I was left-handed and wrote letters mirror image
until my dad shamed me about that, then I turned them around, of course, to please him.
Letters seemed to be the first experience where Left or Right mattered.
I was given special scissors by my dad
scissors engineered so the blades pushed together
when used by a leftie, as right-handed scissors are designed.
I felt special, then chastised and different. Alone, lonely.
Verbal abuse over the hand, regularly. Disconnecting.
A bone growth started to cup over the back of my left hand’s palm, causing my hand to curl.
Wonder if my parents even noticed. I had learned not to tell. Not to direct attention at me.
For anything. Might precipitate violence. A lonely place to be.
No medical help. I didn’t want that hand to become useless.
I started beating that growth against hard surfaces. It went away.
I could still use that hand, write. Important things.
I did not want to fulfill the expectation that
“You’re only a girl, you won’t amount to anything.”
Just no.
Now, the right hand, it didn’t comply at all with what my mind was telling it to do,
in my late 20’s when I bought a piano for myself.
Not a keyboard that the now ex-husband wanted me to get instead.
It was MY money, money I had earned, and I bought a piano.
I had to quit drinking coffee to get my right hand to respond to signals from my brain.
My right hand cooperated and I learned! A solitary pursuit.
My kids loved the music, me practicing at night after bedtime for them. Soothing, consoling.
Now the ex- he threw music books at my head, saying, “Why don’t you learn some of THIS!”
I did not.
Glad that relationship is over. I’ve never been so lonely in relationship with someone.
I have so much connection in recovery, and almost entirely online and on the phone.
Such richness, such connection, support, being seen.
Lovely. Splendid solitude here. No more loneliness and isolation.
Lena L
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