I decided to give my 'Deaf series' of articles a bit of a rest and tell you the story of how I believe I was greatly affected in my youth. Many people can claim that their parents made quite a few serious mistakes, and that's more common than some would like to believe. However, what does one do when the issues are at a very deep psychological level, or even a spiritual one? One that goes far beyond words and physical pain?
Let me explain what I mean by this, by telling you about my birth. I'm not sure this has an impact on my life, but the fact that I was forced out by C-section even before my mother was in labor, seems to point to the fact that my mother had taken control of even this very sacred and entirely random act. I did not decide when to come out; she did that for me. So, on July 25th at 8AM, my mother was rolled into surgery by a nurse. I was born shortly after.
My mother did, however, have very good reasons to do it. I'm not saying this was a satirical overtake of a spiritual contract with God. I was in the wrong direction, and my brother was born through C-section as well. What I am unsure of, is how much the set date, instead of simply waiting until she went into labor, affected my birth.
I might have been in shock, because I refused to be fed by her. Since babies are helpless, they can't do more than regurgitate their food in rebellion-- and that is exactly what I did. Thank goodness my father wasn't away on yet another military mission, because I would've been in trouble. Up to approximately six months old, my father had to feed me the minute he got home because I would not have ingested much of what my mother gave me, and I would've probably let myself starve to death. Dad says it could've been my reaction to the fact that my mom is naturally a worry-wart, and I picked up on it. Maybe. But what happened two years later tells me it may be more than just that.
This time, my father was away on a military mission overseas. I don't know all the details, but I scared the hell out of my mother by almost dying. I came very close to not breathing. When we arrived at the hospital, the doctor told my mom that had we arrived only thirty minutes later, I would be dead. "You were very lucky," he told her. I had to stay in the hospital for two weeks. As some of you may know, in those days, parents were forbidden from visiting because the physicians believed that psychological trauma, due to repeat separation from parents, wass too much for such a young child. (Today doctors know better.) So, I didn't see my mother for two full weeks. And when she came back to take me home, I didn't even react. No surprise, no sadness, no joy. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I believe it was Edgar Cayce who once said that a soul who is born into the wrong life will try to die when the body it lives in is still very young. This is what he says is the cause of serious illnesses in children and cites it as the cause of crib death. Well, this is what I believe my soul was doing: trying to escape a life that wasn't meant for me. I almost died twice more after that. Once at six years old, and once at fourteen, both accidents.
All my life, I had the feeling I was choking. It took me several years after leaving my parent's home, to finally start feeling like I was getting to know myself. To say that my mother smothers me, is an understatement. Just recently, I tied this incident with my long-time feeling of not being free-- of not 'breathing freely, all my life. Anyone who knew me as a child can tell you how I was unusually quiet. Teachers kept telling my mom that this was not normal, and worried about me. Every year, my mother fought with them during PTA meetings, telling them that I was perfectly normal. I didn't understand at the time. How could I? I was so young.
All my life I have lived with breathing troubles. My mother, who is a registered nurse, told me it was due to me almost dying and said that I would always have weak lungs without being able to give this 'dis-ease' and actual name. Although today I am not fully healed, I have finally started to breathe much more easily.
I could go on and on about how hard it was to try to break free from the claws that were once deeply encroaching me. The wounds aren't fully healed yet - I can guarantee that. There is still much more work to do. Wiith me still fighting to keep the claws away from the wounds, it will be a very long and difficult road.