In November of 2023 my mother was telling a story about me crawling under the table in restaurants as a child. And she said to everyone at the table, "Tanya was a bad kid!"
The next day I said to her, "You know that I was not a bad kid. All kids misbehave sometimes. That doesn't make them BAD KIDS." She responded, "YOU WERE A BAD KID!! Yes, you were! You've always been BAD!" And then she quickly got up and went outside to have a cigarette.
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I don't usually find it necessary to start out by stating my identity markers but for this essay I do think that they are useful, not only for myself but for the other people involved in the story.
I am: a cisgender woman - I am white - I am bi-sexual - I practice monogamy - I am a practicing buddhist - I grew up and spent most of my life below the poverty line; I am currently middle-class - I am a college graduate
"Parents with narcissistic tendencies often validate only one of their children. This typically results in a pattern of one child being the 'golden child' while the other is considered the 'black sheep'. Narcissistic mothers prioritize their own needs over their children's and crave admiration, often lacking empathy for their children, including and especially towards their daughters. They may use manipulation and control tactics, such as gaslighting and guilt-tripping, and struggle to respect boundaries, invading their children's privacy and autonomy."
"Narcissistic parents feel very threatened by black sheep because they are the only ones with enough strength and courage to expose them for who they are. The black sheep is very sensitive and aware of the truth about what’s going on behind the impression of the family that the narcissistic parent is trying to make."
"Most parents feel immense pain when their child is harmed. Subsequently, they also try to attune to their likes, dislikes, and personal needs. In fact, many parents often have a sense of guilt or shame when they fail to do so. However, this dynamic plays out differently in narcissistic relationships. Research shows that children of narcissistic parents tend to report that narcissistic mothers exhibit a lack of empathy and limited interest in their emotional needs. They also indicate feeling “invisible,” as if their mother couldn’t take the time or energy to truly see or understand them."
Something had happened in the news and I have no idea what it was. I was 19 years old and I was with my mother at the sports memorable store that she owned. It was just her and I. And she said, "I would disown you and never speak to you again if you married a black person or a woman!" I said, "Really, you would never want to see me again. But I'm your daughter." She replied, "It's disgusting. And I would have NOTHING to do with you!"
My mother is: a cisgender woman - white - heterosexual - practices monogamy - is a non-practicing catholic - she grew up and spent most of her life below the poverty line; she is currently middle-class - she dropped out of school in the 9th gradeI had been dating someone for about a month and had not told her about it. Prior to this conversation I was considering bringing him over to meet my parents.
He is: a cisgender man - white - heterosexual - practices monogamy - is a non-practicing christian - grew up wealthy and is still wealthy - attended college
But, I decided to see what would happen first. Because that's how I was. She made her love sound conditional, which it was (is). But that is just a theory until you actually test it. And as a 19 year old black sheep of the family, yes I wanted to test it. I wanted to know...
"Do you even love me?"
A common question that daughters of narcissistic mothers ask themselves.
So, the next day at her work right before I left I said, "I want you to know that I am dating a black woman and I would like to bring her over to the house to meet you and dad." She looked at me. The phone rang. She answered. I left.
About two hours later, after she had gotten off of work and went home my phone began to ring. This was in 1996 so I had a landline and an answering machine. The man that I was dating was there, Nicholas. So was my best friend and roommate, Mathew.
For over an hour she called my house and left these messages that bellowed out of the answering machine and echoed through our tiny apartment. We turned off the movie and we all three just sat there and listened. At first we laughed, but as she kept calling back every few seconds and leaving nastier and nastier messages we grew quiet.
"YOU DIRTY DISGUSTING FUCKING SLUT! YOU DESERVE TO DIE! YOU DESERVE TO BURN IN HELL! FUCKING DYKE! NIGGER LOVER! WHORE! SLUT! I'M ASHAMED THAT YOU CAME OUT OF ME! I HOPE YOU AND YOUR DISGUSTING NIGGER WHORE BITCH DIE OF AIDS! YOU ARE SICK!"
Honestly, I can't even remember it all now. I just did that thing that I had been doing with her my whole life, dissociating.
Mathew said, "Are you okay? This is wrong. You shouldn't have to listen to this. Let's turn it off!"
"No I'm not okay. And No do not turn it off." I responded. He picked up the phone and told her to STOP!
Nicholas, whom I had only known for a month, said "That is your mother? Really? Are you kidding? What's wrong with her? Is she always like this?"
As time wore on her messages became more slurred and hard to understand. She was drinking.
I picked up the phone in between her calls and called the house. My dad answered. "Make her stop!" He replied, "You know that I can't make her do anything."
The calls picked up again shortly after. I picked up the phone and said, "It's been 90 minutes. If you do not stop I am calling the police because this is harassment and I've had enough."
She kept calling. In some of the messages we could hear my dad in the background telling her to hang up.
I called the police. They came over. They listened to the messages (about 10 minutes worth). They said in dumbfounded tones, "That is your MOM!?!?"
They went to her house. They told her stop. The calls stopped.
An hour later my dad called me, "I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT YOU CALLED THE POLICE ON YOUR OWN MOTHER, THAT IS SO DISRESPECTFUL!"
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I realized where I was and smiled that I could recognize a building in downtown DC. That I could know where I was going without pulling out my phone and using my maps app. Continue forward, cross the street, take the sidewalk on the left through the park and I would be walking past the back side of the White House. Pretty cool that today's trek just happened to take me by the President's house. I wasn't far from the place where I would be able to see the White House through the fence when I began to hear him. Someone was screaming ALLAH into a megaphone. I knew that the day after tomorrow they would be having the Cease Fire March for Palestine right here, so my first thought was that someone was already protesting. People protest outside the White House every day. And I wasn't wrong, it was someone protesting. But the man that I saw did not have a megaphone, he was projecting his voice. He was yelling in arabic and he was making sure that if there was anyone inside the White House that they would be able to hear him. Their were other people there, some people openly watching him and others snapping quick selfies and leaving. This man was angry. This man was crying out to Allah. He was wearing a torn and dirty white t-shirt that had messages in arabic written all over it in sharpie. It was 40 degrees outside, at most. And he was not wearing a coat, just a thin t-shirt and jeans and he was dripping sweat. And he was not pausing. Screaming and yelling words that I could not understand but with an anger and passion so intense that I knew exactly what he was saying. He would throw his hands behind his back like he was being handcuffed and point them at the White House then he would shout and spit at the street. He made eye contact with me and I felt frightened. I moved past him a few steps to the other side. I wanted to watch him and hear him. But I did not want to stare and be obvious. I did not want to draw his gaze again. His anger and his eyes frightened me. This was a few days after the wailing woman in the metro station and I immediately wondered if this man had lost a son in Gaza. Why a son and a not a daughter, I do not know. But this man was not wailing and he was not crying and he did not look sad at all. But he was so loud. He was so angry. He was so full of hate and despair. He looked like he wanted to kill somebody. And he yelled. The only word that I understood was Allah, and he shook his hands at the sky. He put his hands behind his back again. And he spit again. There was a man standing next to me in a business suit and I could tell that he wasn't really looking at the White House either, he too was watching this man. Secret service? There were a lot of secret service officers in the area, obviously. Some were wearing uniforms, but most just had ear pieces in and were surveilling. They had that thing that makes them look like cops and not tourists. I continued to watch the man screaming and listening to his words and feeling his pain and feeling his anger. And just like with the woman in the metro I started to feel like my heart would burst if I kept listening to him. And then he made eye contact with me again, and he spit. So I left. I could hear him yelling for blocks and it still sounded to me more like a megaphone than just a human voice. I walked to the front of the White House and yes I could still hear him and I wondered if the President could hear him as well.
