Flying Monkeys – Chapter 4

We all have a story.  A story that is uniquely our own and is what makes us different.  And even while knowing our unique differences, we still resolve to conform to others because that gives us a false sense of belonging.  There is comfort in that.  When we can find those manufactured similarities, it helps us to momentarily feel that we are being understood and that we are not alone.  Sometimes we give ourselves permission to share our stories with others in our ongoing pursuit to forge connections amidst the perception of commonality. While other times, we choose to singlehandedly carry the weight of our stories because, if given the chance, they will doubtlessly reveal the fundamental things about who we really are and the past experiences that forced us to deviate from our life’s path.  Those fundamental things that generally constitute the secrets that we choose to lock tightly away inside our memory banks and throw away the key with the primary purpose of forgetting.  Because like Pandora, we know that once we open the box and give voice to our secret stories, it will be difficult to put those memories back.  Deliberate efforts designed to not unearth the memories that we know will cause us pain.  Memories that can transport us back to a place and a period of time that will unmercifully challenge our hard-fought development and growth.  In many cases, those are oftentimes the beginning chapters of our life story that occurred at a time when it was someone else who was controlling our pen.   Because even while we try to convince ourselves that we have always been the author writing and memorializing our stories, deep down inside we know that is not true.   The real question is not whether everyone has a secret story, rather it is whether or not they choose to tell it.  The objectionable stories that will have indelibly altered our view of the world and all the things in it.  Profound tales that prove that it is possible to be broken and built at the same time.  All the while knowing if we could find the courage to give a voice to our stories, maybe then we would be set free.   Learning the lessons taught to us, products of our environment, becoming human puzzles that others will try to solve.   Until suddenly, without warning or consent, something happens.  A flashback, which can come in the form of a sound or a particular smell, that cunningly and surreptitiously lures those memories from their hiding place.  Unsubtle reminders, echoes of the past, that somehow manage to sharply pull you into a torrential tornado where you are forced to watch from inside as your memories twist and turn in slow motion all around you.  So slow that you could reach out and touch them if you tried.  At least that has been Jenny’s experience with her first rebellious memory that visits her in unsolicited, and wholly unwelcome, flashbacks of the Wolf……

For Jenny, it is difficult to describe with any degree of certitude when it was that she began to separate, compartmentalize and conceal traumatic childhood experiences.  With some of the more insufferable moments decidedly locked away indefinitely deep inside her carefully curated memory bank.  On one hand was the Wolf with his belligerence and overall instability that proved to be largely unpredictable at best.  At first, he discharged his arsenal of red flags with a subtlety that made them practically undetectable.  Once he had become settled and more comfortable in his new environment, the red flags began to fly with reckless abandon, until one day, they stopped flying altogether.  That was obviously a problem for Jenny and her family.  Those red flags had become a precursor, a reliable warning signal indicating that he had been triggered in some way and that an unreasonable, and usually violent, eruption was likely impending.  Absent the red flags, there were no forewarnings.  In retrospect, and if she had to make a choice, Jenny would choose those flying red flags over the impulsive and immediate escalation of the Wolf’s wrath any day.   It didn’t take them too long to come to the realization that they had a monster living in their midst.  The Wolf had officially arrived.

