Work

I have worked somewhere since I was 13 years old.  Before and during high school, I worked at our school community's bookstore.  It was a job I loved: we girls would unload the new books and prepare them for the upcoming school year. Old books were treated in the opposite way - numbers removed and prepared for resale to the community.
After high school, I worked for a doctor who didn't work too far from my alma mater - IU, so it was easy to work around my classes and convenient to either drive or walk when necessary.
When I went to Germany, I had a wonderful job there teaching mini German classes to incoming American soldiers.  They were taught enough German to be able to go to a pub or restaurant and order, take public transportation, visit museums, etc.  I had always worked either part time or full time plus attending school full time despite the fact that I had a muscular illness.
Then I met and married my husband.  Soon, I was not being offered any more classes at the education center.  I later found out that this was at my husband's request.  He didn't want the soldiers looking at me.
After 13 years of working and going to school full time, I was left with nothing to do.  I then spend my time roaming the city where we lived, returning to the hobbies I previously enjoyed, like knitting and quilting, and learnining new crafting ideas. I did enjoy crafting, but I hated the idea that my husband considered me too weak to work; I didn't know that he had also told my boss that the men couldn't look at me.
After a few years, I became pregnamt with twins, followed two years later with a single. That kept me busy for a while, but I was still sewing and crafting, making clothes and toys for the kids.  One day, I decided to try a new business: making clothes and other things to sell through the mail.  When I presented my idea to my husband, he had a fit.  I was "too sick" to do that.  A few days later, I received a phone call from his mother; she told me how lucky I was that I didn't have to work. But I WANTED to work, and with my husband's work schedule, I couldn't work outside of the home.
So, I didn't begin my business.  I stayed at home, making things for the kids and for gifts for friends and family becoming more and more depressed.  He was gone approximately six months out of the year, so he couldn't be a dependable baby sitter if I worked, and my pay wouldn't cover a baby sitter for three small children, even then. The children became even more important to me than before.

Precious Memories

There's an old saying: "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most."  I understand.

My manner of coping with my abuser is to forget.  I say 'is' instead of 'was' because I still use this forgetting to protect myself today.  The horrible part about forgetting is that you can't pick and choose what memories are stored; the brain is not at all selctive.  So, now, it's like I was born again approximately 20 years ago, memories of even the happier times of my life forgotten.  I miss my life. I know there were happy times - sometimes, as glimpses occasionally break through. Like now, I am remember a little lamb on my grandfather's farm and the feel of the calf's curly hide, and gloved hands holding out a bat with outstretched wings to me, so that I could feel the velvety softness of its wing. And I remeber the story I told in my first blog of my ex-husband throwing my little dog's toy into the river or chasing me all over our three story house cursing me and throwing things because I had purchased something for our soon-to-be-born daughter with a credit card instead of not getting it.
It is so frustrating.  My mother will talk about people that we knew in the past.  She'll say, "You know "Soandso. You went to grade school with her." And I'll overreact because it terrifies me that I cannot remember.  The fear builds inside me.  Where is my past? Who was I?
I'm thankful for pictures because I have a tangible proof of my children. When I look at their photos though, it's often like I am looking at some other person's children. Very nice, I say, as I smile politely.
And I think of my biggerst faux paux.  My children have a pony, and it's boarded on a farm not too far from here.  The couple in charge of the barn is really nice, and I spoke many times with them over the years. It wasn't until just recently that I realized that the wife had gone to school with me: grade school, middle school, and high school; we had been close friends, played together, went home together, shared secrets.  And I didn't know her.  For years.
I would love to remember more of my childhood, my teen years, college life; but to remember those, I would have to remember the others, and that is just too great a price to pay.

may I introduce myself?

Hello,
I spent - no, survived - 10 years in a very abusive marriage.  Along the way, I have forgotten a lot of experiences, but I will write them as I remember them.  They may not take place in chronilogical order, but I will write these memories as I remember them, so they're accurate according to my viewpoint. I am hoping that if I write these memories down, that they will no longer haunt my nightmares or day dreams? no, daymares.
One memory that returns to me is one spring over thirty years ago. My husband and I were out enjoying the beauty of the German country side. I brought my little dog - a cross between a scotty and a silver poodle and named after one of my favorite composers.  We'd brought along one of his squeeky toys, as Ludi loved to chase them. My husband got a bright idea; he decided to throw Ludi's toy into the river. First of all, Ludi was a small dog, and secondly, the river was very swollen from the spring rains, and the current was very swift.  I watched in horror as my husband threw the little toy time and again into the racing river.  Time and again, Ludi would jump in the water and swim out to retrieve his toy. Fear still overcomes me as I write, and my head is pounding!  I'm breathing deeply. All entreaties to my husband to stop fell on deaf ears. I can't remember why he stopped; I concentrated only on my little dog bobbing in the swiftly flowing river.  Maybe the censure of a German citizen stopped him, and finally the ordeal was over, and my little dog was safe in my arms again. It was a terrifying day.