__________
I boarded the metro in downtown DC. I was taking the red line to Rockville. It was a Thursday at 5:30pm. The metro was crowded. Usually I like to find a seat that faces into the car so that no one is behind me. So that I can keep an eye on things. After riding the metro alone for the first time I had purchased mace to carry with me. I had been alone on the train with three twenty-something year old males and they were dirty and high. They were on something that had brought them up, way up! They were bouncing around and yelling, talking at one another, every other word being FUCK. The biggest guy, who was wearing a tank top in winter, had huge biceps and was covered in tats. Every few minutes he would do 10 push-ups then stand up raise his arms over his head and do a tough man growl. I did not like being alone in the car with them. They didn't even look at me, but it did not feel safe. So I had gotten the mace. Not that it would be of any real help in a situation where everyone was strung out, but it still felt like a good idea to have it.
On this particular day, Thursday, there was only one bench available and it was right in the middle. So the seat behind it was facing in the opposite direction. My head was only a few inches away from the man sitting in the seat behind me who was facing the opposite direction as me. A few people had chosen to stand. The man behind me had his head looking down so I assumed he was looking at his phone, like everyone else. We'd been moving for less than two minutes when the guy behind me yelled, "Get off me, You dumb Mother Fucker!!" Of course I jumped and immediately assumed that he was talking to me since I was the person sitting closest to him. I thought maybe my head had brushed his head or maybe it was the hood of my coat. I turned around and he looked exactly as before, head looking down into his lap. I looked around at everyone else, some had glanced up but then quickly started looking at their phones again. Two minutes passed and again he yelled angrily, "I said Get off me, you dumb Mother Fucker!!" I turned around quickly and the man was looking at the empty seat next to him, "Oh Shut the fuck up!" he yelled at the empty seat and then looked back at his lap. I turned so that my back was now leaned up against the window and I could see the man out of the corner of my eye as now he was to my left. And for the next 30 minutes, at approximately two minute intervals, he would yell angrily at the seat next to him sometimes swinging at his imaginary irritant. A few people would look up when he did it, but most everyone on the train just kept looking at their phones. There had to have been at least 40 of us in the car and maybe only five people would bother to look up. Only one person, a man my age, looked concerned. Other than me of course, I know that I looked concerned. I had my kindle out and had been planning on reading my book but I turned it off and put it away and patted the mace in my pocket. The man did nothing but yell and I got off at my stop which was before his. In retrospect I really do not know what was more bizarre, the man with mental illness yelling angrily and violently at the empty seat next to him. Or the train full of "normal" people who acted like they couldn't even hear him.
__________
This guy made me want to giggle. And this encounter happened later on in my journey, I'd had time to see things and adjust to daily bouts of oddity. He was wearing a gold shiny poofy jacket and poofy pants. I thought that he looked like he should be in a rap video. He was in his 20's with long dreads and he was laying in the seat in front of me. Stretched out and actually managing to look super comfy despite the fact that he had to have been at least 6'3 on this tiny metro bench. The seat I was in was facing into the train and no one was behind me, I'd gotten my "keep an eye on things" spot. At first I thought that he was going to sleep and that I was going to read. He looked like he wanted to sleep but then he started laughing. And he continued to laugh harder and louder until his laughs filled the train. Oddly, his laughter made people look at him. The other man's anger had not even seemed to register with the other passengers but this man's laughter seemed to really annoy everyone. I could see his laughing face perfectly and I could also see that his gaze was focused directly in front of his face. He was seeing something that no one else could. And I don't know why but unlike the angry man, whom I had assumed had schizophrenia, my assumption with this man was that he was on drugs. Most likely mushrooms. Something that would make him see visions and from somewhere deep inside this man's brain he was seeing something overwhelmingly beautiful. His laugh did not sound like someone who had heard a joke, it sounded like someone who had witnessed a miracle. Who had had their life saved and was now just reveling in being alive. He was so joyous. So happy. So loud. Why was the city and it's inhabitants so loud? I live in a small town in the mountains and no one yells. Even when people are angry they don't yell, they grumble. And when they laugh it is small and diluted. And when they want to get your attention they wave but they do not shout. I heard someone shout in DC every day, at least once a day, and usually more. And this man's laughter was so loud that it was bouncing off the walls of the train and for me I found it to be infectious. I could not stop smiling. Or watching him. And I felt like I could really watch him, because he was in his own space and completely unaware of me. And I was wasn't watching him out of meanness; I was watching him out of awe. And I was watching all the people glaring at him. When was they last time they had laughed? When was the last time I had really laughed? Laughed to the point of tears and ecstasy.
Buying time, losing pennies
You moved me, when known to be frozen
Voices rise above the hum
I heard you laughing from the basement
I saw the snow fall, but never tanned
Time turns into decaying leaves
Rise in the east, blink, then west
Watch it all tick tick tick by, losing
Travel upwards, reverse
It’s only creative defecation.
Best Friend: “It is so exciting that you are getting married, I am so happy for you! You deserve this happiness. I can see how different you are. You are literally glowing!! I don't think I've ever seen you like this.”
Daughter: “I know... I never thought that I would find love again. And he is such a wonderful man and so kind. I am so happy! And his daughters are such amazing little girls. I can’t wait for you to meet them.”
Mother: “So, when you go to his parents house do they refer to you as HOMEWRECKER? hahaha”
Best Friend: *turns ghostly white and makes direct eye contact with daughter before sadly looking away at menu*
*momentary awkward silence*
Daughter: “Excuse me, I have to go to the restroom.”
Mother: “Make it quick, I’m hungry and want to order!”
Records the
Passing of time
Like a record
Playing slowly
The lines and grooves
Remind the mind
Of a time no longer
When youth & beauty
And love & passion
Reigned in the
Kingdom of life
Like rain flowing
Down I remember
Me, with tears
Streaming down
I mourn the loss
Of who I was
And become the
Woman I was
Meant to be,
Aged & withered &
Losing body parts, teeth
Falling like pebbles in
The sand to lead me
Home.
