Ivey's Journal

"Happy Holidays!"

You knew me in a past life. You remembered - and loved. Caught up in this life's amnesia, I remained oblivious, Confused by the unjustified devotion. You recognized me out of the masses. You remembered - and loved. Unable to see past social stumbling blocks, I pushed the stranger away; But, you wouldn't depart. Seeing the being that once cherished you, You eased into my existence. Foreshadows of familiarity trickled in. Discovering the lost soulmate, You became a part of my life, And I began to recall. You knew me in a past life. You remembered - and loved. Now, I remember - and love! Copyright ©2004 Vivian G. Harriman

The aftereffects were not pleasant, either. At night, there were throbbing headaches, neck pain, upper back and shoulder aches. The discomfort could sometimes be so extreme that sleep was nearly impossible, and I would silently weep in bed. I remember coming home from school on the day my dog was hit, after a day of devastation, after having been shaken several times for not being able to control my crying, believing that my parents had already been told of my “disruptive behavior”. Mrs. Townsend had guaranteed me, on several occasions, that she kept close contact with my folks and that they were informed of everything I did. So many times, I had been threatened with, “Do you want me to have to call your parents, again?” Mom and Dad would surely take the word of a teacher over the word of a child. That day, before stepping off the bus, my emotions shut down. My immature psyche was no longer able to handle the chronic overload of frustration, anguish, injustice and wrath. I...

I sit up in bed, my mind starts racing and the anger begins. Why wasn’t someone there for that little girl to help her deal with the trauma and horrible loss? Why couldn’t there have been a decent burial for my friend, instead of seeing his tiny body dragged by the tail with a smear of blood to the side of the road and thrown in the weeds? Why did that little girl have to get on the school bus that day? Why did she have to endure another day of physical and emotional abuse, at the hands of a teacher, at a time like that? I’ll never forget that bitter schoolmaster hag, Mrs. Townsend. It may have been due to my severely petite size or due to my lack of any basic education; but for some reason, that gray-haired elderly woman hated me. She had made me the focus of her contemptuous rage and had no intention of allowing me to learn anything. My folks were told that they had a problem child, that I was “slow” and that perhaps, they should place me with the retarded and mentally di...

I stand frozen in shock. There is an excruciating knot in my throat. The driver of the white Ford, a man of color in a plain T-shirt and work pants, opens the car door and steps out. Regretfully, he looks at me. “Little girl,” he questions, “is that your puppy?” My chin trembles uncontrollably. Tears trickle down my checks. My throat is so constricted that I’m unable to speak. I am only able to nod my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit him.” The man explains, “It was an accident.” Somehow, I manage to choke out in a trembling voice, “I know.” The vibrations of my sobbing pull me back into physical existence and out of the phantom world of nightmares. My eyes open; although, my breathing is still a bit erratic. Sweat covers my forehead, upper lip and the back of my neck. Reality and relief wash over me. “Thank God. It’s just another damned dream!” In psychological terms, it’s a flashback - a moment when part of my tortured past comes back to haunt me.

Childhood memories drift me back into the land of nod. Soon, I am looking through the bluish eyes of a five-year-old girl, whose ash blonde hair is so fine it swirls in the slightest draft. Glancing upward, there is an enormous old Victorian home in disrepair, at least three stories high. The paint is peeling and damn, it’s huge! Looking down, across the wide lace-trimmed collar of a plaid dress, books are cradled in my young arms and a rambunctious brown puppy is darting about my black shoes. It is “Raunchy”, my beloved friend and first encounter with unconditional love. My buddy is there, waiting just for me with his quivering tail and flagging tongue. He never seems to tire of my company. I harshly scold the tiny mutt for attempting to follow me to the bus stop; but Raunchy’s devotion compels him to pursue my presence by tracking me under cover of weeds and bushes. I walk down the dreaded gravel and dirt road up to the highway, where the noise and stench of a vast yellow bus w...

There is a peace that comes in the summer darkness. It is best felt when sitting outside, studying the vast heavens and allowing the mild breeze to gently stroke the face and hair. It is a quiet reprieve from the sultry days of the June-July solstice, when heat and sweat seem to have no limit. The torrid sun surrenders to the more temperate stars, creating a momentary repose from the unbearable warmth. The aftereffects of the day’s yard work had caught up with me. My skin felt taut and flushed with sunburn. The palms and fingers of my hands were stiff. It felt as though my shoulders had a bit of rust in them, and a rather dull ache radiated through the low back. It was time to call it a day and get ready for bed. The ice in my glass of lemonade chimed as I lumbered out of the lawn chair and headed into the house. A couple of ibuprofen, followed by a tranquil shower, eased the pain in my bones enough to allow me some shut-eye. The glow of a small bedside lamp guided my body to the mattr...