A Precious Gift

"You and I share a precious gift: the ability to see our own flaws, and so forgive others theirs." Marian Victoria Moulton, writing to her granddaughter (me).

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"You and I share a precious gift: the ability to see our own flaws, and so forgive others theirs."

Looking through my old journals today, these words caught my eye and my heart. They were written to 14-year-old me by my paternal grandmother. Gran Moulton: a lady with laughter like birdsong; a formidable matriarch; a lady who told me I should "never trust a woman with thin lips!" (I'm pretty sure she was dissing my Mum here - they did not get along and often 'warned' me about each other!)

As I read these words, I heard her musical voice repeating a piece of advice she used to give me regularly: "Everyone has a devil on their right shoulder and an angel on the left," she used to say, patting me firmly to imprint the message. "Listen to the voice from the left side, not the voice from the right." I don't recall ever having a conversation with her about just how loud that little devil was and how hard it was to hear its angelic counterpart above the din, but by the time this photo was taken, it had gotten so bad that I needed professional help to deal with it:

Seen here in my mid-twenties, I was not a happy camper. A lifetime of conflict and turmoil had led to risk-taking, self-harm, foster care and an early departure from the familial nest at 16 - straight into the arms of an abuser twice my age.

Burying the subsequent abuse I endured deep in denial led to a downhill spiral into an ever more difficult and existence. Dissociation was robbing me of my sense of reality. I was floundering, seeking answers, confused by and scared of my own destructive behaviour. Life was peppered with self-hatred and self-sabotage, leading to wildly fluctuating feelings and events over which I seemed to have little control.

In desperation I had finally reached out and was participating in therapy with a clinical psychologist - I told her that the only thing keeping me here was my music and the little family of rescue cats who depended on me. Plagued frequently by suicidal imagery, feelings and thoughts, I was exhausted. Battling onwards but on the verge of collapse, creativity and my animal companions keeping me going on the sputtering fumes of sheer willpower.

I have recently realised that my troubles were the direct results of what I believe would now be diagnosed as cPTSD and Disorganised Attachment Disorder. Discharged from psychotherapy after 3 years of drug-free, talk-based treatment, I continued to wrestle with these undiagnosed conditions. In the years between that and this, have successfully healed from many destructive patterns without professional assistance.

(For the record, I do not resonate with 'boxes', 'labelling' and diagnoses, but it helps to have a frame of reference when describing our human experiences, especially in relation to others. Using these descriptions - which match closely my past experiences and subsequent behavioural patterning - makes it easier for me to reach out to others who have lived through similar experiences, and also, frankly, makes it somewhat easier to process and make sense of them in my own heart and mind).

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When I visited her as a twenty-something, I remember vividly that my Gran saw the same thing in me then as she always did - the brash, defiant exterior and the underlying vulnerability, humility and honesty, all of which I know that she resonated with. She lit up when I entered the room, hugged me with love and warmth, and 'grandmothered' me like a professional. She had a way of making me feel valued and special but keeping me grounded and humble at the same time. I felt safe with her and I knew that she saw me for who I truly was, deep inside. I never felt pandered to, patronised or objectified. And her guidance felt loving, even when it was critical.

Any number of people might vigorously challenge her assertion that we were both well aware of our own flaws (and given to understanding those of others accordingly) but those people would be missing a comprehension of who she was or what she meant by those words. This was easily done if you focused on her outer demeanour and didn't take the time to connect with her inner intent - the kind, generous and loving soul beneath the tough-girl exterior.

Marian Moulton was a very opinionated lady, strong, with a tendency to bluntness, and extremely self-assured. She could also be arrogant and overbearing when it came to subjects she felt she knew better than the subject of her derision. During her lifetime she tried pretty much every religion in the spectrum in her search for a denomination that matched her own particular brand of spirituality and her personal interpretation of scripture. Many churches were left in a wake of roastings and fall-outs! A frequent guest speaker at various organisations and once interviewed on BBC Radio Manchester (I wish I had a recording!), she was an articulate and engaging speaker, intelligent, capable, but not always the most loveable of women.

My father tells me that he and my soft-hearted Grandad endured some harrowing experiences due to her more extreme behaviours and I don't doubt for a second that he's telling the truth. I can see it. I can feel it. I can relate to it. Some of the ways her troubled past expressed itself are alien to me, it's true, but there are also aspects of her story that I can identify with, and of course, just like every other human being raised by our troubled society, she had her reasons, as apparently inexcusable as their expression may on occasion have been.

Her 'Mother-in-Law from Hell' relationship with my mother remained uncomfortable to the end. After a seriously rocky start, Gran had come to begrudgingly and then more genuinely soften towards Mum, but this was never reciprocated. In later life, Gran even defended my Mum on occasion when I complained about her domineering, controlling and harsh ways of interacting with me. Perhaps she admired her tenacity in steadfastly standing up to her where so many others capitulated. Both were working-class girls who 'married above their station', and Gran initially tried to stop my parents dating, declaring my Mum 'not good enough' - the same exact pattern she herself had been subjected to when she met my Grandad. As far as I know, Mum was never able to forgive Gran for this early resounding rejection and, ironically, for her heavy-handed treatment of my Dad as a child and teenager. This does not surprise me - Mum was not given to forgiveness, as amply illustrated by the fact that she never once approached me or my Dad to make up or apologise after any of the frequent rows in our household.

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But to me, in the end, whatever anyone else felt or thought about her, Gran was always my Gran: a beacon of light, cheering me on, willing me to succeed, shining with joy every time we saw each other. She still is, in fact. She's right here in my heart, probably standing at my shoulder as I type these words. If the shoulder-angel job was up for grabs, I reckon she'd be first in line for the task, unless she had somebody needier to attend to. No matter her fondness for me as a child, it was always the less fortunate children she knitted endless toys for, and although that put a lot of noses out of joint, mine was never one of them. For all her 'faults', she had a lot of love to give, and that sparkle in her eyes, that laugh of hers, were a wonder. I always felt truly seen and heard by her. I that trust she felt the same about me.

After Gran died, I was given a little bundle of my letters to her which she'd saved (as I had hers). In the margins of one - she was a serial margin-note-writer! - she'd written' "I really worry about our Julie. She never seems to be able to STICK to anything." At the time, I must admit, I was a little hurt and saddened. Now I understand exactly what she meant, and she was absolutely right to be concerned. It's an issue I've been addressing for some time now, with some very encouraging successes. 16 years of devoted, dedicated mothering. A 14-year relationship. 10 years as an artist, relentlessly practising and developing my craft despite the lack of significant external recognition. And always my allegiance to my non-human companions. Like many of my challenges, it's a work in progress, but it's an area I've taken huge strides in since Gran scribbled those notes next to my handwriting. I think she'd be proud of me. I feel that she is.

Pain travels through families until someone is willing to HEAL it. Never truer words were said. I'm as far from perfect as I ever was, but as willing to admit it, too. So Here I Stand, with my "precious gift", wondering just how far it extends...

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I hope you've enjoyed this post. As an independent, self-financing creative, and radically unschooling Mama, your support, kind-ness, and appreciation of my always-original content are most welcome! Please feel free to comment, upvote, Resteem or otherwise share this post if you feel called to do so.

With love,

Jay x

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