My Pandora's Box

My ‘Pandora’s Box.’
March 2000.

It’s funny, though I was only a whole eleven years old when my parents separated; I don’t remember much of what happened. I know it’s all up there in my head somewhere, but it’s locked up in some kind of tank, seeping out bits of memory like a leaky valve. Something I can’t quite control, as if my actual mind has a mind of its own. A Pandora’s Box full of secrets and burnt out dreams which I thought had died years ago, but are actually still alive, but biding their time. It’s all stuck in limbo, not wanting to be locked up, but unsure of the outside world and a fear of letting go.

The days and weeks leading up to my father’s departure are the least clear of all. I don’t want to remember my parents like they were back then, but I’m desperate to piece together the puzzle so it makes sense to me. The girl I was then, and the person I am now. I know both sides of the story and I’ve heard everyone’s individual perception of the circumstances that caused their marital breakdown, but that’s all it is most of the time, a story, a bad one at that. I cannot rest until I have formed a firm opinion of my own. I have to satisfy my hunger to know why, even if I know how.

I remember the days through fragmented dreams. It’s only through moonlight and illusion that these thoughts are brought to life, seeping out of the box. By daylight, I have no memory past, present or future and it doesn’t bother me. It somehow isn’t important then. During the day, I am caught up with work, studies, family and friends. At night, that’s when the loneliness, the anger, the secret loss and questioning kicks in. Through sleep, my subconscious awakes and brings in short, sharp sequences of the events that took place back then. They’re so clear, so real that it scares me and I drift back to being eleven all over again. The truth is always something I face with caution and fear.

Why now, as a child on the verge of adulthood does this seek to affect me? Why has my Pandora’s Box been kept dormant for so long? Back then I remember watching the fights. I remember playing with my large collection of ‘My Little Ponies’ and ‘Strawberry Shortcake Dolls’ while their arguments shook the house. I remember sitting at the table feeding my ‘Wet and Cry’ baby with bits of paper soaked in water, while objects were thrown around the kitchen from all directions. I remember book upon book cascading from the shelves in the study. I remember having a hairbrush hurtle towards my head and being thrown onto the sofa, which then became cold and hard beneath me. I remember not being affected by this so much, but now I am crying and screaming at them to stop…

Confusion then sets in and the images become gray. Fragments shatter and form slithers, like snakes worming their way into my heart when I pray they’d stay in my head. Everything goes quiet, but little pieces of the scenes play through my mind, mocking my need to know, leaving me deaf and mute to respond and all I know is that it’s over. Daddy was sad and gone and Mummy was a wreck. And I stand there frozen in two separate bodies that have never been able to bridge the gap and become whole again. A part of us all died that day and it never came back. The rest is blank as if someone turned out the lights and I can’t remember where I came from.

Mummy told us it was Daddy’s fault; that he didn’t love us anymore; that he was a violent, arrogant man with his own agenda. My opinion of Daddy, the one I loved the most, the one I always turned to was completely destroyed. I turned bitter and angry with the both of them for causing me so much sadness and betrayal. I refused to see him at first, but then I took in out on Mum. Dad said that mum was a psycho and needed locking up because she couldn’t take care of us. He said she was having an affair, though I knew she wasn’t. I felt torn between the two; stuck in the middle like a leather punch bag, as I had to decide who was right and who was wrong and who I was supposed to love the most. I remain even now in two pieces of my past and present self, not knowing entirely who I am.

I slowly started to try and see what it must have been like for them back then and listened to what each of them had to say. I knew I loved them both, but I was sick of playing torturous games of ‘piggy in the middle’ all the time. Sick of listening to the way neither would accept blame and tried to win me over. They don’t know the extent of my wounds caused by them. They don’t see the hurt I have because for the most part I hide it. “I’m fine, I’m blasé and I’m normal and nothing affects me, so don’t worry.” If only they could see that it takes a long time for a child to forgive someone, especially someone they are meant to trust. I guess part of my problem is that although outwardly I really am fine; perhaps I haven’t quite forgiven them yet… I don’t know that I will ever find the resolve I’m looking for, but I’m slowly learning.