"Do you want a scratching ?" my friend held out a bag of salty and delicious looking pork rind. "No thanks" I replied without thinking, "I`m not allowed them, I`ve got fragile teeth" there was a pause while I was gazed at with surprise and then amusement which gave way with to uncontrollable laughter at my reply. I stood blushing and feeling silly until the moment was gone and we carried on with whatever else we were amusing ourselves with. They were not bullying me with their laughter, it was not done in a mean way but for me it underlined my inability to self edit before I spoke and save myself embarrassment.
Afterwards I pondered what I had replied quickly and with conviction, without a second thought. I wasn`t allowed scratching`s because I had fragile teeth. I ran my tongue over my teeth and tried to wobble them with my finger, they felt pretty secure. Were they fragile ?
I`d never been told they were, not by a dentist because I was never taken to one. Not until I get to my teens when my teeth showed signs of protruding and she took me once to get braces. It was two buses and a short walk, two buses and a short walk for me, not her. Needless to say she never took me again. At 13 I was instructed to catch the bus to town and then another to the dentist and when I panicked and pleaded I did not know where the 2nd bus stop was or where to get off and which way to walk to the surgery she grew quiet and her mean, calculating dark eyes darted about as she weighed up the cost of a taxi to enable me to go alone to the appointment against the inconvenience of having to take me herself. Taxi it was then.
So at that stage there was nothing to indicate my teeth were in anyway fragile, especially considering I was not encouraged to brush them regularly and often I had to resort to squeezing and squeezing the very last traces of toothpaste from a rolled up tube as it was rarely remembered to be repurchased as it was only me who used it, my parents both had dentures. She also had a habit of commenting that my teeth had always been cream, this absolved her of any responsibility as to why they were not sparkling white. Looking back I realise it was a classic move from my Mother. She hated scratching`s and anyone enjoying something which she disliked she viewed as an affront to herself and so if she was able to she either discouraged it or banned it completely. Or, as was the case here, made up some dramatic lie to ensure she was obeyed. So it was instilled in me my teeth were fragile to stop me eating scratching`s because she did not like them. Is it any wonder I have had such a fractured sense of self identity for so very long....
I clearly remember my mouthwatering as I watched my Father chobble his way through a bag whilst my Mother tutted and sighed. If she was not about I was allowed to sneak one but instructed to not let ya Mother find out.
I was fed other fantasies too. When she came upon me playing by myself and chattering to my dolls as part of a game or reading out loud, I was warned with great gravity...."Amanda, ya musn`t talk to yourself because it encourages spirits" she nodded her head once and looked at me menacingly as if sharing some dark secret that only grownups knew of. I remember my tummy going over with fear. And so with one bizarre lie she was successful in eliciting fear in me for talking to my dolls. Whenever I forgot and did I would suddenly remember her words and become still, listening and wondering if there was some ghost or demon present because I had spoken to it without meaning to. Now I recognise this as one of many examples where she silenced me because so often any tangible sight or sound of my existence seemed to grate on her. The quieter I was, the more invisible, the happier she was. She seemed to be pre programmed to erase any proof of my presence, perhaps to ensure the spotlight was only ever on her.
And then we have the Every seven years lie. As I grew and my body changed and I had aliments, went through puberty etc, rather than offer reassurance coupled with simple explanations designed to educate and not terrify she was always dramatic and theatrical. Things were spoke of in hushed tones as if everything was secretive, she told me odd facts but always implied there was more, much more but I was far too young to be told such things.
Naturally my imagination ran riot and therefore I terrified myself with all it conjured up...all these dark things that only older people knew of as I in turn would when I was old enough to deal whatever it was I was too young to know now. She often warned me "every seven years ya body changes" she never expanded on how or why, it was just said as a warning. Which led me to worry and count forward to how old I would be then and fret over what would happen. The only clue I had was anything I happened to overhear about bodies and sex and boys at school which naturally only served to confuse and scare me more. Should I ever comment or ask anything regarding something I had noticed about myself, as all young girls do, I was told mysteriously "well, every seven years ya body changes" and that shut down any further discussion and saved her the irritation of speaking to me about me, which she clearly was not interested in doing. When I mentioned my chronically dry skin I was told eating more butter would solve the problem.
My Father was old school and left all delicate matters to my Mother but I clearly remember this..... When my periods started I was told Go an tell ya Dad , she glowed with excitement over the announcement and dispatched me to find him and share the news as if I had won a prize at school or something like, except if I had won a prize it would of been minimised. I found him planting seeds in pots and I stood to attention in front of him and announced quietly "Mom says I`ve got to tell you that I`ve started my periods" he looked flustered for a second and then turned and told me gravely "Well you are a Woman now then" and he turned back to his potting. "Oh" I replied and sensing that was the end of the exchange turned and left, thinking to myself....am I ? Am I a woman ? I didn`t feel like a woman, apart from when I was doing all the housework. I looked down at my body for signs of my womanhood but saw only a child with slight hint of a bust about to show. I was 11 years old. On reflection I think my Mother sensed the usefulness of this tangible proof I was no longer a child, therefore no longer in need of nurturing and much attention not that I had ever had a lot and she began to use the line you`re not a little girl anymore when berating me for some misdemeanour or instructing me on how to tackle some new responsibility she was off loading on to me. In truth the only thing I clearly remember about my being a little girl was that it wasn`t really allowed.
When she gave me my medical card which showed what Dr I was registered with and had my NHS number on I was informed to NEVER EVER lose it because I wouldn`t be able to see a Dr if I needed to. She implied I could be left to die...literally ! And I believed her ! I was paranoid about loosing this card, why she didn`t keep it with hers I don`t know, perhaps she was secretly hoping I would lose it, oh what a telling off that would of been ! In my 20`s when I re-registered for a new Dr after yet another new place to live she barked at me "I ope ya`ve got ya card" No I replied with glee, I`ve lost it twice and just as she drew breath to launch a tirade I interrupted her and told her it was no big deal as I can just apply for another, it`s easy, lots of people lose them. Her mouth set into a mean line as she smarted silently from being over ruled. By this stage it was all about small wins !
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