“The fear of abandonment forced me to comply as a child, but I’m not forced to comply anymore. The key people in my life did reject me for telling the truth about my abuse, but I’m not alone. Even if the consequence for telling the truth is rejection from everyone I know, that’s not the same death threat that it was when I was a child. I’m a self-sufficient adult and abandonment no longer means the end of my life.”
~Christina Enevoldsen~
I rarely dream about my Dad. If I do dream of him he is sad and sitting in his chair; I can see his eyes. They are my eyes.
My father had two sisters and one brother. They were all born one year apart and they were very-very close. One soul divided into four bodies. Carrie was the oldest, followed by John, then my dad, and then Kristie. Kristie lived with us when I was young and I had a strong deep love for her. She loved me and made me laugh and showed me kindness every day. All four of them followed the same path of drugs and alcohol. Kristie was the first to die at the age of 41. She had gotten AIDS from heroine use and suffered a serious decline in health for years. Her boyfriend, Joe, also had AIDS and they decided they didn’t want to suffer anymore. They wanted to go out with a bang and took off for New York for one last big high and to deliberately overdose on heroine. It worked for my aunt but Joe woke up the next morning. I was 17 when she died and she was my first real death experience. The first deep cut on my already wrecked heart. My parents didn't talk to me about it, at all. They didn't allow me to go to the funeral even though all of my cousins were there. I just mourned alone. If I mourned at all, honestly I think I was far too confused. It took me four years to cry over her death and when I did it was monumental. I was on the floor of the garage for hours just heaving with tears. I loved Kristie so much and had been so close to her and now she was gone. Six months prior to her death I had driven to Boise where she lived to see my best friend. I had wanted to stop in and say Hi to my Aunt but I failed to plan enough time and didn't see her. Thirty years later and that regret still weighs heavily on me.
John was the next to die. He went out for a big birthday celebration to ring in being 50 years old. Then he came back to the home that he shared with his mother - laid down in bed - threw up in his mouth - and choked to death on it. My grandma had just checked on him 30 minutes prior to finding him dead. She later said that she had had a really bad feeling. My grandma screamed while she performed CPR until the ambulance showed up. I wasn’t there but I can see it in my mind nonetheless. It haunts me. I stayed in that house after he died while my Grandma was in the hospital. Her dog would wake me up by literally screaming in the middle of the night and I could see a green light floating down the hallway by his bedroom. My parents didn't talk to me about his death either. They told me that there was not going to be a funeral even though there was. My Uncle had lived with us when I was little; it was before Kristie did. I was between the ages of three and five. He used to put me on his back and give me rides around the house; whooting and hollering. I called him Uncle Horsie.
A few months after John’s death, Carrie died. My 18 year old cousin came home from college for the weekend to visit her mom and found her dead from an overdose on the floor; and she had been dead for days. She had suffered from breast cancer for many years but at her most recent doctor's appointment the prognosis had been very hopeful. They said that she would live to see her daughter graduate from college. She was only 52 years old. I don't have a lot of memories of her from when I was a child. I feel like I "met" her when I was 15. We were in Boise visiting John and she had moved there and was working as a nurse. She came over to visit and she looked so much like my aunt Kristie. I just kept moving myself closer and closer to her. Finally she patted the couch right next to her and I moved in for the cuddle. I placed my head on her lap and she played with my hair. Then, quite suddenly, she gave me a wet-willy. I laughed so hard. We stayed close after that and wrote penpal letters to each other. I still have several of them. Again I was told that there was not going to be a funeral, I don't know if there was. My cousin disappeared after that. No one took care of her or was there for her. I wish that I had been.
Shortly after her death both of my grandparents, who had been divorced since my Dad’s childhood, suffered breakdowns. Technically you could say that they both died from dementia but I know that they died from broken hearts that broke their minds. Some losses are too big. Some hurts tear the fabric of your soul into pieces. Some things you just cannot recover from. My Dad, being only in his 50’s, didn’t physically die like his parents did but I believe he lost his will to live. And the drugs that he had continued to use most of his life, in moderation, became his world. His doctor is his drug dealer: oxycodone, methadone, morphine, prozac, valium, neurontin, should I continue? But I can’t pretend that he only takes what his doctor gives him. And if given the chance he still uses needles to inject his pain meds, I know this because he told me once years ago; in 2015 he took a “fishing” trip to Arizona, that he had dreamt of going on for years, funny thing is that he was gone for a month but didn’t actually go fishing. He did go to Mexico and get meds and needles and shoot up in a hotel room. He has a "cute" story he likes to tell about a pimp that he gave some money to, but he didn’t have sex with the prostitute because he has a big heart and just wanted her to have some money. Which of course is a totally believable story? He spent his nights in cheap casinos. I’m not sure he would have ever come home but really you have no choice when you get busted with a trunk full of narcotics.
Freudian Slip: "Tell me About your Mother? -- Oops, I meant Tell me What's the Matter?"
“I yearn to know the people I love deeply and intimately—without context, without boxes—and I yearn for them to know me that way, too.”
~Jennette McCurdy~
I dreamt that my mother took a flight all by herself and that she was so scared when she left but that after she had taken a few more flights she was no longer afraid; so she came out in her running clothes so that she could go for her first jog.
My mother was raised by an alcoholic father and a fierce mother. My mother doesn’t talk to me about her childhood and she never really has. She is fiercely loyal to her parents and five siblings. One story I have heard though from my mother about her family is that she smarted off to her dad one night at dinner when he was drunk because she didn’t want to sit on his lap and give him a kiss; because the only time she was ever told I Love You was when he was drunk. But this time she refused him at dinner and he chased her around the table and around the house with a cast iron frying pan to hit her with. She was still in middle school when she met my Uncle Joe and my dad. She was fifteen years old. I list my Uncle Joe’s name first because she originally had a date with him, he was 23 years old. But he stood her up. So then my dad, at the age of 22, started showing up at the burger place that she worked at and asked her out. My Dad and Joe also spent time at the playground checking out girls and had seen my mother there. Of course she said yes to a date with my Dad. They lied to her parents and told them that he was 18 but one day my dad was talking about his little sister and my grandma asked him how old she was and he said 21. Caught. But at that point no one cared. He was already living in the basement. When my mother was 16 years old they loaded up the car and drove from Astoria Oregon to Reno Nevada. In Oregon, even with your parents permission, you could not legally get married at the age of 16 so they had drive 12 hours to Nevada, a state that prostitution was legal in, to get married. My dad jokes that my grandparents only did it so that they would have one less mouth to feed. I’ve never thought that was funny. They came home and one year later they had me. I was born three days before there one year wedding anniversary. In my opinion my birthday is the only proof that it was not a shotgun wedding. Just a 16 year old girl, who had dropped out of school in the 9th grade, to marry a 23 year old divorcee’. All of this with the blessing of her parents. We lived in Astoria until I was three years old. We lived in what we called “the white house”. A big house that was divided into rental apartments. My dad worked at the fisheries and from the stories he told about reading The Exorcist in the middle of the night and getting scared to death my assumption is that he worked the graveyard shift. Which left me and my mom home alone all night by ourselves. During the day she babysat for money and watched me. I wonder how hard that adjustment was for her. Going from a big house full of people, two parents, three brothers and two sisters to living in a little apartment with just a husband who was gone nights and a baby to take care of. No school during the day and burger shop in the evening. She talks about her friend coming over at night. I imagine them putting me to bed early so that they can get stoned and drink. My mother has told me that she always let me cry myself to sleep. She did not breast feed me. I imagine that I was a terrifying little thing to her. Crying all the time, hungry all the time, and needing her all the time. She was a child with a baby. Even my birth was traumatic for her and most likely for me as well. They didn’t allow anyone in the room with her, not even her mother. It was just her alone in the room with a doctor and a nurse. She said they even strapped her arms down to the table so that she wouldn’t flail. How painful that must have been for her. I have few memories of living in Astoria. I had an imaginary friend named Liz that lived in the garbage can. I remember my dad would walk me down the street to get candies. And once I saw a picture of myself from that house. My mom had taken it from outside the house. I was looking out after them through the dog door and my face was hot red from all of the tears that I had been crying. I can hear my mom laughing. Because she thought it was funny that I thought I was being left behind.
