At a hook in a few months back, the gals were all reminiscing about toys they’d manage to save from their childhood. They recanted tales of favourite dolls and various toys being handed down and the joy they continue to bring.
Sadness descended and I swallowed a growing lump as a memory surfaced of an incident that had been buried deep, so traumatic my brain had banned it to the dark cavern of thoughts and feelings of things better left forgotten. Now it was resurfacing, hauling with it all the woe and emotions of that time. I grew very quiet, unable to speak as I swallowed hard and blinked back tears.
I don’t usually speak of the estrangement from my older sister but recently a thoughtful gift from a friend helped add closure to a traumatic event of my youth. Because I find writing cathartic and healing I decided to tap out the story on the keyboard. I’ve written a book about my life called Burnt Carrots, and this incident will be added to the hundreds of examples I relay about the treatment I endured at the hand of a sibling. I realize each narrative in itself is a ‘so what’ moment, but gather them all together and they take on a life of their own, rich with intent, like a great big bouquet of torment.
Very little good remains from my childhood; the negative stuff forced the happy moments through a mental shredder. I was a pathetic little person; naive to a fault, impressionable and effected by every bump and grind along the path of my youth. If self-esteem was a foundation, my house would have crumbled like bread without gluten. As a child I felt unloved and even worse, unworthy of it.
Memories are fragmented as I toil to put together the pieces, and one by one they surface and take their place in the puzzle of my life. Sometimes when the pieces emerge, the emotions of that time come with them and sadness consumes me. But sorrow aside I embrace each memory to better understand my adult self, realizing why I react to situations the way I do, how I sometimes feel the way I do, why negatives can sometimes outweigh the positives.
I suffered low self-esteem from a bullying older sister that never liked me since the day I came home from the hospital. I’ve thought about our relationship, or lack of a lot and spent a good patch of time and money with a psychologist trying to come to grips with why she didn’t like me even though she professed too. It is true that actions speak louder than words, and enough has happened that I was forced to accept the undeniable truth. My mental health practitioner told me to run and never look back, that my sister was toxic to my well-being; she told me the situation was hopeless as long as she wasn't willing to change. She said that DNA wasn’t a good enough reason to build a relationship on, that I need to cut my losses and stop analyzing each event hoping for a different result. She said the patterns were carved in granite, they would never change. I understood what she was saying but misguided loyalty wouldn’t let me walk away. Gutless to the bitter end to stand up for myself, it would take one last disturbing incident to bring things to a head and force me to face the ugly truth and when I reached my fifties that moment came crashing down and I knew we were over.
I truthfully can’t remember one nice thing she ever did for me, any kindness she afforded me, any conversation that wasn’t loaded with judgement, criticism or a backhanded comment, “You don’t look fat in that outfit” kind of thing, offering any understanding or compassion for periods of my life when I struggled, my side of any story was never considered. I was condemned unjustly and unfairly, without any provocation. Instead of trying to understand my situation or how I felt I was labelled a black sheep and slapped with a big proverbial scarlet letter.
One year when my husband was out of work and I was ill from Environmental Sickness, I suffered from allergies to all man-made products, perfumes and heavily scented items which would have limited my ability to go into shops even if we had money to spend. There was nothing extra for luxuries, like eating out in restaurants or buying presents. When Christmas loomed that year I told my sister that we could not afford to exchange gifts. It was met with disdain, no understanding at all for our predicament and later I was told that she had spoken with my brother and they both agreed, and this direct quote was burned in my brain, “Christine, we think you’re ruining the family!” It was hurtful that our plight offered no sympathy and that I was pitted as an outcast that didn’t care about family values. It wounded me but I let it slide in her presence, I had been conditioned to avoid controversy with her, I never fared well when I talked back or tried to explain myself, but I later cried in my husband’s arms.
In my formative years and beyond, my sister physically abused me and at four years her junior, the scales were always tipped in her favour. I was kicked and slapped, and battered with unkind names, the latter of which inflicted the deeper wound. Nasty nicknames and mean words hurt more than bruises, leaving their mark long after the black and blue faded. Compared to her, I was very small in stature and less developed emotionally, so I faded into the background like a proverbial shrinking violet.
