I Use to Lean Heavily On My Intuition

In my youth I leaned heavily on my intuition and felt strong, energetic, confident. Foolish enough to believe that I could do and be anything. My father often spoke about the value of endless opportunities and made me believe that I was enough just as I was. I prided myself in my instincts and my gut feelings which served me well.

I did not feel my mother was able or desired to accept me with love and acceptance unless I was the way she wanted me to be. The conflicts between my mothers rigid definition of what it meant to serve Jehovah and my feelings about God not in harmony with hers was like living in a war zone. I felt there was a constant strain in our communication and relationship.

I was not mature enough to reason how tumultuous and overwhelmed she no doubt felt. The weight of the responsibility of caring for three children. Her determination to ensure that none of her daughters would become pregnant without the benefit of marriage seemed to be her divine commission from the creator. She also took very seriously providing economically and spiritually for us as her children were only laborious but made me feel she was cruel.

I later came to understand my fathers determination to pursue his opportunities and personal goals irrespective of his children's, or wife's sense of security were contributing factors to her extreme determination, rigidity confirm to the teachings, trust and belief in her understanding of her God Jehovah, I resented her forcing what she felt was the right as the only way to be.

I knew that my father and she were about to separate, again. He was absent often. The atmosphere was heavy and ominous. My mother is always angry. My determination to defend and excuse my fathers behaviors or lack of did not help. I desperately wanted to go live with him. He made me feel valuable, optimistic and worthy. My mother believed I was receiving dreams from “Satan” which may have been another frustration for her. I knew that it was not from Satan because my dreams started when I was a little girl and I would pray to die when I was unable to breathe because of chronic asthma attacks. I just never talked about the dreams because I believed everyone had dreams about events before they happened.

I told my mother that I did not want to stay with her. I told her about my dream that I was going to live with my father. My mother informed me that no matter what, I would not be allowed to live with him. I was in the eighth grade about to graduate from grammar school. I did not want to live anymore with the constant reminder of my existence and resemblance to my father because of my complexion and smile. I felt hopeless, desperate, trapped, unable to live with her disapproval and what I perceived as her self righteousness and Hypocrisy.

I loved and feared her with the same intensity. I needed to feel loved and accepted by her. I decided I did not want to live if I had to stay with her. I went into the bathroom and took as many pills that were in the medicine cabinet as I could. I went to lie down. My stomach began to feel as if it were twisting. The bitter burning bile in my throat made me feel I would throw up, but it did not happen. What if my instinct were wrong, I thought? What if Moma loved me? Holding my stomach I got up and walked toward the kitchen where water was running and plates clanged as they touched each other in the dish rack. Momma, I said whimpering. I am afraid I took all the pills in the medicine cabinet because I want to die. I am scared, I continued.

Her response was not immediate; she did not move toward me like the times I told her I felt sick or was having an asthma attack or trouble breathing. She did not look at me. She continued to look at the sink. Why did you do that? She said, Why was she not moving?'' I didn’t want to stay with you. I want to go live with Daddy. If you don’t want to serve Jehovah she responded rhetorically; you may as well die.

I felt numb.What did my serving Jehovah have to do with living with Daddy or my life? My instincts were wrong. My stomach burning pain was making me nauseous, I decided to call the operation push office. I asked to speak to my father.

Terri, a nun and teacher at the local high school and civil rights activist informed me that Daddy was not there. I told her I needed to go to the hospital because I was sick. In bed, it felt like forever. I went back to the bathroom praying that I would throw up, or my mother would come to me. Maybe momma did not believe I took the pills; she often described me as overly emotional. I failed to give meaning to the single tear that fell from the left corner of her eye. I did not attribute to her feeling of hurt or failure as a parent a child willing to die rather than live with her. I felt as if all my instincts and beliefs were wrong.. Not only had I been terribly wrong, it was unbearably painful.

To the best of my memory. I was in Daddy's Cadillac. He kept saying stay awake. Why would you do such a Damn foolish thing? He said not expecting an answer. When you become an adult you can be whatever religion you want to be. In reflection, he must have had a conversation with my mother.

He took me to St. Bernard hospital. I remember the tube in my throat and the fluid, the sensation of choking gagging as the fluid flushing through my stomach and out into the basin next to me. I could overhear someone telling my father that I should stay overnight. He was saying Hell no. I could hear him telling the person that he was taking me out of the hospital and I would be with him only for the next 48 hours. Back in the Cadillac again I felt safe. It was all worth it. I was going to be with the one person that validated me and made me believe I was good enough just the way I was.

Daddy, I said thank you for letting me stay with you. He touched my stomach gently. He said, no your Daddy is not living in a situation that would be good for you to be in. But Daddy, Moma is never going to let me not be a Jehovah Witness or even stay home from the hall. Your mother loves you. She is doing what she thinks is best for you. I won’t take you away from her.

I was angry and was not at all looking forward to the humiliation of acknowledgement that momma was right. How could Daddy leave me when I needed him most?

I did not learn until later. Momma instincts were both correct and accurate. This woman is not of color. My father often spoke of the evils of people not of color. The nun in her black habit, gray translucent eyes, silver white hair peeking out from the white band framing her face was the woman Daddy chose over his children and beautiful mother of color to live the remainder of his life. My mother was right t the calls and hang ups day and late into the night were from her. That this woman the bride of Christ and civil rights activist was comfortable in not only being unfaithful to her vows, but destroying a family.

I blamed her, hated her and myself because my instincts had been wrong. Inappropriate as I felt it was, this woman would later share with me how she felt compelled to do anything she could to have the sexual satisfaction she experienced with my father. I blamed my mother for not being woman enough to keep my fathers affection.

This was my first F in the Universe of life classes about leaning on my own instinct.

The Universe of life class in hindsight had provided me with a few D’s in some courses, but I dismissed them as not my fault. What was wrong with the picture I had of myself and life