I’m revisiting significant memories from my past. My therapist wants me to think about the messages I’ve been subconsciously given about myself through the things I’ve experienced. I’m hoping to gain some understanding of how I ever reached the point where I became invisible. This is part of my backstory.
I lived with my maternal grandmother while I completed my Year 12 Trial HSC and HSC exams.
My mother organised with my grandmother for me to stay with her for the week prior to each exam period and the 2 – 3 weeks of the exams.
My grandmother set up a desk for me in the middle of her sewing room. I remember the bright light and the view of the backyard. I remember the reassuring calmness.
I remember mealtimes and snacks. My grandmother baked for me – rock cakes and biscuits and cakes and random treats. She made me corn relish dip which I ate with Jatz crackers while I studied. The creamy tangy taste of corn relish dip triggers memories of that study room even now, thirty years later. I remember dinner with my grandmother sitting at her kitchen bench. I remember her preparing the table for breakfast each night before she went to bed, placing a cloth over the plates and cutlery so that all we had to do the next morning was remove the cloth and prepare the food.
I remember the mantle clock that sat on the end of the bench against the wall, with its dark wood and fake marble columns (two on one side, one on the other, with the key to wind the clock sitting in the empty space left by the missing column). The clock had been an engagement or wedding gift to my grandparents from my grandfather’s mother. While he was alive, my grandfather wound the clock regularly and it ran perfectly. After he died, my grandmother wound the clock and it never kept proper time. She said it was because her mother-in-law had never liked her. We eventually found out it was because the clock had always been close to the stove top and a layer of grease and grit had built up inside that affected the mechanism, but the vengeful mother-in-law creating havoc from beyond the grave was always my favourite explanation.
I took breaks from my study each day. I spent time chatting with my grandmother over cups of tea. I went grocery shopping with her and sat with her watching TV. I helped her wash up and helped her bake.
I played my grandmother’s piano, the one she’d had since she was a young girl that her arthritic hands didn’t allow her to play any more. I played some of my own music and a selection of my grandmother’s music; a mix of classical pieces, show tunes, and family favourites from the 50s and 60s.
I wandered to the other end of the block where a boy from my grade lived and we’d watch a movie or chat for a while until it was time for me to wander back home for dinner. I remember him ringing me the day before our English HSC to ask if I had copies of the poems we were meant to be studying because he couldn’t find his and figured he probably should read them at least once before the test. I remember us quizzing each other on chemical reactions and mathematical formulae on the bus on the way to school for exams.
Those weeks with my grandmother remain strong in my memory – the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the bright light, the smell of freshly baked treats and the sunlight soap my grandmother used when she washed up. Conversations. The yellowed piano keys under my fingers and the rattle of the various ornaments on top of the piano when I played too enthusiastically. A sense of peace and belonging.
And here are the things I didn’t say…
My mother organised for me to stay with my grandmother because the school had flagged me as a student requiring support. I was a high achiever whose marks were in dropping and my maths teacher informed the school when she noticed I was struggling during my mid-year exam. The school counsellor talked with me about my studies and my home life, and made arrangements for me to have a placement with a family so I could focus on my studies without the emotional distractions present at home. I’m not sure what conversations the school had with my mother, but the ones I had with her about it were not pleasant. I was informed that the arrangements was unnecessary and would not be pursued or discussed. I was distraught. Arrangements were made for me to stay with my grandmother as a compromise. I can’t remember what role my father played in any of this. Our relationship was barely functional at that point. I wonder how much my mother shared with him about what the school told her.
I remember a conversation with the boy down the street one afternoon as I was getting organised to go back to my grandmother’s house. I don’t remember what comment he made, but I remember crying and lashing out to tell him how thoughtless he was. It was something about me going home to my parents and the thought made me panic. I’m not sure if I ever apologised. I hope I did. I enjoyed our conversations and he was part of the overall feeling of being in a safe space that I experienced during those weeks, although that was possibly just a reflection of how my grandmother made me feel, or perhaps that the feeling of safety she gave me made it possible for me to feel more relaxed with others too.
I don’t think I ever thanked the teacher who flagged me as needing support either. She was one of my favourite teachers and I loved being part of her class. I wish I’d been able to admit to her at the time how much her help meant to me, although a combination of teenage self-self-absorption and the chaos at home meant I wasn’t really thinking clearly enough to show gratitude. I do wish someone had pointed out to me that I turned 18 during my Trial HSC. I assume I could have made decisions about my care independent of my mother’s choices so that the teacher’s intervention could have been more meaningful. Sadly that didn’t happen.
I have my grandmother’s piano and her sheet music. They are triggers for wonderful memories of shared conversations and musical connections. They are possessions I treasure and when I play, I feel a sense of connection with her and all she meant to me.
I’ve realised recently that I’ve never really had a safe space. I have safe people. For the longest time, my grandmother was my only safe person. She was the bedrock of my life. Being near her made me feel connected and cared for. She treated me like I mattered, made me feel welcome and loved, and was a steady, calming presence. She’s been gone for 17 years and I still feel a dull ache of grief at times when I realise she isn’t there to talk to. I’ve missed her practical, calming presence acutely during the trauma of the past few years.
I don’t think I ever thanked my grandmother for what she gave me during those weeks, and throughout my life in general. I wish I could tell her now how much I love her and how my memories of her are amongst the best I have. Memories of moments shared with my grandmother throughout my childhood are warm, happy thoughts, and those weeks in particular remain a strong memory of love and connection and calm. Staying with my grandmother during those exams was like a respite from my life.
I love this. More! More!