There was collateral damage from my lack of self esteem. Believing I was unlikable, I tried to buy the attention of the kids in the neighbourhood with whatever I had to offer so they would play with me; akin to tying a pork chop around my neck to get a dog to lick me. Be it Barbie doll clothes or marbles, they were bribes given to promote relationships, upping the ante to make myself more appealing. My mother was frustrated with me, canting a broken record of “Christine, you’ll give your arse away”’ and as a teen I did that a few times as well, desperately seeking someone to love me. Luckily I got over this early or perhaps my becoming a hooker would have taken on another meaning entirely.
Throughout my childhood I’d never connected with my family, my sister’s hostility and my parent’s indifference left me outside looking in, unloved and misunderstood, and I struggled with it over most of my adult life, sometimes even now. It’s probably the reason I trust to bury my heart in the companionship of dogs; their love is undeniable and true, without judgement or agenda. That is why losing one is like losing a part of my soul.
Memories aside, the tangible items of my childhood were lost; either broken and discarded or given away, with the exception of one coveted toy; my beautiful Baby Magic doll. She was created in 1966, had the ability to drink water from a bottle and would then cry real tears! I just turned seven when Santa left her under the tree and there were squeals of delight when I found her Christmas morning. She was the perfect gift for a budding little mother like me, desperate for something of my very own to love and even though she was an inanimate object, I felt loved in return. I no longer felt alone.
My baby had the prettiest dress. The yolk was red with little white bows with a pleated white skirting. The top of her head sported a red bow, crowning her silky, flaxen hair that framed the most beautiful, sweet face. Santa was magnificent that year and left a wooden crib as well, a cream coloured bed that perfectly fit my baby and it had a satin edged, luxurious white blanket and a small pillow for sleeping comfort. Her little hands were shaped to hold her bottle and she could lift her arms to insert it into her mouth. When I pushed her arms down a big pout formed on her lips and she’d cry, tears from the water bottle finding their way to the manufactured tear ducts. I’d rock her gently and coo to her and as I lay her in the crib, the horizontal positioning would automatically close her eyes for sleep. When I picked her up, long, dark eyelashes would flutter at me then open and she would stare into my eyes. She was marketed ‘The best doll ever invented’ and although was minus the heartbeat and warmth of a real child, she was my baby in every sense of the word, and it really hurt to discover the terrible ending that befell her.
I loved playing mother and I doted on my baby as much as any child can. The fact that she wasn’t real saved her many times as feedings were occasionally forgotten, after all my maternal sophistication was on par with the doll itself, but I tried my very best, positioning her crib next to my bed so her darling little face was the first thing I greeted each morning and the last thing I tucked in at night before I crawled under the covers.
Somehow, I managed to keep her in pristine condition, washing her face and combing her hair, giving her sponge baths and wrapping her in a terry towel that had a little pocket for her head. I talked and cooed to my ward, loving her with my entire heart as any good mom would do. Someday I hoped to give her to a daughter, or if that didn’t transpire perhaps a grandchild, but even if that never came to pass, she would have remained for my pleasure, a tangible link to the younger self that began my life and perhaps someday, if senility reverted me to childish ways, we could start anew.
Sometime in the middle seventies, I asked my sister if I could store my doll and crib in her attic which she assured me was dry and safe from rodents. Someday when I had a home of my own I’d collect her, the only piece of my childhood that I could literally revisit.
Years later on a random visit to her home, who by then had two daughters aged three and four and a house full of books and toys, the living room carpet rarely seen from the multitude of them, I nearly fainted when my niece came around a corner holding what remained of my Baby Magic.
The doll was almost unrecognizable, filthy and naked. Her hair had been butchered with scissors and what remained was sticking out in all directions in short, needle like sprigs around bald patches where clumps had been yanked out. There were markings on her face and every square inch of her body was doodled on, senseless scrawling’s of a child. I can’t remember if it was marker or pen but that’s of little consequence now. The point is my Baby Magic was a virtual mess; a far cry from the immaculate, treasured doll of my youth.
