These are some pictures of my father's back yard.

It's difficult to explain the emotions that go through me as I look at these pictures. Mostly I feel an immense amount of sadness. I am flooded with memories of what happened in that place -- of sitting high in a wooden chair set into the tree; of searching for easter eggs among the oddities; of mentally escaping through my bedroom window into the world outside as some abusive act took place.

I remember being in high school & college and creeping through the yard, the strange statues and plants standing a silent sentry, and quietly opening my sliding glass door to my bedroom, rather than having to go through my father's room and risking him waking up and demanding something I didn't want to give. I remember the hopelessness that filled my heart like a stone when I gently tugged and the door didn't budge -- when they started locking it from the inside in an effort to force me to enter through the house.

I can vividly see snapshots in my memory of that place : the way the mildew stained the walls in spite of regular cleaning, the smell of bleach and room deodorizers (we lived very close to the beach; my friends always said that my house smelled like a combination of an ice skating rink and new clothes. Both were entirely plausible, as I was an ice skater for several years, and was constantly given new things to wear. Only now have I realised that it was the smell of constant moisture; of wetness in the walls and in the foundation), the cat wallpaper that sat behind the 4 poster canopy bed I slept in.

I remember that every time I had a cold, I ran to the bathroom. I would close the door, lock it, bury my face in the towel and cough as quietly and unobtrusively as I could. The punishment for being sick was too much pain and too much torture. I would rather swallow whatever gunk dripped down the back of my throat or came up my lungs than be subject to the devices my father would invent to "heal" me.

I remember lying on my bed and wanting to write suicide notes, but terrified of putting the pen to paper. I remember the time my father came bursting into my room and said, "if you're thinking about running away, don't bother. We will always find you."

Yet in spite of those things, I think that I can see these garden pictures objectively.

I can look at his garden sculptures and appreciate them, to some extent. His creativity in organising things was always one of his unusual talents -- he could arrange the biggest collection of junk into something that could have been called art.

At the same time, it was junk. I know the things that lurk underneath those leaves and branches; I know the significance of this X in a circle, the church pew that sits threateningly (covered by plants) beneath it. I know the cowboy hat he hung from the wall, and the bizzare images he painted and then framed with hanging planters. I know the things he kept to enhance his work; the trash he turned into eyes or noses or decoration. I can see the barrel of the small cannon poking out from between the two plants in front of the pew, and know what it means to a mind like his.

I remember the rumbling, earth-shattering noise of the mulcher hidden deep in the back yard early on Saturday mornings, and the way the whole neighborhood rose up and revolted against his 5:30 am mulches. I remember being thankful that they intervened, and wishing they had investigated further (to those who wonder where there is physical dna-related evidence to my abuse, I tell you it went into the mulcher and fertilised our plants). I remember the dirt on his face and the branches stuck to his pants as he came, hot and stinky to the back door asking for a glass of water.

When I first saw the movie "Harriet the Spy," I had a difficult time with the wonderful garden they portrayed in it. It seemed so much like this garden of horrors that I grew up with, and I had an immediate negative reaction. Yet the more I let myself look at that movie garden, the more I realised how wonderful it was.

There weren't any threatening things or dangerous implements. The garden was not concocted out of the chaos of a schizophrenic mind (as my father's is) but rather out of fun and enjoyment and pleasure. The children blew bubbles, they played and drank fizzy drinks and had a good time.

Now, when I think of the movie of "Harriet the Spy," the garden scene is one of my favourites. I can see what my father was trying to do, and I can reconcile it with the image I have of him as abuser and as torturer, and I can say - "I am not imagining his insanity."

My father never had any kind of life or vivacious about him. He rarely laughed. His garden is a testament to that sadness and that internal confusion. You won't find any bubbles or joy here; only the strange and the sickly sweet smell of rot.

For most of my recalled existence, the people in my neighborhood have hated my father's yard/s. At one point, the front used to be grass, though my paternal grandfather always praised the virutes of rock gardens, and claimed an adamant desire for one until his death. I'm not sure why the grass disappeared, but it seemed as though suddenly the yard had completely fallen apart. Everything was a mess, and it only became more convoluted and more messy as the years passed and my father's mental illness grew worse. My father started growing a ridiculous assortment of plants, the very large palm started hosting gigantic numbers of pigeons and rats, and things turned chaotic.

He sectioned a large portion off for a garden, and for many years we enjoyed vine-ripened cherry tomatoes, strawberries, and other tasty things. One of my most pleasurable memories of childhood is plucking something out of the garden, rinsing it in the garden house and feeling it burst in a sensation of juicy taste as I put it in my mouth and bit. We had all variations of Quat trees, as well: Kumquat and Loquat; though I always preferred one over the other, I don't remember which was the favourite.

Eventually, he began growing herbs and assorted things, as well. He'd take me on a tour through it all: "taste this," "smell this," "touch this to your tongue." I'd despise those instructional wanderings, for they often resulted in an act of sexual abuse. At the same time, I'd love to have a hot soak in a bathtub filled with herbs and flowers, and the velvety softness of rabbit's ears plants were always guaranteed to bring me comfort.

My friends never knew quite what to think about it all. I've selectively blocked their intial reactions, probably because it was a source of shame to me, and blatant evidence that my father was "weird." The house was on a corner, and the entire length of the street to the alley was covered with a large wall of plants. They were easily 15 feet tall, and completely blocked the house from the view of the neighbors. This is part of why so much of my trauma went un-noticed -- the neighbors simply couldn't see what was going on. There was a small brick path up the side of the hill, covered in vines (very secret garden like, but full of rats and spiders and quite unkempt) and a gate at the end. This was convenient for sneaking in the back way, and a route that my friends often took when they came calling to my bedroom late at night. I loved the little gate and hidden pathway as a child, but at the same time it made me very uncomfortable. (The above picture shows part of the gate -- it's on the left hand side -- and the wall of plants beyond it)