My mother is one of six children.
My mother’s oldest sibling is Gary. He married young and I believe his wife was only 13 when they married. They had two children. I don’t really remember my Uncle at all during my before my teenage years, he had moved to Oklahoma with his family then divorced. He became, or already was, one of the most grandiose over-the-top extreme alcoholics that I have ever known. I remember him when I was a teenager coming "home" to Bend. He was handsome and fun. He left again and did not come back until I was in my late 20’s. All of the siblings and parents chipped in money to get him home. But they failed to realize that Bend was not his home. Oklahoma was his home and once he got to Bend he became trapped both physically and mentally. He was a real old fashioned alcoholic and had Grand Mal Seizures when he tried to quit. I was told that my other Uncle, Brian, had to perform CPR on him once after a seizure and that when the ambulance arrived they had to paddle his chest to resuscitate him. I believe my Uncle Gary was only in his 50's when this happened. Gary slept in a trailer on Brian's property and the trailer inside and out looked like it should have been in a scary movie. Gary told me that he slept with a full bottle of whiskey by the bed so that he could take a drink every time he woke up and that by morning the bottle would be gone. Everyone begged him to quit drinking but he had no desire. He said to me once, "why would I want to live if I quit drinking and smoking?" He had so many DUIs and he spent so much time in jail. Multiple times when he was in the jail he would go into delirium tremors and wind up in the hospital before he was sent back to the jail. He had a girlfriend for a few years and they would get drunk and beat each other. He went to jail once for that but my mom and the rest of the family blamed the girlfriend since she always hit him first. I remember her and she could not have weighed more than 100 pounds. In my Uncle's late 50’s everything just continued to spiral downward as I believe that he started doing meth with his friends. He was diagnosed with throat and liver cancer. They would not put him on the transplant list unless he stopped smoking and drinking otherwise the transplant would be for nothing. He told me he just couldn’t give up the only things that made him happy. So he never stopped smoking or drinking. He didn’t want to live without those vices. He was only 57 when he died. He had been living in a nursing home and had been on hospice for a few years. I had driven home to see him multiple times after being told that he would not make it through the night. The time he did die was the first time that I had decided not to drive home. I didn’t believe he would die and I also felt as though I had already said good-bye. I wish I had said it one more time. My happiest memory of my Uncle Gary was when we were at a country bar that my Uncle Brian owned. I was sad as I had just broken up with a boyfriend. Gary bought me a drink and then took me out on the dance floor. I had no idea how to country dance but my Uncle was such a great dancer that he just spun me around the dance floor until we literally fell down laughing.
Next born was David. I will start this story by saying that I have been told that all three of the boys were sexually assaulted as children by the family barber and that seems relevant. David was in my life when I was young, my memory says ages five to ten. I have very few memories of him from this time; except one. David was married to Mary and Mary had a daughter from a previous marriage named Brea. Brea was one grade ahead of me in school. David and Mary also had a son together named Davey. Davey was seven years younger than me. When I was about seven or eight years old my parents left me with David and Mary. Brea and I were playing outside with a ball. The cute neighbor boy came out and started talking to us. Brea started pushing me around and making fun of me and laughing at me. I was embarrassed. So I kicked her in the knee to impress the boy. Brea ran into the house crying. And a few seconds later David came flying out of the house and wrapped both hands around my throat and picked me up off the ground and choked me. He carried me into the house this way and when he got inside he threw me against the wall in a bedroom and slammed the door shut. I could hear Mary crying outside the door but no one ever came in to check on me. I don’t know if I slept or if I passed out. My parents came and I think that they were upset. They never talked to me about what had happened. My only memory of Brea after that is being in Grandma's garage and I have no idea what I said but Brea slapped me across the face and told me that she was told just to slap me if I got sassy with her from now on. Within about a year David and Mary were divorced and I didn’t see any of them again for many-many years. My next memory of David is in my teenage years, my brother must have been about seven years old. Davey would come and stay with us during the summers. He wasn’t allowed to stay with David but David would come over to visit him and have dinners with us or to take the boys fishing. I later found out that the years David had been gone were because he was in prison for molesting Brea and her friend. He was drunk when he did it and refused to take responsibility for his actions and instead blamed the alcohol. I was told he served a longer prison sentence because he wouldn't take responsibility for his actions. Either way the damage was done. Brea has been a drug addict for most of her life. Unfortunately the turn of events did not fair well for my sweet cousin Davey either. He was an alcoholic throughout his 20’s and until the end of his life a few years ago. There had been talk of getting him help but he had a daughter and a girlfriend and appeared to be living a calmer life but at the age of 35 he died of alcohol poisoning after a night of heavy drinking with his girlfriend. I called David to tell him how sorry I was. I had thought that I would never speak with him again as I have moved away from Bend and no longer go home. Despite the abuse that I suffered at David's hands; I felt compelled to reach out. Davey was like a younger brother to me. He spent so many summers at our home. In Davey's memorial notice they mentioned my Mom, Dad, and Brother's home as being like a second home for him; they left me out. It hurt deeply. My only other stand out memories of David are both when I was about 14 years old. I had rented a movie and came home to watch it, I cannot remember the name but it was about the abduction of Patti Hearst and it had a really over the top nasty rape scene. It was late afternoon and I was watching it by myself in the living room but David had stopped by and came out to sit and watch the movie with me. We made eye contact during the scene and I felt nauseous. The other memory was a BBQ that summer and I have no idea what I had smarted off to David about but he literally stood up and came after me and I had to get up and run away from him. Right then my Dad was walking out of the house and I stood behind him while David acted like he was going to reach around him and grab me, but my Dad said “I don’t think so” and stepped right in the way. Other than them making angry faces that was the end of it. One more memory is when I was 13 and the Desert Storm War had just started. I had just gotten suspended for starting a sit-in against the war at my school and David and my Aunt Pam were over at the house that night. The two of them and my mom were picking on me and making fun of me at the dinner table for being “anti-american”. It was really hurting my feelings and I went to my room. They followed me and stood in my room blowing cigarette smoke at me and singing Proud to be an American while I sat on the floor and cried. My Dad later told me that he had felt terrible for me but of course he had just stayed at the dinner table and did nothing to stop them.