I was shocked and speechless, my tongue almost numb. When I finally formed words I asked my sister, “Why did you give my doll to your girls?” She was belligerent mostly, told me that her girls saw it and wanted to play with it. I should have asked how a four year old and a toddler climbed up a skinny ladder to the small ceiling opening of their attic to even see it. And I had my doll wrapped in the blanket and then well taped plastic to protect her, not even recognizable as a doll in the first place.
A whipped personality, I was never quick on the draw with words in a crunch, although I’m fabulous thinking up stuff to say later when it’s too late to be on point. The conversation was tearfully blubbering, my tears and my blubbering. Apparently the crib didn’t stand up to the rigors of small children jumping in and out of it so that ended up in the furnace, kindling for their fire.
I managed “But it wasn’t yours to give”. She shrugged her shoulders and basically said “tough” and something about possession being nine tenths of the law. The look in her eyes was pure defiance as they challenged me to continue. Standing up to her was never an option, I’d learned over the years she could be cruel when the chips were down. Unlike me, she was never short on words in a pinch and if I hadn’t been her main target, I might have marveled at how quick on the draw she was. Her words cut sharper than knives, slicing and dicing my feelings with Ginsu precision. Without any backbone to put forth a case for my doll, I did the only thing I was capable of, I stood there and cried, not just sniffling with a few tears, but convulsive, gut wrenching and wailing cries. She could see how upset I was but there was no warmth in her demeanor. Per the usual, there would never be any sympathy, explanation or an apology.
I left her house and the road ahead was blurry through my tears, but by the time I reached home I was already turning this latest pain inward, blaming myself in pure Christine fashion. I shouldn’t have trusted her, experience told me I couldn’t. I should never have left something so precious in her care. This was her typical behavior when it came to me. I was never more than a piece of sand under her eyelid, deserving about as much consideration as the grain that caused the irritation.
I was absolutely heart broken and yet, still unwilling to accept that another defining moment was begging me to wake up and acknowledge that my feelings meant very little to her. Foolishly it would take fifty years to finally break the cycle of disrespect and walk away, closing the door on us and leaving most of the baggage on the outside of the door. I didn’t escape totally unscathed, a list of mental scars will take more time to fade, but I felt lighter separated from all the proverbial bags that she’d stuffed with contempt to bulging proportions......
.........So back to the present day.
December ushered in my 60th birthday. I’m a stronger person now, no longer willing to share my time or life with anyone that doesn’t have my best interest or show me respect. It’s been a rough road, many shit storms have tried to dismantle my well-being but I’ve persevered and continued to grow in the warmth and kindness of those who genuinely care for me. Life is too short and getting shorter all the time to waste on anyone or anything that doesn’t positively add to my life experience.
I went to work on my birthday, Tuesday December 18th, and little did I know how the day would unfold. Deborah Sweet had a Christmas present for me and said it arrived in the mail the day before so she decided to give it as a birthday gift as well. I’m shy opening presents in front of people, I’ve been like that forever, I suppose it stems back to my lack of self-worth as a child, but I persevered, tore open the wrapping and was thrown for a loop.
My jaw dropped and hung like a brick as I could barely believe my eyes. My chest convulsed and grew tight as I tried to suck in air. Like a glass filling up and overflowing with water I could feel the blood rise to my cheeks, burning as it traversed and filled the blood vessels. The tears welled up and I spun around to hide the raw emotion, but there was no holding back, like a damn breaking, salty tears splashed down my face. I cried as the past memory and hurt rose to the surface, overflowed and then washed away in one felled swoop. Like a flash flood, the waters filled the hole of my long ago heartache and then retracted, taking with it the pain that was stored there, a cleansing in its wake.
Inside the box was a Baby Magic doll that she’d found on EBay. I’d told her the story of my memory the day after the hook-in, the emotion on my sleeve must have planted a seed. How can I ever express enough of a thank-you for her thoughtfulness and her kindness? She presented me with the top gift of my lifetime, not just a tangible item but a healing as well.
Although she looks exactly the same, this Baby Magic is a miniature of the doll I had as a child which is even better. She fits perfectly on the nightstand beside my bed. I can once again see her every morning and she will be the last thing I see as I turn out the light at night. She is perfect in her little dress, and those beautiful eyes seem to stare at me from the past, linking me to the younger version of myself.