On the other hand, for Jenny, her brother, Michael, and their mother, walking a tightrope of uncertainty and fear became the vocation they could have never imagined for themselves and, frankly, would have preferred to do without.  The Wolf’s arrival meant that they were no longer in control of the human temperature in the house and soon became burdened by the wounds that were a direct result of the perpetual manifestation of his volatile and explosive temper. The harrowing memories of having been subjected to the trifecta of physically, emotionally and mentally terrifying experiences turned out to be quite stubborn with the subconscious aftershocks reverberating long after the Wolf was gone.  Because when the recipient of unprovoked cruelty and torment does not have a reliable outlet or internal mechanism by which they can cope, they inevitably become an easy, and generally unarmed, target.  The kind of experiences and feelings that those of the younger variety, like Jenny, should be spared.  But alas, we know that they are not and therefore, those people, in some cases children, must figure out how to navigate and rationalize difficult feelings on their own.  Remember, it was after all the 70’s when discussing one’s feelings and emotions, with either a trusted adult or a stranger, was not a standard practice like it is today.  Especially when you have something that you are trying to hide along with a support system that is in short supply.   And statistics, regardless of the decade, would likely corroborate the fact that recipients of wrongdoing often walk themselves through a series of unsettling mental calculations and presumptions that stem from a fear of foreseeable consequences.  Undeniable repercussions that might include, but are not limited to, the very real possibility of retaliation, embarrassment, and judgment.  Therefore, rather than taking any chances or worsening an already volatile situation, they make the calculated decision to keep the wrongdoing to themselves where it invariably becomes their secret.  For Jenny, learning how to keep her feelings suppressed, while remaining under the radar and keeping her family secret tightly under wraps, became an essential means of managing the untimely violence and chaos.  Having developed, strictly due to her involuntary circumstance, the ability to mentally detach from frighteningly tumultuous situations with the primary purpose of self-preservation becoming second nature.  Although she was, admittedly, too young to understand or put her feelings into words or really know what she was doing at all at the time.  And truth be told, she was unaware that allowing herself to go crazy was even an option.   That is, by definition, survival, is it not?  By all accounts, it was Jenny’s retreat that is what ultimately ignited her imagination.  A learned coping skill, that evolved and improved under duress, which allowed her mind to wander far away from reality.  Detachment becoming her primal means of weathering the tornadic storm that was brought to her and her family courtesy of the Wolf. However, in doing so, Jenny’s imagination oftentimes got the better of her.  She spent a good amount of her time creating a world of her own that was located inside her mind where she was seemingly insulated and protected.  A safe harbor that was built behind an impenetrable iron curtain that she frequently inhabited and where she controlled who, if anyone, had visitation privileges.  It was a world where she wrote the script, chose the location and props, and got to decide who had permission of access.  It was an imaginary world that was not entirely fictional, yet it was a world that was all her own where only she held the key that unlocked the secrets inside.  Even with safeguards in place, it was a world that could be unscrupulous at times and played tricks on her, and yet, coincidentally and in all likelihood, it is also probably what saved her. 

You see, in her earlier years, in particular, when Jenny hid herself away, she was not always alone.  With her imagination fully charged at this point, Jenny oftentimes escaped into stories where there were usually young girls like herself who were on precarious and unplanned journeys.  Journeys that mostly took place while they slept, when their imaginations were hard at work.  Whereas Jenny did not need to be asleep for her imagination to be awakened.  Even still, Jenny felt an immediate connection and befriended some of those young girls who were not imaginary at all, rather they were recognizable and well-known fictional characters who were created and brought to life in the stories that she had read.  Theirs were often stories of adventure that were consumed with the complexities of fear and confusion, and yes, lessons in survival.  How-to guidebooks, as it were, on presumably emerging from untenable situations physically, emotionally, and mentally intact. These were the stories that Jenny referred to and used as her personal survival guides.  Think about it.  If the fictional characters from the stories that she knew by heart could get out of the challenging situations that they found themselves in, if she just followed their lead, then Jenny too had a fighting chance.  What is it about being lost in a forest with only the clothes on your back while conversing exclusively with a wide-range of woodland animals, that becomes the only thing that feels real and makes the most sense to you?  When the unbelievable becomes your lifeline and the one thing that you truly believe.  Jenny would run to her bedroom where she could close the door and allow herself to breathe again.  This is where she felt the safest.  When the   door closed, she would turn around and scan her room making sure that her dolls and stuffed animals were exactly where she left them lined up like soldiers on her bed.   They would all be in their place facing the door awaiting her arrival.  Sometimes Jenny would excitedly enter the room and scoop them up to play ‘school’ or ‘house’.  Or, she would tap into her natural musical proclivities and spin her Annie soundtrack on the record player, grab a hairbrush which would obviously serve as her microphone, and perform an impromptu duet alongside her good friend, Little Orphan Annie herself, as they sang It’s a Hard Knock Life or The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow. But those good days were in sharp contrast to the bad ones.  The days when the Wolf’s mood was particularly dark and Jenny would enter the room shaking from the trauma and fear that she had just fled. On those days, she would distraughtly enter the room, close the door and tightly grip the handle as she visibly attempted to slow her breath and compose herself before turning around to face her beloved friends.   Until something inside her mind switched, and Jenny went somewhere else.  It was only in those moments of retreat that Jenny’s mind became free to wander.   At the end of the movie The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy famously said, “There’s no place like home.”  And while that is a warm sentiment, it may or may not be entirely true for some people.  Depends on the home and the people who are living inside.

