"Just when the catepillar
thought the world was over,
it became a butterfly."
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Cut And Run
She did not have much trust in anyone. She had little concept of trust. Things had been done to her, just to save her young life, she was born suffering certain ills. And all of that, left her suspicious and untrusting. Then, in 1955, she was crushed and mangled by a car, and left laying in the street, at the corner of Speedway and Washington Blvd., in Santa Monica. Her baby sitter had craved a drink, or dozen..., and gave her a little dog to walk, alone, (when she was just three years old) on Santa Monica Beach. No one thought much of that kind of thing, back then. It was, after all, her own neighborhood. She had walked around alone, and unchallanged, so many times before. But that day, within minutes, the once lively, talkative and animated child, lay in shock, in the street, crushed from head to hip. She bears scars to this day, from that day, so long ago.
They said she would not live. They gave her morephine for three days, and just waited for her to die. But her will-to-survive, surprised them all. She lived to tell about it.
The baby sitter moved out of the neighborhood, the same day, in the middle of night. No one ever apologized to her for all her pain and suffering. No one ever told her, it wasn't her fault. No one told her she was valuable, and that sometimes bad things happen to good people. Maybe that's when she started to objectify herself, in her own mind. Maybe that’s why she never apologized.
Don’t tell her something is for "her own good." Those flashing eyes will narrow, she will endure whatever comes, but you just went to the bottom rung on her ladder, of what's acceptable. So much of what had been "good for her," had hurt her deeply, more deeply than where doctors hands, and mothers love, can reach or heal.
In her childhood home, violence was a daily thing. Whether it was dealt with fists or words, wounds were re-opened or made anew, daily. Her first step-father was a cruel and violent alchoholic. Her mother had been raised in a children’s home, back in the 20’s, no-one teaching Mom how to love and nuture. Then, there had been all those men and half grown men, like ghouls, walking this earth. Men like parasites, sucking up their strength by taking, raping and killing the souls of their victims.
She had seen, and endured a lot. But you could not tell by looking at her. She looked like the All-American, girl-next-door, kind of child. But inside, she was broken, not quite right, festering on memories of assaults upon her, around her, and the fear of those, still to come. The pain, and the victimization, just seemed never ending.
She never made plans. She did not know how. Nothing much surprised her or shocked her. Later in life, in the Army, serving as a combat medic and psych tech, all of this would actually help her to do a better job. She certainly knew what it was to suffer. Somehow, she had enough left inside to give to those with whom she felt a kinship. But until she could kiss her demons on the lips, and tell them good bye, she could not help anyone. Not even herself.
After a while, talking to others who lived in the commune, while she was coming down from the reds she had taken, (the very reason she could not go home that day) she had taken some vitamin C acid. In fact, she took a mega dose of it. She lay on a bed, in the room she now shared with him, wasted, listening to the Beatles song, "She’s Leaving Home," with tears in her eyes. Damn it! She had not meant to run away again! When she left home that morning, she was going to come home. This was supposed to be the best year of her life! Her senior year in high school. She thought of her mother and new stepfather, as words started washing over her, taking on a life of their own, under the influence of the "C":
The words made sense to her, invaded her heart and her soul; and were actually about her and her wreckage. Then the "C" kicked in harder, she cried for a while and then lost touch with reality. Bad Trip. She did not care that people around her said there was no such thing. That had been her first bad trip. But like every other bad thing in her life, it had not killed her. Damn it!
Next day she reflected on running away, and broke down and cried again. She didn't know why. She just does. She thinks of her mother and almost feels bad for her, yet she feels worse for her self. If only they had really taken good care of her, if only they had protected her, if only they had known about un-conditional love. But they didn’t. They never did. And now she lived in Hollywood. Just like that. With about 19 other people; Summer of Love; North Hollywood; walking distance from Griffith Park. Coooool. She wasted no time in getting her first job.
Continued... Next Chapter
Copyright (c) 2004 J D COSS . All rights reserved.
"There was a child went forth every day, and the first object he looked upon and recieved with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became... And that object became part of him for the day... or for many years or stretching cycles of years." Walt Whitman
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