As gifts go it I don’t think my Baby Magic could ever be topped. Thank-you to Deborah Sweet, you really are your namesake.
Sadness descended and I swallowed a growing lump as a memory surfaced of an incident that had been buried deep, so traumatic my brain had banned it to the dark cavern of thoughts and feelings of things better left forgotten. Now it was resurfacing, hauling with it all the woe and emotions of that time. I grew very quiet, unable to speak as I swallowed hard and blinked back tears.
I don’t usually speak of the estrangement from my older sister but recently a thoughtful gift from a friend helped add closure to a traumatic event of my youth. Because I find writing cathartic and healing I decided to tap out the story on the keyboard. I’ve written a book about my life called Burnt Carrots, and this incident will be added to the hundreds of examples I relay about the treatment I endured at the hand of a sibling. I realize each narrative in itself is a ‘so what’ moment, but gather them all together and they take on a life of their own, rich with intent, like a great big bouquet of torment.
Very little good remains from my childhood; the negative stuff forced the happy moments through a mental shredder. I was a pathetic little person; naive to a fault, impressionable and effected by every bump and grind along the path of my youth. If self-esteem was a foundation, my house would have crumbled like bread without gluten. As a child I felt unloved and even worse, unworthy of it.
Memories are fragmented as I toil to put together the pieces, and one by one they surface and take their place in the puzzle of my life. Sometimes when the pieces emerge, the emotions of that time come with them and sadness consumes me. But sorrow aside I embrace each memory to better understand my adult self, realizing why I react to situations the way I do, how I sometimes feel the way I do, why negatives can sometimes outweigh the positives.
I suffered low self-esteem from a bullying older sister that never liked me since the day I came home from the hospital. I’ve thought about our relationship, or lack of a lot and spent a good patch of time and money with a psychologist trying to come to grips with why she didn’t like me even though she professed too. It is true that actions speak louder than words, and enough has happened that I was forced to accept the undeniable truth. My mental health practitioner told me to run and never look back, that my sister was toxic to my well-being; she told me the situation was hopeless as long as she wasn't willing to change. She said that DNA wasn’t a good enough reason to build a relationship on, that I need to cut my losses and stop analyzing each event hoping for a different result. She said the patterns were carved in granite, they would never change. I understood what she was saying but misguided loyalty wouldn’t let me walk away. Gutless to the bitter end to stand up for myself, it would take one last disturbing incident to bring things to a head and force me to face the ugly truth and when I reached my fifties that moment came crashing down and I knew we were over.
I truthfully can’t remember one nice thing she ever did for me, any kindness she afforded me, any conversation that wasn’t loaded with judgement, criticism or a backhanded comment, “You don’t look fat in that outfit” kind of thing, offering any understanding or compassion for periods of my life when I struggled, my side of any story was never considered. I was condemned unjustly and unfairly, without any provocation. Instead of trying to understand my situation or how I felt I was labelled a black sheep and slapped with a big proverbial scarlet letter.
One year when my husband was out of work and I was ill from Environmental Sickness, I suffered from allergies to all man-made products, perfumes and heavily scented items which would have limited my ability to go into shops even if we had money to spend. There was nothing extra for luxuries, like eating out in restaurants or buying presents. When Christmas loomed that year I told my sister that we could not afford to exchange gifts. It was met with disdain, no understanding at all for our predicament and later I was told that she had spoken with my brother and they both agreed, and this direct quote was burned in my brain, “Christine, we think you’re ruining the family!” It was hurtful that our plight offered no sympathy and that I was pitted as an outcast that didn’t care about family values. It wounded me but I let it slide in her presence, I had been conditioned to avoid controversy with her, I never fared well when I talked back or tried to explain myself, but I later cried in my husband’s arms.
In my formative years and beyond, my sister physically abused me and at four years her junior, the scales were always tipped in her favour. I was kicked and slapped, and battered with unkind names, the latter of which inflicted the deeper wound. Nasty nicknames and mean words hurt more than bruises, leaving their mark long after the black and blue faded. Compared to her, I was very small in stature and less developed emotionally, so I faded into the background like a proverbial shrinking violet.
