THE BOTTLE


	THE BOTTLE I sorted the pills. Assorted colors, assorted shapes. Blue, pink, red, white, yellow, red and white, blue and white, yellow and white, some striped, some solid. Heart-shaped, round, oblong, some are capsules, some are tablets, some sugar-coated, some not. It really didn't matter as I counted them. One, two, three, four, five, six ....... horded through the months till the bottle was full. Were there enough ? How long would it take to die ? Would it be painful or would I simply go to sleep and dream my way out from all the pain and grief and hate? Life had been full of assorted colors in my nineteen years of existing. Not surprising really, since I grew up under what was known as the Color Bar in England at that time. Not the wondrous colors of the Rainbow, arching beauty painted on a background of dark clouds above the Sussex Downs. Blending, brilliant prisms caught in bas relief against a pre-storm sky. A Rainbow to catch the artist's eye, immortalize on canvas, or display by camera for the world to stand in silent homage and appreciation. Nature's wonder freely set before humanity if they look up. The assorted colors in my life would match in color only, with my rainbow. Not in context. No promise in my rainbow unless it be the promise of a threat, of hurt, of grief. My rainbow freely set before humanity if they look down. No sun-shot raindrops sliding hundreds of reflected tiny rainbows down a window pane, but tear drops streaming down the window pain inside my heart. A window I looked out of but no one could see in. Blue bruises, pink weals, red blood, white skin, yellow skin. A mixing of the colors and sometimes assorted shapes, depending on how the weals and bruises had been delivered, and by whom. Bruises seen. ( Blue on yellow). Welts and weals. (Pink on yellow). Blue and yellow turning into green and blue, tinged with yellow, fading later back to yellow. Normal yellow skin color. Meaning, normal when yellow skin is surrounded by yellow skin and not white. This was the Color Bar. Color barred. Any tinge or hue along a spectrum from pure white diverging to pure black, pure yellow, pure red. Color BARRED. So very clearly stated and so very strongly kept. Ah, but what is a bruise? How is it caused? A blow? A running into some hard object? Hard enough to rupture small blood vessels, injure muscle, raise a lump? Children run to Mommy when they find a bruise. " It hurts, Mommy, kiss it better". The young child crawls up into Mommy's lap to be held and comforted. Mommy kisses it, puts soothing ointment on the bruise and soon, the child forgets, and soon the bruise is gone. The bruise that is seen, that is. My bruises up till the day I sorted pills were much more hidden than observable. None in places reachable for doctoring. Besides, what medication is there to remedy a blow that shatters trust, ruptures any tiny avenue of safety and injures Hope, the muscle strength of the survivor ? Where was Mummy to whom little Goessoftly could run with her bruises ? In nursing we learned about non-touch technique that helped to keep a wound sterile and uncontaminated. This was my mother's technique also, keeping my wounds sterile from love and care and soothing. Uncontaminated by the human touch. The perfect non-touch technique is it not?. No hands on, no holding, no lap on which to sit and cry into a mother's breast and be comforted. Cetainly no kiss to make it better. I did not run off and forget, and the lump remained. A lump in my throat that stopped me telling. A lump in my heart that decreased the space for Hope. Colors that still tinge my heart though these have faded greatly through the years. Colors can fade. Other times my bruises were not from blows but running into some hard object. Nothing harder than a closed heart, deaf ears, blind eyes to suffering and pain. More impenetrable, these, than concrete walls, dead bolt locks, or mountain rock. Impregnable fortresses against emotion where once in a rare while I ran to see if perchance someone might have noticed that my soul was bruised. That tongue-lashing strokes had been laid across my gentle heart, child sensitivity whipped to bleeding welts. That my flesh had been violated though I never talked of that, but open eyes could have seen reflection of it in my own. Had they looked. That human rights had been abused, the right to be myself, to speak my say, to voice opinion, to own my freedom from the slavery of power games, inequality of child before adults' all knowing, all omnsicient rule and rules. No point running Goessoftly. No one there. Deaf ears. Blind eyes. Closed hearts. Time to put a pill into the bottle. But in those days, in my childhood years, there was no bottle and there were no pills. Later, looking at the bottle while I counted pills, I was to think that in the bottle was stored relief, escape from pain. In the bottle I could look at many colored pills, all the colors of my bruises. Is this really the solution? I think not, and now, I know not. At nineteen years of age I did not think beyond reprieve, release from racist agonies. Still silenced from a child from showing fear or anger, hurt or sorrow. I learned only last year that those I trained with as a nurse still remembered me with affection. Forty seven years later, after losing touch. They all reminded me of my sense of humor, which goes to show how well we cover up and camouflage our inner self. We are chameleons, changing color to fit into our environment. ( At least this is the myth, it is not actually true. Chameleons change according to their mood. I changed color to fit my mood- assuage fear, find safety etc.). I learned so very early as a child that to hide yellow in a white surrounding means yellow has to fade and lose its essence. One cannot be yellow and accepted by white when white is the only acceptable color. So outwardly I lost my essence, decreasing me and fitting into social mores, social circles