Now.  Jenny didn’t wear a cornflower-blue checkered dress.  After all, if was the 70’s, not the 30’s, and everyone knows that if you are going on an adventure, you need to dress the part which means you don’t head out into the forest wearing your Sunday best.  Even if that adventure is taking place in your mind and you can technically wear whatever you want.  She didn’t own a pair of magical ruby red sequined shoes that had the ability to transport her somewhere else if she clicked the heels together three times.  And her mother would have never settled for having just one small dog.  They always had a menagerie of pets to keep them company with one dog in particular who stood out as their companion adventurer. He went by the name of Tux.  Tux frequently, and faithfully, followed Jenny and Michael into the forest behind their house serving as their primary pack protector.  For Jenny, it was the story of Dorothy that had the most significant impact.  Of course, there were other influential stories that she kept close.  Well-worn books from The Secret Garden to Harriet the Spy that showed all the signs of having been read over and over again with specific pages earmarked so that she could refer back to them when she needed guidance.  But the story of Dorothy was different.  She never read the book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.  Jenny only saw the movie which, in those days, came out once a year on Thanksgiving.  And television was weird and barbaric in the 70’s.  There was only a handful of channels with reception that depended entirely upon a pair of metal bunny rabbit ears that had to be manually moved around just right in order to see clearly the image on the screen.  But the Wizard of Oz and Dorothy, along with the unlikely friends that she collected as she skipped and sang her way down the infamous Yellow Brick Road, were as much a part of Jenny’s Thanksgiving each year as turkey and her grandma’s sponge cake.  And the television screen was never more vivid than any time there was a close-up of the Wicked Witch.  Jenny convinced herself that the Witch was going to reach her green hand through the television and grab her, pull her inside and take her to the tower where she would kill her along with Dorothy.  Yet year after year, Jenny would watch the movie – albeit at a safe distance away from the television to avoid being grabbed and mostly peeking through the holes of a loosely knitted blanket – knowing that her dreams would undoubtedly evolve into nightmares all thanks, of course, to the Wicked Witch and her loyal flock of flying monkeys.  But unlike Dorothy, Jenny didn’t hit her head and wasn’t knocked unconscious only to wake up and find herself in the middle of a tornado.  A swirling and powerful tornado that would eventually drop her in a technicolor land that can only be found when one travels, in a strange twist of fate, over a rainbow.  Dorothy followed a perfectly paved path made of yellow bricks, and alleged good intentions, with the promise that it would take her home.  All she had to do was click those ruby red sequined shoes together three times and it would all be over.  In Jenny’s case, there were neither magical shoes nor friends who would help her or whom she could trust.  She had no one to talk to or a shoulder to cry on when she was feeling frightened or overwhelmed.  Not to mention the obvious fact that she was already home and had never left.  And her hostile adversary wasn’t a Witch who flew around with an army of winged monkeys who she would encounter once a year on Thanksgiving, rather it was the Wolf, who was a permanent, year-round resident living in her house.

We all have a story.  A story that, when the hardened layers are peeled away, reveal someone who often found themselves off-road as they traveled down a darkened path or it is a story that uncovers someone whose path has been well-lit and paved for them with good intentions.  Maybe it is a story with hidden secrets that serve no real purpose other than a haunting reminder of someone or something that you would otherwise prefer to forget.  Even with carefully contrived and organized efforts put in place to control the potential long-term damage that they can cause, oftentimes the secrets themselves rebel and have other ideas.  Regardless of the fierce determination that is required to suppress them, they will unceremoniously arrive either way with or without an invitation. The question that remains is not whether everyone has a story that is meant to be a secret, rather it is whether or not they choose to tell it and in doing so, does the telling of a secret really set you free?  Maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t.  The truth is that might just be a fallacy because it is a question that only the keeper of the secret can really answer.  With what we know so far about Jenny, the Wolf is barely the point.  And while Jenny’s story obviously did not begin when the Wolf entered her life, there is no doubt that his presence cast an everlasting shadow that darkened her path.  A path where she was frequently sidetracked and detoured as she tripped over the collected memories that spanned a full spectrum of emotions.  Memories about feeling lost and never really being found; naive yet enlightened; and finding courage even amidst deeply-rooted fear.  While Jenny cannot recall any words that were spoken to her when she was a child, she can unambiguously remember how she felt as a result of them.  And that is a feeling that time would not abate for her.  The rational mind knows that children often attach a feeling to an idea when they do not yet have the words to define it.   Jenny did not know what fate was, however, through intuition, or maybe just a preservationist’s instinct, she felt that her mother marrying that Wolf would be a terrible mistake.  And the Wolf’s eventual fate, in due time, would prove that she was right.  It was on a consequential day during one summer that the Wolf’s fate and time with Jenny’s family would be sealed and stamped with an expiration date.  It was the beginning of the end for the Wolf.

To be continued…

Disclaimer:  All quotes were found on wisdomquotes.com and are understood to be true statements, fictional or otherwise, referenced for the sole purpose of illustrating a point.  Quotes have been bolded and italicized to provide a delineation from the author’s perspective.