Brian is the youngest brother and I have nothing but good memories of him. He was kind and funny and always had something nice to say. He smiled more than he talked. He has been married six times. Him and his first wife Lucy had my cousin Carrie, Carrie and I never got along. She strongly disliked me. Her mom remarried someone with money so she always felt and acted as though she were better than me. In high school we went to different schools but attended a dance together once. I dirty danced with my boyfriend and she had sex with hers behind the tables. But she told my mother how nasty I was at the dance which of course prompted my mother to tell me what I slut I was and that she knew people and knew everything I did. Next Brian married Carrie. Carrie was much younger than him and I really liked her. We all went cross country skiing together. Next was Jane. Jane and Brian moved to Hollywood together to break into the acting and country music business. That didn’t work out for them but I enjoyed hearing them sing. Next was Daisy, who as it turned out was the mother of my 6th grade boyfriend. He hated her because he had to live with his grandparents because she was an alcoholic and had lost custody of him. Later, after they were divorced, her and I worked at a market together and became friends. After Daisy was Kris, who happened to be best friends with Daisy. Kris and Brian adopted their friends daughter’s baby. The friends daughter was a teenager and a drunk when she had the baby. Kris and Brian were actually together for many years and raised my cousin Lucy together. But around the time Lucy was in middle school Brian left Kris for her best friend Destiny. Then the all of them lived on the same property for many years because they couldn’t afford not to. Brian and Destiny are still together. I heard that they almost divorced once. I think he loves falling in love.
My mother also has two sisters, Chloe and Pam. I really don't have much to say about them. My Aunt Chloe has a daughter who is my age that has cerebral palsy. I love my cousin very much and miss her. When I was young I always swore that she would come and live with me so that I could take care of her. Chloe moved away to California and did not come home often. She had a good life for herself in California. She was becoming a nurse when she found out that she had breast cancer. Her husband was an alcoholic and cheated on her while she getting her cancer treatments so she moved back to Bend. I think that it is the worst decision that she ever made. She doesn't like it there and she became stuck, like Gary. I've tried to feel close to her but I just don't think she was ever interested in having a relationship with me.
I was very close to Pam though. She was the youngest and felt more like an older sister to me. I would spend weekends at her house and we would stay up all night playing backgammon. I remember that she would cruise us around in her car with the windows down and Fleetwood Mac blaring, her cute little puppy, Foxy, sitting on my lap. I felt so cool when I was with her. I stayed with her after the birth of her children to help out. I loved that. They were like siblings to me. I also stayed with her for several weeks when I was a teenager. She made me do a lot of laundry but I liked living in her house. It wasn't quiet but it was a reprieve from living with my mom. Pam slapped me across the face once when I was seven years old, I had said "oh my god" and she said that was taking the lord's name in vain. My parents didn't care when I said it. I don't know how hard she slapped me, I think it hurt my feelings more than my face. I always thought her and I would stay close but we didn't. When my grandfather was dying she brought up the slap. It was out of the blue. She said that she just wanted me to know that she never slapped me and that I was liar. I didn't agree or argue with her, what the point? She also screams and yells a lot. And she spanked her kids way too much. Her oldest has gone No Contact with her. And she is the aunt online who posts all of the inappropriate political stuff. I was on facebook for about six months and quit because of her, it seemed easier to just delete my account than unfriend her. I only hear from her now on my birthday.
“Her description was typical of survivors of chronic childhood abuse. Almost always, they deny or minimize the abusive memories. They have to: it's too painful to believe that their parents would do such a thing. But while the knowledge, body sensations, and feelings are shattered, they are not forgotten. They intrude in unexpected ways: through panic attacks and insomnia, through dreams and artwork, through seemingly inexplicable compulsions, and through the shadowy dread of the abusive parent. They live just outside of consciousness like noisy neighbors who bang on the pipes and occasionally show up at the door.”
~David L. Calof~
My aunt took me to school the next morning, even though I hadn't slept after the car chase, I'm guessing that my mom told her that I had to go to school. I just wanted to stay at her house though. I felt rattled. And tired.
My first class of the day was physical education. And I had that class with my best friend Memory, and yes, that may sound like an ironic made up name but that was actually her name. We had met in kindergarten.
As I was undressing and telling her what had happened the night before she saw my legs.
"WHAT IS THAT?" she shouted at me.
I looked behind me towards the lockers and asked "What?"
"THE BACK OF YOUR LEGS!!"
I looked at the back of my legs, there were reddish-purple welts from where my mom had hit me with the belt. So I told her the part of the night that I had left out, the part of the night where my mother had hit me with a belt. I had been focusing on the car chase, and the fact that I was staying at my aunt's house, and that I was afraid that I would be grounded for the rest of my life.
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After lunch I was called into the counselor's office. She asked me what had happened the night before. I told her the same thing that I had told Memory and, once again, I left out the part about the belt. She asked if she could see me legs. I showed her. And told her. She said that she would have to call the police. That she was a mandated reporter. I begged her not to. I cried; and I NEVER cried at school. She said that she had no choice and that it was the "right" thing to do. She did not counsel me or ask me any more questions. I do not think that she even asked if I was alright. She just sent me back to class.
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My aunt picked me up after school. That had been the plan. But my grandmother was with her, and that had not been the plan. They were both red-faced and smoking. "What did YOU do?" That was the first question that they asked.
"I don't know." Because honestly, at that point, I didn't know what I had done. But I knew that I had definitely done something wrong. I had ALWAYS done something wrong.
"Your mother was called by the police and is down at the police station right now. We are going to meet her there."
I don't remember anything else about the car ride to the police station - I just remember my heart pounding in my ears.
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When we got to the police station I was taken into a room, by myself. My aunt and grandma waited in the lobby. (Is it called a "lobby" in a police station?)
An officer came in and asked me what had happened the night before. I told him. He asked me about the belt and I told him. I also told him I absolutely DID NOT want my mom to get into trouble. That I didn't ask for this. That I had begged the counselor not to call the police. I think that I cried again. He did not ask to see my legs. He just left.
A minute later another officer walked in. And these words I will always remember... 100%. I will never forget the way that he looked at me and how small I felt sitting in that chair.
"I've spoken with your mother and I know what really happened last night. You CANNOT lie about your mom. You know that she could get into serious trouble for the things that you said."
"What?"