of my mother, social expectation to become white in speech, behavior and achievement. Inwardly I fought unconsciously to be myself, revolt against the iron hand - Authority's manipulation of the lesser breed. A little child does not understand the not understandable - why man is cruel to man, why children are used for pincushions in which to stick the needles of man's disillusionments and evil projections of himself, so it is not he who feels the pain, but can control the conditioning of the pincushion. I did not understand. I never knew when, or from where or how the next piercing would be. Had I had my bottle then, how many assorted colors and of varied shapes, would the pills have been, that were dropped into it? Perhaps I would have not waited till the bottle filled. Perhaps I would have taken what was there - but it likley would have failed because I was too young to know that pills are not a panacea for a broken heart and are no guarentee of endless peace. Outwardly, an image formed for all to see. Illusion of a white child with my mother, perfectly behaved in social gatherings, events, tea parties and fetes. Dressed in clothes befitted to the occasion. Inside, my naked heart exposed to freezing, cutting winds of artifical acceptance blowing condescension and barely hidden tolerance of the yellow others knew was underneath. Appearances. So important to my mother. Connections. So important to my mother. Reputation. So important to my mother. But what of the child? My appearance was, by order, thrust upon me. Mother and child, seen as product of a christian act. Orphan saved from certain death and brought to England to be raised. Clothed, fed, schooled and introduced to aristocracy, private boarding school, exposed to art, literature and music. What more could possibly have been done for her? Would it have been too much to ask, to clothe me with kindness, to make connections to my heart instead of people, to feed the cravings of a little girl for love, for nurture and educate her in the School of Life and not the Institution of Existence? Time to put another pill into the bottle, but there was no bottle and there were no pills. Inwardly, I clothed myself with the only things that kept me warm. The silent understanding of my dog, blank page where I could write my fears, my painful hurts, my longings and despair, and my music through which, and from which, my very soul found sustenance. I do admit, my mother, though unwittingly, turned me to the Arts which opened up such wondrous vistas for child exploration. For this I am so grateful - it brings the color green - newness and Life. There never was a green pill to be bought or stolen. This avenue of creativity was my self-medication for the bruises and the weals, the humiliation and degradings. A world in which to lose myself because there was no bottle and there were no pills. Soon I was left with only two of my protections from the cold and stormy climate in which I lived. I lost my dog and I lost my only true friend. Loyal to the end. Loving till her last breath. Unable any longer to daily jump the fence, race down the lane and meet me off the bus from school. Escort me home with welcome bark and furiously wagging tail, brushing her warm body close against my legs assuring me that she was truly happy I was there. Leapinging, trying to kiss my face, ( I did not like this and still do not),but not allowed. Content to let me hug her and we could spend brief time for me to tell her how the day had been before we went into the house. Towards the end, crawling painfully on her stomach to the front door to greet me when I came back, unable to keep down even water, yet knowing that her little girl needed contact with warm fur, to see soft genuine love shining in her eyes, to look for a wag of tail however feeble. I couldn't stand to see her suffer and we had her put down. Night time, thinking I could hear her bark and jumping out of bed, rushing to the window only to see the darkness of Night like the darkness within my weeping, mourning, lonely, lone child heart. The Aloneness of aloneness when absence is complete. Grief too strong for tears, even numbness is not enough to shut out emptiness - no one left now, Goessoftly. Time to put another pill into the bottle, but no bottle and no pills. Only another wall built around my youthful heart growing with conviction it is too dangerous to love. Too painful and too vulnerable for further hurt. I did not think in this way at that time. At that time I only knew that I was left again to survive alone, fight on alone, and not give up and not give in. The thought of loving was confined to vowing I would never have another dog or go through such agony of seperation again - ever. The thought was never asoociated with loving a person. Is loving the Golden rule ? "Doing unto others as they have done unto you". I have not had another dog since then. But I have been tempted. I have, however, been blessed with being loved in a way I would love others - unconditionally and without expectations. In this, I would do unto others as has been done to me. The Color Bar - was sometimes offered as sugar coated pills. Seemingly so sweet, yet inside bitter as gall. Is not Deception one of the cruelest forms of abuse, and what easier to decieve than the mind of a child ? But which is the greater deception? Self or Other, and how can we deceive ourselves with a mind already shaped by deception? Is it possible to break free from others' thoughts and mind control ? I think so, but it has taken me long years to reach this place. Today I feel FREE, refusing to be man controlled, man-manipulated, man- ordered any longer. It is a good feeling with no colors barred. My mother drummed into me so many times that repitition made a mantra of her assertions that, " A Christian should do this, and a Christian shouldn't do that. That well brought up young ladies are well mannered, discreet and do not