Katherine Mayfield - The Box of Daughter

The Box ofDaughter

Overcoming aLegacy

of EmotionalAbuse

A memoir by

Katherine Mayfield

Smashwords Edition LicenseNotes:

Published by Katherine Mayfield atSmashwords

This ebook is licensed for yourpersonal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or givenaway to other people. If you would like to share this book withanother person, please purchase an additional copy for eachrecipient. If youre reading this book and did not purchase it, orit was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respectingthe hard work of this author.

Copyright 2011 by Katherine Mayfield. Allrights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied,reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in anyform or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording orotherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Permission to use quote from Tears andTantrums granted by Dr. Aletha Solter of the Aware ParentingInstitute, Galena, CA.

Permission to use quote from Steering byStarlight granted by Martha Beck, www.marthabeck.com.

Authors Note: This is a book about theworkings of the psyche as much as it is about my relationship withmy parents. Each individual psyche has its own unique process ofrecording events and experiences, and I have written this story asbest I can from the memories stored within my neural network andphysical self. Some names and locations have been changed toprotect individual privacy.

The process of healing outlined in this bookis based on the work and writings of Alice Miller, particularly herbooks The Drama of the Gifted Child, For Your OwnGood, and The Body Never Lies.

To Tamar S. and Kathi D.:

Without your help, my deepest self

would still be locked inside the box.

And to all those who have been

emotionally abused:

It wasnt your fault, and you are goodenough.

When I was a little girl,

I wanted more than anything

To be a person.

But my parents wanted me

To be a daughter.

We put you in the box of daughter, theytold me,

Though not in so many words,

And having no choice,

Because I was a daughter,

I climbed into the box.

I didnt like it there, but it felt safe.

The box of daughter was small and dark,

There wasnt much air,

Or personhood,

And not very much life could get

Into or out of the box.

There wasnt enough room

For all the parts of me,

So I had to leave some of myself

Outside the box.

Then I forgot where it was.

(Or someone threw it away when I wasntlooking.)

My brother was the lucky one

He was in the box of son.

He got to do what he wanted

(Though sometimes he got punished for it,

But I guess that was the price of

Being in the box of son and doing what youwanted).

I dont know if hes still in the boxnow;

He lives in L.A.

Its been many years now

That Ive been in the box of daughter

Ive worked a lot on the box,

Making holes to see out,

And so that more light and life can comein,

Ive pushed and pushed at the walls for yearsand years,

Trying to make the box fit me better,

But its a very strong box.

Ive tried just stepping out of the boxsometimes,

And sometimes it works;

But Im afraid it will cause my parentspain

And they already seem to have

Too much to cope with.

How can I hurt people who

Are already hurting too much?

That would make me feel cruel.

And so I live on in the small, dark box ofdaughter.

I hope one day long before the end of mylife

Ill be set free from the box

Im so excited to find out one day

What life is like

Outside the box of daughter.

K. M. 1999

Contents

The September wind is chilly and damp. Itslices through my jacket, raising goosebumps on my stick-thin bodyas I stare at the tombstones marching silently in rows between thetrees and down the hill, like frozen soldiers with no battle leftto wage. My fathers ashes are freshly buried beside my mothers.The time has come for the final goodbye.

I dont have words for all I need to say. Myparents used up so much of me throughout my life that I dont knowwho I am. The part of me that thought I had to die so my parentscould live stands bewildered that I made it through. After sevenyears of caregiving, theres nothing left of me. I feel as if Ivefought a battle for my life.

I push my grief aside for a moment to say aprayer for my parents, that God may grant them peace in return fortheir lifelong gifts of service to others. Indescribable reliefwashes over me as I realize that after fifty years of living in thebox of daughter and struggling to escape the abuse, Im free atlast to find myself and live my life.

Ive been unraveling the tapestry of mychildhood for two decades now: combing through the warp and weft,the tightly knotted patterns of my familys dysfunction; examiningthe colors of the tattered threads and the roots of the design tofinally stumble on and understand the place from which Ive come.For twenty years, Ive struggled with every fiber of my being tofind out who I am beneath the tangle of ideas and beliefs and rulesand regulations I was taught.

And standing here, I realize that my journeyhas only just begun.

* * *

The first thing my mother taught me was thatwhining was the worst thing in the world, a crime nearly equal tomaking reference to private parts. She started my training early,when I was three or four years old.

In my memory, its a warm summer day.The air smells green, and makes my nose tingle. Weve gone to thepost office, the library, and the church, and now were shopping inthe grocery store. I like the grocery store with all the coloredpackages and people pushing their carts up and down the aisles,making choices that are different from my mothers. But Im gettingtired. My back hurts from sitting in the cart, and I want to liedown.

Can we go home now, Mommy? I long for bearand bed.

Shes holding two cereal boxes in her hands,looking back and forth from one to the other. She looks nice todayin her sleeveless green polyester top and brightly flowered skirt.Ill be done shortly, then well go home.

I raise the volume a little, hoping to gether attention and make her understand the enormity of my need.

But Im sleepy, Mommy. I want to liedown.

Her eyes start shifting this way and that,looking to see who might be noticing who has a whiny child. Herbroad shoulders hunch and her neck starts to disappear. Shecarefully places the boxes back on the shelf, and I notice peoplelooking at us. Their faces frown, their bodies seem tothreaten.

The bad feelings coming from my mother pokeat me like hot needles as she stands way up above me, her darkcurly hair looking almost black against the bright grocery storelights. She leans down too close to me, not looking at me, butlooking out at the public, where the importance is. She grabs myhand with her big, knobby one, and squeezes it until it hurts. Mybreath stops in my chest.

Your whine is showing, she says quietly inher threatening sing-song voice, as if its the most incrediblyshameful thing in the world to have ones whine showing. I neverwant to shame myself like that again, and I want her to stopsqueezing my hand, so I start turning into the Good LittleGirl.

Im sorry, Mommy, I plead. I wont whineanymore. I try to pull my hand back, but my mother wont letgo.

Thats a good little girl, she says.Remember, God is watching you. She gives my hand a little yankbefore letting it go, and then she stands up and pushes her glassesback up on her nose before going back to the cereal boxes.