"Look, you've got a really great mom in there who is really scared right now and you have to stop sneaking out and lying about her just to get her into trouble. UNDERSTOOD!!"
"I didn't lie."
And he walked out and said follow me. My mom, aunt, and grandma were all standing there and glaring at me. Triplets.
We all walked out together and my mother said nothing. She went and got into her car and I went with my aunt and my grandmother. The had all lit cigarettes before we had even gotten to the car. My aunt started the engine. My grandma turned around and looked at me. I had never seen her look this way before. She was my angel.
She pointed at me, with her cigarette wagging between her fingers...
"Tell them that you lied!"
"But I didn't lie."
"I DON'T CARE! My daughter is more important to me than you are so just tell them that you lied."
And she turned around.
I felt my heart shatter. An unkind word from a kind person stings far more than an unkind word from an unkind person. And it was the only time in my entire life that my grandmother ever said an unkind word to me and, to this day, it still is.
"The bodies of child-abuse victims are tense and defensive until they find a way to relax and feel safe. In order to change, people need to become aware of their sensations and the way that their bodies interact with the world around them. Physical self-awareness is the first step in releasing the tyranny of the past."
~Bessel van den Kolk~
I snuck out of my bedroom window. I was going to meet my boyfriend and we were going to make-out. Just make-out. We did that a lot. He was really very sweet. I waited for him. He didn't show up. That was weird. He always showed up. I was walking along the front of my parents house back to my room wondering if I should call him, it was after midnight. I had been waiting for an hour. I got to my bedroom window. I had left the screen off and was about to slide the window open when the phone started ringing. I jumped and stared inside my bedroom. Oh God, it was going to wake my parents up.
It did. My bedroom door opened and the light turned on. I watched my mom stomp to the bed, pull the covers back and then stomp back out. I broke into a sprint.
I ran as hard as I could down the street until I got to the stop sign. Then the voice in my head said, "You are going to have to deal with the sooner or later, might as well go back now before she calls the police.”
I walked back to the house. Slowly. I was sweating from running but my body felt ice cold. My heart thumped in my ears. I had no thoughts. I got to my bedroom window. I slid it open, slowly and quietly. I hauled myself up and had my knees on the window sill. I was looking at the ground. I heard the stomping footsteps. I felt her grab me by my hair. And she yanked me in, hard. I hit the floor. The metal window sill scraped my knees and shins. I heard her stomp out. I was just getting to my feet when I felt her grab my left arm and pull me to my feet. That's when I felt the strap hit my backside. I'm certain she was aiming for my ass, but she was too angry to slow down and I was already flailing and trying to get away from her. She got in four or five or a hundred hits to my backside, butt and upper legs. Then she stomped back out.
She came back in and that is when the screaming and yelling started. I have absolutely no idea what she said. At all. I just know that the last thing that she said was that she was going to nail the screen on my bedroom window and put a lock on it from the outside and that I was never leaving the house again. Great! House arrest again. I had spent most of my life grounded. "School and Bedroom, that's it!" For months at a time. That's why I snuck out so often. I was only fifteen years old. "School and Bedroom" was torture. It felt like torture. Especially in that house. I was bullied at school and I was bullied at home. There was no safe space. What I wanted her to do was get out the belt and beat me again because that was better than solitary confinement.
As she left my room I shouted at her, "Don't bother with the lock on my window, when I want to leave I'll use the front door!!!" I turned off the light. I shut my bedroom door. And I laid down in bed. And I tried to calm my breathing.
I was full of anxiety. My body felt hot and flushed. My mind was racing! I couldn't keep up with my thoughts or finish one from beginning to end. I can't be grounded again. Was this going to be a congruent sentence, since I was already grounded, or was this going to be consecutive? I still had at least 6 weeks to go on my last grounding! Damn it!!
I waited. And waited. I have no idea how long I laid there, probably an hour. Every minute felt like a century. I stood up and got dressed in the dark. I opened my bedroom door slowly. The house was dark and silent. Her bedroom door was open. I could smell the fresh cigarettes. I tip-toed down the hallway. I tip-toed to the front door. I unlocked and opened it as quietly as I could. I stepped on the front porch. And then, with all of the strength in my body, I slammed the front door closed as hard as I could. I could see, feel and hear the entire house rattle. And, again, I sprinted... and I am fast!
I hit the stop sign at the end of the street, turned right and kept going up the hill. It was two blocks to my friends house. I went up to her bedroom window and started tapping hard. She slid it open a bit. "What are you doing here!!" and she let me climb in. I told her about my night and asked her if she could call me a cab and loan me $20, I was going to my boyfriend's house. And of course she said yes.
The cab was there in about 15 minutes, at most. I went outside and climbed inside. I told the driver the address of where I was going. Headlights came up behind us fast and filled the car with light. I turned around and saw my dad getting out of the car. "Please drive! Drive! That's my dad! Don't let him catch me!" I have no idea why that adult male cab driver did what I told him to do, but he hit the gas. Hard!
We were racing up the street to the main intersection and in a flash my dad was behind us. Too Close! Flashing his headlights and honking! Trying to pull up beside us. That cab driver must have either been scared or bored because the next thing that I knew I was sliding back and forth across the back seat while he raced my dad across town. It was like some dumb action movie. We were almost to my boyfriend's house when I told the cab driver I wanted him to take me to my aunt's house instead. I was afraid that my dad would beat the shit out of my boyfriend.
The cab driver kept going past the house. I didn't know my aunt's address but it was a five mile straight stretch of road with only one stoplight to get there. I have no idea how fast the cab was going but we sailed through that stoplight without even breaking and my dad was only inches away from the bumper.
We pulled into my aunt's driveway and I screamed, literally shrieked, THANK YOU! and dove out of the car and bolted to the front door and started pounding on it, and screaming, and ringing the doorbell over and over again. And, had my dad not stopped to try and rip the cab driver out of the car he would have caught me.
As it was, my uncle opened the door. My uncle always seemed like a pretty big guy to me and he had just opened the front door a crack to look out when I shoved the door open so hard it almost knocked him down. My aunt was standing behind him and I ran behind her. I held her shoulders and stared past her at my uncle's back as he looked out the front door. I could hear my dad, it did not sound like words it sounded like some kind of wild primeval growling. I could see my uncle square himself in the doorway, "Not tonight. Go Home. Not tonight." The growling continued and so did the "Not tonight. Go Home. Not tonight." That was all my uncle said. Finally the growling stopped and the front door closed.
My uncle turned to me, he gave me a half smile and put his hand on the top of my head, kind of patting me like a dog. "You scared me, are you ok?" I could only nod. He turned to my aunt, "Call her mom and let her know that she is ok and that she is staying here tonight, we'll talk about this in the morning." He went and got me blanket and a pillow while my aunt called my mom. How strange and comforting. No questions, no yelling, no blame, no shame. Just acceptance and understanding and love.
I stayed there for only two weeks.
"The worst crime is being expected not to tell."
