Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn Read Online Free PDF

and
assessed. Each time we ventured out, I was expected to be silent
and to behave with impeccable decorum. I wanted approval, so no one
could ever find fault with me when it was necessary for me to
behave, and I would always hold the excitement of the outing within
me until I was once again safe in my home. There I would explode
into a tantrum as my only means of releasing my feelings, and fall
exhausted into sleep.
    Emotion affected me to the extreme and would
result in my becoming feverishly agitated. When I was happy, I
would be overcome by a happiness that always seemed to be far
happier than that which others felt, and hence unseemly. Then my
emotional reserves became entirely spent on this emotion and I
would violently snap, collapse into tears, and fling myself until I
was drained.
    Grief was always over-felt and even more
exhausting than happiness. I could feel it for days or weeks with
no decrease in intensity. The dismissal of a servant, the departure
of a favorite visitor, the death of a robin I had unsuccessfully
attempted to nurse, or—God forbid—the death of one of my little
dogs, each had the effect of leaving me prostrate and hysterical
while I mourned and missed them. I was inconsolable at such times,
and refused any pleasures.
    Impatience and exasperation with me prompted
whippings that sometimes had the effect of taking my mind off the
grief and placing it elsewhere. For this reason, my parents viewed
these as necessary and beneficial. Each time a tragedy struck, I
was called aside and whipped. I grew up expecting to be rightly
punished for misfortune.
    It is difficult for an adult to make the
distinction between will and emotional upset. It is even more
difficult for a child. The reason for my tantrums was of little
interest beyond the fact that they occurred and must stop. I should
have control over my behavior, yet I felt possessed by the Devil
himself when the hysteria overcame me. I cringed with shame and
remorse at the passing of each episode, and accepted the whippings
with a sense that I had failed.
    Always, I sensed the difference between
others and myself in the power of my emotions, and felt ashamed
that I was less calm than Mary, and less able than George to view
matters with level-headedness. It was so difficult for me. I was
too easily carried away and wished to hide this, for expression of
feelings always drew frowns or gasps, and was generally viewed as
something base and common, as well as inappropriate. I prayed often
that God might make me good.
    I never learned to feel less intensely. I
knew not how to change it. I never learned to control the hysteria
either, except by degree. However, knowing that one simply does not express emotion, I was able to repress my feelings in
public with such a force of will that I appeared cold. I could not
cry or shout or misbehave before outsiders; I had too much pride
and was too aware of my station and of the inevitable fury I would
incur to ever indulge in such antics. In public, I was a perfect
little girl. I was a credit to my parents. Inside, I was churning
with emotion, and was always on the verge of erupting.
    The little girl grew into a woman, and did
not change so very much.
    It should not be thought that I spent my
entire childhood in fits of hysteria or subsequent punishment. In
truth, the household considered me the “sunny” child and, though I
did not know this, it was I, not Mary, who was the favorite of the
nurses and the servants. I was gregarious and precocious. It was I
who was first to give hugs and kisses, and who grew wildly ecstatic
over the return of a nurse from her visit home, or at the birth of
a servant’s child. I knew the family histories and medical
complaints of all of them, brought treats to the babies, and kept
company with the old ones and sick ones as they lay abed, prattling
as ever to all who would listen. In return, they loved me as their
own, despite the scoldings I cost them when I blurted out some
truth