about writing about the Malden Years I felt immediate pain just thinking about the drama of it all. And Julius will probably come out as a colorful character. However the Malden Years triggered the demise of Shirley. Immediate sadness. As anyone who read The Dorchester Years knows, Shirley was a single, working mother, "before it was popular to do so", quote unquote.  To recap, there was no alcohol in 104 American Legion Highway. I never saw her drink except over Kiddush in Bubbe's house. She did in fact, get up every morning, walk down American Legion Highway to get the bus to take her to Eggleston Station to get to work in downtown Boston. Winters in those days were fierce; snowstorms, snow drifts....she did get up and go.

She resented it and took her anger out on me. She also resented how loving Bubbe was to me and not her. I confronted her about that over the phone when living in Berkeley. She admitted it. No she could not stand it. So she took it out on me. Quite apparently she thought that was perfectly acceptable behavior to take her anger out on her children (and her husband). She would get furious; throw things, break things, yell and scream and act like a crazy person until a room was destroyed. That happened frequently in Dorchester. In a rage, she went through a room like a tornado, sweeping everything onto the floor and then she would stand there and scream, "now clean it up !!" She destroyed the mythology notebook, my homework assignment. I had to make another one. She apologized for that 20 years later. She did not forget either.

After the fit of rage subsided, she stopped talking to me and later, Barry or Julius. When living in Dorchester she stopped talking to me for a week. I was in elementary school. So we got the silent treatment for however long it took her to get over her 'fit of anger.' Then we were expected to just pick up like nothing happened and go back to loving her after hating her.

My current therapist said "people with a mental illness have no insight how their behavior affects other people."

All I could think about was getting away from her. Escape to somewhere where no one hit me, threw things and yelled and screamed.

104 American Legion Highway, Dorchester, pastel on cardboard, memory drawing. I played lots of hopscotch and jump rope, double dutchies, and roller skating; all good things to do on concrete...we lived on the third floor in a two bedroom apartment. Boston Housing Authority, Franklin Hill Ave. Project.

Insight: Apparently it was better to live on her own as a single working mother, first in a boardinghouse she told me, and then a one bedroom apartment, 92 American Legion Highway than to stay with Stanley and his parents in a nice house. No, she had to be in charge. She had to be the one to give the orders. She had to have all the control. Julius used to call her "one way, like Avery Street". Everything had to be her way. Or there would be hell to pay.

Insight 2: She had no qualms whatsoever to prevent Stanley from seeing me. It suited her purpose. She was angry at him. Who suffered ? Not her. I never knew my real father. She did not think of me and the need to know my father. So I never did. More on that later. She used her children as pawns.

Insight 3: My current therapist told me last week, "Mother's Day is often a trigger for a large percentage of people." When I started my EMDR therapy in my mid to late 50's, I could not discuss  'the little girl' without a box of tissues handy. I started EMDR therapy because one night when I could not sleep, I was channel surfing and came upon Dr. Sanjay Gupta on CNN. He was talking about PTSD and how EMDR therapy could 'change neural pathways.' He had MRI scans showing a brain with PTSD and then showing it again after EMDR. You could see changes in the neural pathways. I thought that sounded good so I tried harder to find an EMDR therapist who took Medicare. I found Bill Himelhoch. A Buddhist. A Jungian. He was the perfect therapist for me. After many years, I could 'feel my feelings while I was having them.' A first.

Insight 4: I loved the 'good' Shirley and hated the 'bad' Shirley. In spite of everything she did I still loved the good Shirley because when she was good, she was very, very good. I am writing what happened. Why should I be the only one who knows ? Urge to tell. The little girl remained angry at her.

I never told anyone. Not even Bubbe. I thought about it but I figured she would speak to Shirley who would then take it out on me, so it remained A Family Secret. If there was an 800 number to call I would have called it. There were no 800 numbers at that time.

ROBY'S 2008 LETTER 

I just found this letter in a manilla envelope Bernice sent me after Roby passed away. Thank you Bernice. It validates much of what I wrote above.

Bubbe died on Dec. 7, 1962. I was 12 years old. That was the end of my 'oasis of calm' and going to Bubbe and Zaidy's house on Friday night for Shabbat dinner. That was the end of unconditional love for Carol. (See first blog post, August 2009) The world became more grim after that. Within one year Shirley met Julius Silverman who also had lost his mother a year ago.

This photo is dated Passover, 1962. The table was set up in the living room for the holiday. Passover is usually in April. Eight months later she was gone. This was my Bubbe.