~Darrell Hammond~
Having been raised in a close-knit (enmeshed) home with my family always surrounding me and my mother’s voice always crowding out my own thoughts I actually believed that what I had seen was normal. That the stories I grew up with were the same as the people around me. That everyone had tasted the hot drunk breath of their own mother as she spewed venom and hate in their face. That everyone’s father had a cupboard full of pills that were untouchable and that his moods and lack of presence, even when he never left the house, was common place. The feeling of never being alone but always being lonely.
My home was not a haven; it was a war zone.
We had firmly established roles in my family. I was the scapegoat and the caretaker. I was the one who took the brunt of the abuse. I spent most of my childhood grounded to my room. For months on end I was allowed nothing and no one. Silence filled my life. I look back on those times and “solitary confinement” seems an apt description. I escaped in my mind. I lashed out at my mother. I lashed out at myself. The first time I ran away from home I was only seven years old. As a child I never could understand how every problem in my mother’s life was my fault. I tried desperately hard to assess every moment of every day so that I would know the moods of my parents and how I should act. I picked up on the cues of my mother and father. Trying to please them. Trying to be good enough.Trying to be supportive as they came to me to talk about their problems with the other one. But by the time I was fourteen years old I had given up on being good enough. I had given up on everything. Nothing interested me and I saw no future for myself other than moving away with my boyfriend the second we graduated. My dreams were so small that the only plan I had was to get a job at a grocery store so that I could support my boyfriend while he went to college and got a degree.
My brother, who was eight years younger than me, was the family jewel. My parents adored him, as did I. I never felt resentful of the love and attention that was lavished on him by my parents. I was thankful. Grateful. I never wanted him to be hit by my mother and he never was. I never wanted him to be ignored by my father and he never was. In my mind, watching them with him, I felt as though we had different parents. And that made me extremely happy. My brother was one of the kindest and most sensitive people I knew. He deserved all of the love that he was given and more. Sometimes I wonder if I would have made it through my childhood if it weren't for him. Not because he reciprocated my adoration but simply because my love for him distracted me from the pain of being alive. I distinctly remember the many times I thought about ending my life but I could not do that to myself because I could not do that to him. I knew how badly it would hurt him. I knew the cut would be too deep to ever fully heal. I am thankful that I loved him that much.
My mother was the anger and the fire in the house. She resented being a mother and a wife. I was a burden, that is not hyperbole, that is truth because she told me. And when she said the words “my family” we all knew she was talking about her mom, dad and siblings. She was not talking about us. Her fury was hot and swift. And would be fueled by the sight of me or my father. Especially if one of us looked happy. The only thing that could set her off more than our laughter was her tequila (or whiskey or wine depending on which decade of my life I am remembering). The tequila pump was located on the top of the kitchen cabinets which was where she kept the memorabilia plates and fancy decorations. She was short, nimble and young. She was a mere 17 years old when she had me. I can still hear the sound of her jumping up on the kitchen counter then the sound of the of clanking glass as she pumped the tequila and then she would jump back down. Some nights she would jump up there so many times that the only thing that stopped her drinking even more was the inability to get back up there. The only thing that hurt me worse than her blows were her words. But nothing hurt me more than her silence. She used to leave us. She would take off and not tell anyone where she was going. Dad never discussed it with us while she was gone. We would just get up in the morning and she would be gone and she would stay gone for a few days. The point of these disappearances was to teach us a lesson for taking her for granted. To show us everything that she did for us that we now had to do for ourselves. I remember wondering where she was, wondering if she would come home, wondering if she was ok, wondering if she loved me and why she didn’t say good-bye. Especially though I remember wondering and fearing that she would kill herself. But I also remember the quiet reprieve in the house. There was no longer anything to argue about. No one was shouting. It was simply breakfast, school, dinner, homework, television, then bed.
My father was the silent time bomb. Quiet and detached, he wouldn’t get involved in anything. He would sit there in the midst of every whirlwind and play dead. That was how he coped with the unending barrage of putdowns from my mother. That was how he coped with his inability to stop the pain that he watched me endure from the unending attacks. It is how he still copes. High and in his chair either watching tv or with his headphones on. Now it's his phone. He was (is) an addict. Heroine, pain meds, sleeping pills it really didn’t matter as long as it took him down. He would take anything he could get his hands on. Except he didn’t like to drink. His silence always had a breaking point though and eventually he would blow up. Knock down a door, break all of my toys, throw the contents of his wallet at me, scream in my face or in Mom’s face. Then it was like he had finally let the steam out and he would walk away from it all like nothing had happened. He never hit me but he was complicit in the abuse. I never took the hitting from my mother lightly. I always ran or tried to get away or screamed for help. And sometimes he would catch me for her and hold me while she hit me.
"What is Trauma? As I use the word, trauma is an inner injury, a lasting rupture or split within the self due to difficult or hurtful events."
~Gabor Mate~
Adverse Childhood Experiences
Here is the link to the test: ACE Test
My Score = 7
I am bad.
In March of 1995, approximately a month after my 18th birthday, I was working at a new job. Full time - plus overtime. I had different schedules every day.
5am-1pm - 6am-2pm - 1:30pm-11:30pm.
I was tired. I was working hard at a convenience store. Scared when I was there alone.
My mother asked me to do the dishes after dinner. I do not remember not intending do them. I do not remember falling asleep. I do remember startling awake in the morning and rushing to get ready. Afraid that I would be late to work and not wanting to lose my job because I had just gotten a car loan and had a $200 a month payment plus insurance and gas. And clothes. And fun. And life, in general. I wanted new tires and wheels and also a stereo for my car. I wanted to save enough money to get an apartment.
I made $4.00 an hour. No benefits - No health insurance - No vacation time - No sick time.
Just $4.00 an hour.
I was sitting at my desk and putting on my make-up. Rushing. My mom came into my room. It was typical. The usual. She wasn't saying anything that I hadn't heard at least a million times before and I honestly wasn't really hearing her.
I had a tendency to "tune out" - "lose time" - "disassociate" - "space out".
Whatever you want to call it. I wasn't there. It hurt to much to be there. And to hear her.
YOU DIDN'T DO THE DISHES! YOU SLOB! LOOK AT YOUR ROOM! IT'S A FILTHY PIGSTY! YOU ARE SO LAZY! I'M NOT YOUR MAID! YOU AND YOUR DAD NEED TO HELP ME AROUND HERE! I CAN'T DO EVERYTHING WHILE YOU DO NOTHING! GROW UP! SHOW ME SOME RESPECT! DON'T TALK BACK! DON'T CRY! YOU HAVEN'T EVEN CLEANED YOUR BATHROOM! YOU ARE GROSS! DISGUSTING! WORKING AT A CONVENIENCE STORE! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU! PIG! ACT YOUR AGE!