There was collateral damage from my lack of self esteem. Believing I was unlikable, I tried to buy the attention of the kids in the neighbourhood with whatever I had to offer so they would play with me; akin to tying a pork chop around my neck to get a dog to lick me. Be it Barbie doll clothes or marbles, they were bribes given to promote relationships, upping the ante to make myself more appealing. My mother was frustrated with me, canting a broken record of “Christine, you’ll give your arse away”’ and as a teen I did that a few times as well, desperately seeking someone to love me. Luckily I got over this early or perhaps my becoming a hooker would have taken on another meaning entirely.
Throughout my childhood I’d never connected with my family, my sister’s hostility and my parent’s indifference left me outside looking in, unloved and misunderstood, and I struggled with it over most of my adult life, sometimes even now. It’s probably the reason I trust to bury my heart in the companionship of dogs; their love is undeniable and true, without judgement or agenda. That is why losing one is like losing a part of my soul.
Memories aside, the tangible items of my childhood were lost; either broken and discarded or given away, with the exception of one coveted toy; my beautiful Baby Magic doll. She was created in 1966, had the ability to drink water from a bottle and would then cry real tears! I just turned seven when Santa left her under the tree and there were squeals of delight when I found her Christmas morning. She was the perfect gift for a budding little mother like me, desperate for something of my very own to love and even though she was an inanimate object, I felt loved in return. I no longer felt alone.
My baby had the prettiest dress. The yolk was red with little white bows with a pleated white skirting. The top of her head sported a red bow, crowning her silky, flaxen hair that framed the most beautiful, sweet face. Santa was magnificent that year and left a wooden crib as well, a cream coloured bed that perfectly fit my baby and it had a satin edged, luxurious white blanket and a small pillow for sleeping comfort. Her little hands were shaped to hold her bottle and she could lift her arms to insert it into her mouth. When I pushed her arms down a big pout formed on her lips and she’d cry, tears from the water bottle finding their way to the manufactured tear ducts. I’d rock her gently and coo to her and as I lay her in the crib, the horizontal positioning would automatically close her eyes for sleep. When I picked her up, long, dark eyelashes would flutter at me then open and she would stare into my eyes. She was marketed ‘The best doll ever invented’ and although was minus the heartbeat and warmth of a real child, she was my baby in every sense of the word, and it really hurt to discover the terrible ending that befell her.
I loved playing mother and I doted on my baby as much as any child can. The fact that she wasn’t real saved her many times as feedings were occasionally forgotten, after all my maternal sophistication was on par with the doll itself, but I tried my very best, positioning her crib next to my bed so her darling little face was the first thing I greeted each morning and the last thing I tucked in at night before I crawled under the covers.
Somehow, I managed to keep her in pristine condition, washing her face and combing her hair, giving her sponge baths and wrapping her in a terry towel that had a little pocket for her head. I talked and cooed to my ward, loving her with my entire heart as any good mom would do. Someday I hoped to give her to a daughter, or if that didn’t transpire perhaps a grandchild, but even if that never came to pass, she would have remained for my pleasure, a tangible link to the younger self that began my life and perhaps someday, if senility reverted me to childish ways, we could start anew.
Sometime in the middle seventies, I asked my sister if I could store my doll and crib in her attic which she assured me was dry and safe from rodents. Someday when I had a home of my own I’d collect her, the only piece of my childhood that I could literally revisit.
Years later on a random visit to her home, who by then had two daughters aged three and four and a house full of books and toys, the living room carpet rarely seen from the multitude of them, I nearly fainted when my niece came around a corner holding what remained of my Baby Magic.
The doll was almost unrecognizable, filthy and naked. Her hair had been butchered with scissors and what remained was sticking out in all directions in short, needle like sprigs around bald patches where clumps had been yanked out. There were markings on her face and every square inch of her body was doodled on, senseless scrawling’s of a child. I can’t remember if it was marker or pen but that’s of little consequence now. The point is my Baby Magic was a virtual mess; a far cry from the immaculate, treasured doll of my youth.
I was shocked and speechless, my tongue almost numb. When I finally formed words I asked my sister, “Why did you give my doll to your girls?” She was belligerent mostly, told me that her girls saw it and wanted to play with it. I should have asked how a four year old and a toddler climbed up a skinny ladder to the small ceiling opening of their attic to even see it. And I had my doll wrapped in the blanket and then well taped plastic to protect her, not even recognizable as a doll in the first place.
