CHAPTER 13

Giggles & Laughter & Smiles… Oh NO!

   As my detachment-on-duty increased its working time, my journals escalated with more observations of my home as well as the child warehouses I occasionally tripped through. Possibly, I thought, I could do something one day with my clandestine data, though at 10, I didn't know what.

   I then gleaned a fascinating thought from a TV show on prisoners. One I later paralleled to abused kids:

   Prisoners either come out as animals, vegetables or dedicated to helping those struggling with the battles they once fought and survived.

   So too, adult kids from abuse share the same extreme choices:

1. To be a vegetable, forever self-cloistering within a pod of life, dwelling far from the love they're afraid to desire, give and receive.

2. To be animals, duplicating the abuse they once endured. Fueled by the anger they adopted. Unable to see the need to face their greatest fears so as to dump them.

3. Or, to be compassionate workers for sympa-thetic causes, crusading not to duplicate the storms they weathered.

   Like me, many of the steadfast volunteers and pro workers with Child Abuse Prevention that I came to meet, were survivors from a past wherein great familial difficulties brought out their strength and compassion. And encouraged their dedication.

   As well, the kids I later met who were trapped in the abusive side shows and pain events of hostile circuses awaiting rescue, exhibited those 3 Choice Seeds for potential blossoming. The kids either:

1. 1.Snuggled alone in corners of obscurity, or

2. 2.Thrust themselves into the spotlight of blazing paddles for raising cane and mutinies amidst the enforced coldness of their environs, or

3. 3.Showed protection signs toward their younger siblings. Signs saying that on some level, they knew what they experienced was not the way life had to be.

   The outcome always melts down to personal choice based on spiritual, perhaps predestined cosmic, factors that could never be detected on a mortal logic graph.

   Funny, I sensed no matter what the variety of circum-stances may be, the one element that pervades all restrictive setups, be it in criminal prisons or abusive domestic prisons, is: no inspirational joy, nor Fun Factor.

   Though I have not been to jail and can't personally speak on my hunch for the need of the joy and humor release, and the need for filling the spiritual void in applicable words, I do know about the painful tedium that permeates abusive settings, whether in kidhood or marriage.

   I recall when the senseless screamscapes were not exploding over the wills, the agonizing quiet in our home was deafening.

   Quiet energized by the fear of awakening the sleeping in-house Monster of Anger. The quiet was all pervasive as was the profound lack of joy and humor that's standard decor in tormented homes.

   I can't tap one memory of Ashley smiling from her heart let alone savoring a full-on belly laugh. The warden she hired for her spirit must've been the original Gloomy Gus. Possibly, Ashley never understood my love for laughs as she had forgotten her own.

   And, you know what? That laugh-lack may be one of the most subtle scars of abusive homes. Rarely do the residents of abuse dare to joyously laugh, giggle or even whistle. Where the abuser is king, silence rules the home turf.

   True. Rarely is there reason to smile or, anything to stimulate shared happiness, unintimidated playfulness or fun. As a kid, my moment-by-moment purpose was to keep a muzzle on my emotions. To be essentially invisible. To obey the caution light, forever aware that Ashley was a walking landmine and anything could tick her off.

   It was as if she had a 10 mile radius beacon on mega watt alert. It radiated through my system, gaining volume as my feet led me nearer to our apartment building.

   Was she home? If so, what mood was she in? If in a bad mood, how should I act? Maybe I should talk, but not too much, as I can't risk saying what she doesn't want to hear. Then again, I better not stay silent or she'll suspect I'm thinking something against her.

   The choices were tricky because there is no logic nor sensible way to live with an abuser. Their trigger buttons are so unpredictable and apt to arbitrarily alter their reaction mode.

   Ironically, the main issues to avoid became a snap to learn: don't laugh; don't ask her help to clean house, or to make dinner; and, don't voice any opinion. But, it was the subtle little unpredictable details that kept tripping me up.

   Relaxation is inconceivable when you live with an abuser. Spontaneity in any form is verboten. Often catastrophic.

   When you become sensitive to provoking the sleeping Monster, when you censor yourself and your needs, it's easy to tag yourself as the cause of the madness when it awakens.

   Guess that's why I really related to the line in the song "It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World" that read "The only thing you're sure of is that nothing is sure." Hey! It could have been my kidhood theme song, as I bet it was, and is, for so many setups, then and now.

   My observations made me swear that if I ever reached a point where I could offer creative input to the safe houses where the abused are homed away from "home," I'd fill them with bright beautiful colors, joyous music, soothing cuddly comfort, forums of freedom to creatively express, plus: Giggles! And laughter! And smiles! Oh, yes!

   Permission to be happy, on a verbal and visual level, needs to be a prime part of the recuperative atmosphere. And heck, since it's an after-affect of the problem, it may be a primary door to the solution. So many abused kids grow up never knowing the simple joy of unguarded giggles.

