Eddie Day
freddoMelbourne c1935
January 27th 2012 15:01
Book Two
Chapter One
Edwin Day
I do not remember entering this world. As a matter of fact I don’t suppose anybody else can remember the day they plopped out of the womb. But Mother constantly reminded me she endured a great amount of pain and discomfort on the day I was born, and as a result my day is indelibly stamped on my mind..
“You haven’t felt pain until you’ve had a baby; it’s the worst pain anyone can go through. Don’t you ever forget what I had to put up with in order to bring you into this world? It’s not like I want you to go down on your hands and knees, but for Christ sake, a little bit of gratitude wouldn’t be out of place. That’s all I ask, a little gratitude is all.”
It was, I believed, her theme song; and for twenty-six years she repeated it so often, I became whole heartedly sick of hearing it. Gratitude my arse, all the gratitude in the world would not have appeased my mother, perhaps a different son might have called her a downright nagging spiteful trouble making sticky nosed shrew, but I won’t.
Mary wanted a lot more than gratitude, no less than total subservience would far better describe her needs; and I’ve got to tell you, she wasn’t in any way selective, Mary expected total subservience from all. But you couldn’t call Mary a bad mother, we never went without because of her, she was clean to the point of absurdity and there was an abundance of love in her heart. I shared and coveted that love to a point of obscenity, but then, there were times when I hated her. She made me laugh with her crude humour, she made me cry because of her unrealistic demands, and she made me shrink in terror because of her horrible threats.
But there was an excuse after all; perhaps I should not say an excuse, but rather a reason for her behaviour. It’s a reason that, in the present time, is widely understood, and accepted. However in the time I am writing about Mary’s problem carried with it a terrible stigma? No one ever admitted to having a mental illness, to be certified usually resulted in incarceration, or worse. Mary almost certainly suffered from depression, and as family we also suffered, often terribly.
There were many extenuating circumstances that could have triggered her mental state, particularly during her childhood and teenage years. She suffered unspeakable degradation and abuse, the like of which would not be tolerated in modern society. But it happened and regretfully we cannot change that which has been done, however Mary was not the only one to suffer such despicable treatment, most survived the ordeal, Mary did not.
I treasure the memory of when my mother spoke to me of her childhood, of her teenage years, of her children, of her lovers, of her life. Perhaps no mother should have told her own son as much, but she did, and had she not, we would never have known how it all began.
Sometime in February, I was brought home from the hospital swathed in a blue bunny rug, thereafter as the weeks and the months went by I was to prosper and show no signs of any illness. I was quite a small child, which was not a major concern, as small children were, in that era, considered quite normal. Unfortunately, my mother had a possessive obsession with me; she would not allow my father to nurse his son, always finding some reason as to why he should not. As a result of this he and I were never given the opportunity to bond to one another.
Much later, when I grew older, my father told me he wished he’d rebelled against my mother’s dominance, as he said, ‘We could have been good friends.’
Beau continued to obtain his fair share of work, providing at least five-Pound each week for Mary to finance the running of the household. As a result we were all warmly clothed and well nourished with wholesome food. Mary preferred to purchase the fattiest cuts of meat, which she knew Beau thoroughly enjoyed, and she did so without any strain on her budget.
At this time, Mary started nurturing obsessive behavioural patterns, which seriously affected her thought processes for the rest of her life. Her daily tasks of washing, wiping, dusting, sweeping, polishing and blackening occupied a ridiculously large amount of her time. The excessive washing and cleaning of her two children obsessed her as well, if they soiled themselves, or their clothing in any way, she’d wash them and change their clothing then threaten blue bloody murder if they got dirty again. Of course, being children they always did, so she’d continue to harangue them for the better part of the day. Her continuous nagging wasn’t because she didn’t love her kids; it was just something she couldn’t control.
The Wrapper
| 10 |
| Vote |
subscribe to this blog