A whipped personality, I was never quick on the draw with words in a crunch, although I’m fabulous thinking up stuff to say later when it’s too late to be on point. The conversation was tearfully blubbering, my tears and my blubbering. Apparently the crib didn’t stand up to the rigors of small children jumping in and out of it so that ended up in the furnace, kindling for their fire.
I managed “But it wasn’t yours to give”. She shrugged her shoulders and basically said “tough” and something about possession being nine tenths of the law. The look in her eyes was pure defiance as they challenged me to continue. Standing up to her was never an option, I’d learned over the years she could be cruel when the chips were down. Unlike me, she was never short on words in a pinch and if I hadn’t been her main target, I might have marveled at how quick on the draw she was. Her words cut sharper than knives, slicing and dicing my feelings with Ginsu precision. Without any backbone to put forth a case for my doll, I did the only thing I was capable of, I stood there and cried, not just sniffling with a few tears, but convulsive, gut wrenching and wailing cries. She could see how upset I was but there was no warmth in her demeanor. Per the usual, there would never be any sympathy, explanation or an apology.
I left her house and the road ahead was blurry through my tears, but by the time I reached home I was already turning this latest pain inward, blaming myself in pure Christine fashion. I shouldn’t have trusted her, experience told me I couldn’t. I should never have left something so precious in her care. This was her typical behavior when it came to me. I was never more than a piece of sand under her eyelid, deserving about as much consideration as the grain that caused the irritation.
I was absolutely heart broken and yet, still unwilling to accept that another defining moment was begging me to wake up and acknowledge that my feelings meant very little to her. Foolishly it would take fifty years to finally break the cycle of disrespect and walk away, closing the door on us and leaving most of the baggage on the outside of the door. I didn’t escape totally unscathed, a list of mental scars will take more time to fade, but I felt lighter separated from all the proverbial bags that she’d stuffed with contempt to bulging proportions......
.........So back to the present day.
December ushered in my 60th birthday. I’m a stronger person now, no longer willing to share my time or life with anyone that doesn’t have my best interest or show me respect. It’s been a rough road, many shit storms have tried to dismantle my well-being but I’ve persevered and continued to grow in the warmth and kindness of those who genuinely care for me. Life is too short and getting shorter all the time to waste on anyone or anything that doesn’t positively add to my life experience.
I went to work on my birthday, Tuesday December 18th, and little did I know how the day would unfold. Deborah Sweet had a Christmas present for me and said it arrived in the mail the day before so she decided to give it as a birthday gift as well. I’m shy opening presents in front of people, I’ve been like that forever, I suppose it stems back to my lack of self-worth as a child, but I persevered, tore open the wrapping and was thrown for a loop.
My jaw dropped and hung like a brick as I could barely believe my eyes. My chest convulsed and grew tight as I tried to suck in air. Like a glass filling up and overflowing with water I could feel the blood rise to my cheeks, burning as it traversed and filled the blood vessels. The tears welled up and I spun around to hide the raw emotion, but there was no holding back, like a damn breaking, salty tears splashed down my face. I cried as the past memory and hurt rose to the surface, overflowed and then washed away in one felled swoop. Like a flash flood, the waters filled the hole of my long ago heartache and then retracted, taking with it the pain that was stored there, a cleansing in its wake.
Inside the box was a Baby Magic doll that she’d found on EBay. I’d told her the story of my memory the day after the hook-in, the emotion on my sleeve must have planted a seed. How can I ever express enough of a thank-you for her thoughtfulness and her kindness? She presented me with the top gift of my lifetime, not just a tangible item but a healing as well.
Although she looks exactly the same, this Baby Magic is a miniature of the doll I had as a child which is even better. She fits perfectly on the nightstand beside my bed. I can once again see her every morning and she will be the last thing I see as I turn out the light at night. She is perfect in her little dress, and those beautiful eyes seem to stare at me from the past, linking me to the younger version of myself.
As gifts go it I don’t think my Baby Magic could ever be topped. Thank-you to Deborah Sweet, you really are your namesake.
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