   THOUGHT: if any regular life can become a depressing struggle without humor, imagine how essential humor is for those who, since birth, were never exposed to joy? Who never lived the liberty to laugh? Or who never experienced its healing power?

   With TV sitcoms being the nanny for most kids these days as well as Donna Reed and Father Knows Best TV Lands reruns laced with sweetness and sweetened with laugh tracks, imagine how alien abused kids must feel. Imagine how off the beaten lack their home life must feel.

   It would be like knowing there's a fantastic circus in town. You can see it in the distance. You hear laughter, music and applause. You might even sneak a peek under the tent, but you can't get in. You might think you don't have the right to a ticket. You might feel you don't deserve one; that you're not good enough to be happy, to enjoy life, to love and be loved.

   And THAT can be the toughest restriction to get past. It can swell into an enormous handicap, especially when it isn't physically obvious enough to elicit outside help.

   I was lucky. Many parts of my anatomy may have collided with Ashley's palm, but she never broke my funny bone. I wouldn't let her. Though I was physically vulnerable as a kid, I refused to let her anger corrupt my sense of humor.

   When she was gone, late night TV and I became jammie buddies. In those days, Manhattan TV aired old English comedies. Norm Wisdom, Marty Feldman and the gang refueled my spirits with giggle fixes. Burns & Allen, Jack Benny, Bob Cummings and the U.S. comedy squad reruns further supported my belief that the laugh track was the right track to be on.

   Maybe I was growing up in the spectator section, but that didn't mean I couldn't advance onto the playing field, once I legally grew into the freedom I spiritually felt I had.

   This hope became the life support of my dreams.

   When asked as a kid what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'd always say: AHappy!@ Nice to know I succeeded at my original goal.

   I now look back and see that the Ashley Pieces of my kid-life puzzle were not meant to become the attitude section of my Adult Puzzle. Possibly, I just needed to think then that how I lived as a kid might forever be my destiny.

   MEANING: If we don't get to react as if the fire drill is real, how do we learn to clearly respond? What genuine advice could we share with others? Possibly there was no other way I'd have manifested authentic compassion for abused people of all ages, and for what spiritual and supportive cures might work, had I not lived it.

   Without on-the-job-experience, advice is mechanical. It's akin to a stress-free priest giving sexual, marital and parenting advice to a stressed-out couple with three housebound toddlers.

   It's amusing, but hardly supplies the cure.

   My multi-level masquerade continued as an overworked soap opera, as the hands-on seminars provided me the insight into what should be cleaned up on the planet, so I could, one day, offer my two senses: Intuitive and Common.

   THOUGHT: If Common Sense were indeed common, perhaps the madness ricocheting between our specie on this crazy planet might not have been born in the first space.

   Curiously, during my day job, I was either praised for being the right type for some role. Or told ASorry, kid, next@, if I didn't fit their concept. However it unfolded, I felt there was some degree of sense.

   My desire to uncover sense and logic promoted my thirst for crosswords and jigsaws, while math was another fascination. It is absolute, unlike the arbitrariness of my then-life.

   Another sanity saver was comedy, as it still is. I glutted on the humorists' way of observing life and strife, from Ogden Nash to Jerome K. Jerome to George Ade.

   I even turned old TV comedy shows into writing games. Scoring myself one point if I guessed Gracie's reply before she delivered it. Two points if I had a better one. And deleting a point if I drew a blank.

   This private game brought me oodles of comic and Karmic Relief. And probably set me up mentally for the comedy copy the adult-me eventually writes.

   My mind became a soapbox for all I couldn't express and the jokes I couldn't tell. Thinking was the antithesis to living as I still felt like an undercover tourist in Camp Earth. And Life was the puzzle I felt unable to solve. The one I felt could never be dissected with the logical precision of math.

   With all these diversion, I often maxed out and got fed up with living. I'd sign off at night by begging God to get me a new script. A new role. To encourage Ashley to give me away ― for real. I wanted the shot at a new family gig. But I never begged too much as guilt lurked in the back room of my heart and locked me into a sense of emotional responsibility for her well-being.

   True. I knew she neither loved nor wanted me. Yet I could not figure who'd replace me, or who'd want to. I believed I was the only one available to help her. Thus, I took out my first membership card in the Cosmic Girl Scouts.

   The private initiation caused me to tell the mirror I didn't need a happy home. I didn't need outside fun. I didn't need to be loved. I didn't need anything. Anyone ― beside my Godian source. I justified this by believing my life was not as important as my mission to make mom happy.

   As someone who always gives 100%, I thought it was honorable to keep nothing for me; give nothing to me; and expect nothing. Now I wonder: If you give 100% to others, what's left? If you expect nothing in return on the love level, what is there to replenish your cup?

Copyright © 2004 by Krystiahn