An Excerpt from a Work in Progress by Ingrid Siss-Feliciano

 

I was brought into this world on my mother’s birthday.  

My mother’s name is Dale Bach.  Even though she is now happily married to her 5th husband, she keeps her first husband’s name because she likes the way it sounds.  From an early age I understood that my mother holds power.  Not only does her beauty give her access and privilege, but her lack of predictability and daring nature give her an edge.  

She is wild. 

      Wild in the way that makes your pace quicken and palms sweat.

   Wild in the way that I rarely appreciated until I was grown and

               her reckless abandon was deemed “cool” by my peers.  

Wild, in spirit and in dance. 

She is a wildflower of her own germination.

When my mother walks into a room, you notice.  People in her circles would say she has a strong aura.  She charges her crystals in the moonlight and speaks with spirits.  She heals with her hands.

As an adult she was diagnosed with severe ADHD and Oppositional Defiant Disorder.  This diagnosis has helped her heal from the traumas of an unkind world.  She is unapologetically Dale Bach, Reiki Master, medium and mother.  

As an adult, I admire her, but being raised by her was something different.

Being raised by my mother is akin to being raised in a haunted house.  As a child, you know nothing different…. until you realize that not everyone’s norm feels as unsafe as yours.  When my parents bought our home in the 80s, my parents knew that a child molester had been strangled with a telephone cord on the hardwood floor in front of the fireplace. Of course they didn’t tell my sister and I, as we were only 4 and 6 years old.  My mother was confident in her ability to release souls that are “stuck in the in-between”, those that are too afraid to “go to the light”.  

I don’t remember his face, but I do remember how he made me feel.  I also remember my sister talking about  “the old man sitting on her bed again”.  I remember knowing that he was an old man, and that he made me feel cold and scared. 

My mother tried everything.  

She invited her woo woo friends over to put the spirit in a piece of meat.  They threw it in the ocean.  That didn’t work.   They put eggs in every corner of the house, lit sage, and hired a shaman.   He made me a small black leather pouch that contained several small red bundles.  One bundle had my fingernail and toenail clippings, hair, spit, and blood.  Another bundle had 20 different plants from around the world.  The other had 20 tiny pieces of “animal” particles from around the world.  I never opened those tiny bundles up to confirm, but wearing the pouch made me feel safer.  I was blessed with a peace pipe, but I felt very little peace.

    

My point is, I didn’t realize until I started going to sleepovers at my friends’ houses in 4th grade, that the cold prickles that danced across my skin when I woke up to go to the bathroom, or the constant feeling of someone watching me was situational.  

My friends’ homes felt safe.  

Same sentiment can be applied to being raised by my mother.  We laugh about it now… but my mother had the potential to be quite terrifying.  She wasn’t cold-hearted, punishing or abusive.  Her life’s work was to heal, and she was committed to breaking the cycle of generational abuse and trauma.  I always knew she loved me, but I didn’t always feel safe with her.  

I’ll give you an example.  

Sometimes my sister and I could see a meltdown coming on.  Usually it was triggered by something unrelated to us; but as children, we made noise, added to the overstimulation and dysregulation and we unintentionally made it worse.  Her breathing would change and her body would stiffen.  She would start whispering under her breath, spit bubbles forming at her lips.  Rage.  The only thing I can compare it to now is how characters in horror movies look when they are being possessed by a demon.  Mom had given us a special code phrase, and since I was the eldest daughter it was mostly my duty to be the one to engage.  I would muster the courage to ask, “Mom, is there a chocolate cake in the refrigerator?”  

[Note:  we never had chocolate cake in the refrigerator because my mother struggled with self-control and we couldn’t have sweet things in the house.]  This question translates to, “Mom, are you about to go into a rageful fit, and do we have permission to safely remove ourselves from the area?”

Sometimes it would work.  A flash of recognition would flit across her eyes and she would say, “YES.  GO!” and we would run to our room and lock our door.  Waiting for the storm to pass.  Waiting for “Mommy Monster” as we dubbed her, to leave.  When it didn’t work, and she was in too deep… we didn’t ask for permission.  

We just ran. 

Driving with my mother was the worst.  There was no escape.  We were literally strapped down.  She was perpetually lost, and being lost was a trigger.  I was in charge of the Thomas Guide.  Flashbacks of frantic little fingers flying over squirming lines, p. 87, Block A, Down 2- find Wilshire!  I studied those maps because I hated adrenaline.  I wanted to feel safe.  I wanted to fix it. 

I couldn’t fix it.

One time as a teenager I brought a friend home after school.  As I unlocked the door, I knew we were walking into one of my mother’s episodes.  She was in her bedroom, but from the doorway we could hear the howling and an insistent thumping sound.  My friend looked at me wide-eyed, visibly frightened by the noise. I nonchalantly closed the door behind her.  “It’s fine.  It’s just my mom.  She is crazy.” I played it off with an eye-roll, and then ushered my friend into my room.  I knocked on my mother’s door.  

“Mom!  I’m here with a friend! Please be quiet!” I said through clenched teeth. I felt guilty in those moments, but also somewhat resentful.  Those episodes of hers sometimes resulted in her thighs dappled in dark purple and blues.  Despite the trauma of seeing my mother lose control, she never once laid a hand on me.  

All of her rage was directed at herself.