whistle." I wrote a sarcastic little verse one time when I was preadolescent about God and Lady B. ( a friend of my mother's). The gist of which referred to a conversation between God and Lady B. The good lady proffering that, " Manners maketh Man" ( so ofen rung in my ears from mother), to which God replied, " Strange, I was under the impression, I had". ( so often referred to in Sunday School.) Who should I believe ? My mother and her friend, visible, touchable, voices of authority to my young ears, or God, Whom my eyes could never see, my hands could not touch and Whose voice had never sounded in my ears? And anyway, why use manners as a description for creation ? Does Deportment and how we sit, walk and speak MAKE us who we are ? In my young mind I grew to hate the snobbery in which my mother steeped herself. Manners had their place for the chameleon to blend into round a dinner table, ( one doesn't whistle for the Butler) - but from behind my yellow barrier I watched how manners simply acted as a different kind of camouflage. Example being myself: My decorum wasn't ME - it was obeying spoken and unspoken rules of etiquette, a respectable pretense that I was someone I really was not. But for the time I showed good manners it brought a superfical acceptance and increased my leeriness of what is genuine and what is artifical. So God made man, and as a child I fantasized a lot about a God in Heaven. I also had Him shoved down my throat with admonitions of what would happen if I tried to escape His all seeing eye. Church and Sunday School reinforced how great He is. Did HE make me Chinese, and if so why? Are we made to be ashamed of who we are? Are we made to be a receptacle for others' hate and fear and greed? Are we made to experience things that strip us of our self-respect and dignity leaving us vulnerable to those who recognize the victim walk and downcast eyes, pouncing like a cat playing with the mouse? How young I learned to recognize a perpetrator, watch my back, study eyes, yet still I sometimes went for sugar coating. Hoping it would be sweet all through, or give a moment's pleasing taste. A change from sour and bitter and the desire to spit out filth and rotteness. Who should I believe? God? Man? Myself? Should I believe what I am told, what I read, or what feels right inside? Young Goessoftly, entering her teens with questions and no answers. Asking a childhood neighbor if they could tell me where there was ONE good thing, one decent thing in the world that I could trust because I would like to know where it was. Receiving a rueful apology because they couldn't tell me. Sugar coated pills were offered by the score. Try this, try that, you'll find peace here, comfort there, truth in this, faith in that. Sweet coverings. Bitter centers, leaving me cynical, agnostic and even less trusting of man. I concluded that people swallow sugar coated pills for the same reason I was counting mine, though mine were mixed. To escape pain or gain a high in which a dream can be thought reality. This time, self- deception, and coming off the high is worse than the before. The bottle now in hand. The pills ready to put in. In my teens, wondering if Life is one big huge deception, an illusion, a conglomerate of men's minds throwing their ingredients into the pot of speculation and turning out a stew of philosophy where every one who sits down to eat ladles out a different variety of food into their bowl. Today, what I put into my bowl is what I choose to ladle out from the general pot, and if I do not like the taste I can always throw it out. Under the Color bar, there was no option of a choice. Today, I do not allow others to choose for me. The big City differed from my Country Town, only in the increased population, traffic, buildings, noise and business. The Color Bar was not confined to Country. Here, I was shunned by fellow Chinamen as well as Whites. This was confusing, painful. Frightening. It deepened my sense of not belonging anywhere, with anyone. Neither yellow nor white - what was I ? Had my chameleon colors been worn so well that neither race could recognize who I was ? Too "good" for yellow, too "bad" for white? Where was my heritage, which was my culture? Seen as so normal, intelligent, creative, a lover of Music, of Art, of Nature and Books. Trading colors, white for yellow, yellow for white, depending who I was with and where. Appearances. So deceiving and so distorting of truth. How did I feel inside as I shook my nineteen years' Kaleidascope and watched the colors fragment into assorted shapes, assorted colors ? Kaleidascope of memories, images, emotions that settled slowly down becoming blank. Little girl blank, wiped clean of all her tears, her longing to belong, the pain of daily fighting for her life, her soul, her sense of self. Teenager, blank, wiped clean of putting on her front, her pseudo confidence, her never answered questions and the continued violation of her rights and body. The nineteen year Kaleidascope has settled down and only ONE color has been left - it is white. I set my bottle on my bedside table. Emptied it and counted pills -one, two, three, four, five,six.... droppong them back into the bottle till they reached the neck. Would there be enough ? How long would it take to die and would it be painful, or could I simply drift into a dreamless sleep - or - stop ! Perhaps I would not have an endless sleep. The pills are not enough. Perhaps there really IS another Rainbow. Different colors with different meanings. More defined, more briliant and blended in one shape without assortment. The bottle has gone. I am here and I am alive. November 13, 2001 \| LEGACY OF THE UNBELOVED \| CRUMBS FOR THE STARVING \| DISINFECTION \| BEAUTY \| WHY and WHAT \| Would You Still Be My friend ? \| THE BOTTLE \| ROSES and THISTLES \| \| THE HEALING PROCESS \| DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER \| POETRY \| Biographical Entries \|