I didn't really say anything, I know that for sure. I just said I can't do the dishes right now, I'm going to be late for work. I squeezed past her; she was standing in my bedroom door in a haze of her cigarette smoke. She followed me, quieting her voice a bit so as not to wake up my brother or my great-grandmother. But still the words kept coming. She had stopped using her hands to hit me when I was 15 because I had ran away to Mexico and told her if she hit me again she wouldn't find me again. So now it was just words. Always the words. Never ending, non stop, barrages. My brain was on autopilot. I just had to find what I needed and get out.
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When I came home from work my things were scattered across the front yard. No boxes. Just clothes, make-up, bedding, random things everywhere. I couldn't get in the front door. It was locked. I had no key. I knocked and rang the bell. Moving around and looking in the front window. My brother and my granny were in the window watching. They were both crying. My granny had her arms around my brother. She was in her 90's and he was 10.
My best friend Mat was with me. He was always with me. He had been sleeping on the floor in my room on and off ever since I had broken up with Mike, the one who beat me. I had been having panic attacks and not knowing what it was. Screaming in my sleep. Nightmares. Night Terrors. Flashbacks. Jumping. People thought it was funny how easily I startled. My mom had been giving me valium. But no one ever talked to me about it. It's just Tanya, she weird and sensitive. Take a pill. Take a bath. Go to bed. Be quiet.
Mat helped me load everything into the backseat and I stayed at his house that night. He lived with his mom's boyfriend. His mom lived in Eugene, she was in college. The three of us; Mat, Bob, and I ordered pizza. Bob told me to sleep upstairs. But I came downstairs and slept next to Mat. Mat made me feel safe.
The next day I told my boss, Joyce, what had happened. She had five sons. And her and I had been spending a lot of time talking over the last month and growing close. She was shocked. Floored. She said she could never imagine throwing one of her children out and that she never would.
(Knowing her and loving her and being loved by her for the next 23+ years, I know that now to be true - her youngest son became a drug addict, meth, and she never abandoned him. No matter what he did. She held him close. Never threw him out. Never threw him away.)
She offered me her RV. She said she would've offered me a bedroom but she had teenage boys in the house and didn't think that would be appropriate. She had only known me for a little more than a month and she offered me a key to her house; a door into her home and into her life. Honestly, I wanted to run away from her screaming because that kind of offer felt so bizarre. Seriously, her behavior was so bizarre to me! When I told her about my clothes in the yard and that I didn't do the dishes she never once said that I was bad. She gave me a hug!!
I wanted to make her happy, so I said yes instead of pushing her away. I stayed in her RV at night and came inside to use the bathroom and eat breakfast with her family in the morning. She was my Angel.
I would probably not be alive today if it were not for her.
A few weeks later Mat and I eventually found an apartment. We could only afford one bedroom. And technically we couldn't even afford that. He was going to keep living at Bob's and save money for a few drafting classes at the community college while he worked full time at a medical clinic. But he became my roommate because he loved me. And I loved him. He was my best friend.
I would probably not be alive today if it were not for him.
Eventually, I was able to get more of my things from my parents house; the rest of my clothes, my bed, and my dresser. Mat and I put all of my stuff in the bedroom and closed the door for months, everything reeked of cigarette smoke. The whole house smelled like smoke just from putting my things in it. We left the bedroom window open for those months and ruined the carpet from rain.
Eventually I was able to wash all my clothes and the mattress aired out. But for those first two months Mat and I slept on the futon in the living room. And after six months we were able to get a two bedroom apartment.
(I never stayed another night in my parents house until I was 28 years old. But I stayed for two months after my divorce. One day, while I was at work, my Mom went through my things and read my journal. She threw me out that time too, but luckily she talked my Dad into paying for a month of rent and deposit for me so that I could be out the next day. She didn't say anything to me that day when I packed up my car, except that I had betrayed her with what I had written. It was several months before she spoke to me again. Doubly hard since I was going through a divorce.)
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Fast forward to last week. I'm 46 years old and it's been 28 years since she put my belongings on the lawn and locked me out. She sent me a text that she is finally going through the boxes in her garage. My things...
"You know I can never throw things away." "Your Dad thinks I should just send it all to you so you can throw away what you don't want." "Should I just send your heirlooms from Grandma to your brother so he can give them to his daughter."
(unsaid - "since you don't have kids to give them to" - I'm not reaching to think that was what she meant. She told me once that I should give my great-grandmother's china to my older cousin Heather so that Heather could give them to her children, even though my cousin doesn't have children either.)
I DO NOT WANT ANYTHING.
That was my only reply to a dozen messages. Pictures of my stuffed animals and silverware. It was almost as if she didn't realize that the reason that she has all of my things, the reason that the boxes are in her garage, the reason that I don't even know what is in there anymore, is because I DID NOT GET TO MOVE OUT OF MY PARENT'S HOME.
I did not get to pack my things and go through my stuff. I didn't get to listen to my favorite music and reminisce. I didn't get to tape the boxes up and label them. I didn't get to take them with me or leave them for safe storage in her garage. I didn't get to shed a tear and look back fondly on my childhood home as I drove away to start my adult life.
SHE THREW ME OUT - SHE BOXED UP MY POSSESSIONS - SHE CHOSE WHAT I GOT TO TAKE WITH ME - AND WHAT I HAD TO LEAVE BEHIND.
She responded to my one-line text message by sending a crying emoji.
Then she sent a picture of a Raggedy Anne doll and said "Sorry Kiddo! There are some things that I just cannot do!"
Meaning that she can't throw the doll away.
The way she threw me away.
Like I was garbage.
"When I kill myself is it going to be your fault or your dad's?"
I could smell the sour stink of whiskey on her breath and feel the heat on my skin. She stomped away and I stood speechless.
I was not confused about the second half of that question; it would be my fault. Of course. Every bad thing that had ever happened was my fault. I knew this. She told me this every day of my life. Everything bad in the world, in her world, was my fault. All the way down to my conception and her having to drop out of high school because she was pregnant with me. That was my fault. Everything. My fault. I knew to the core of my being that I was bad. I was weird. I was unlovable. I was a burden. I didn't belong. I was... let me enumerate:
1. Selfish
2. A Whore
3. A Liar
4. A Slut
5. Lazy
6. A Prick-tease
7. Spoiled Rotten
8. Spawn of Satan
9. Crazy
10. Worthless
I turned to go to my room. I was only thinking about how bad I was, which made me feel selfish because I should be thinking of my mom. She was drunk again. She was angry again. Her and dad were fighting again. And it was all my fault, Again. I paused in my room. I didn't close the door. I didn't sit down. I just stared at my feet and that's when the realization struck me. She said WHEN; she did not say IF.
She said "WHEN I kill myself..." I walked out of my room and went into hers. Then into her bathroom. Her closet. Down the hall. I looked in my brother's room and in the main bathroom. I walked through the living room, past my dad who was currently yelling at his desk and throwing things around or having a "temper tantrum" as my mom would say. I walked into the dining room and scanned the kitchen. I looked in the laundry room and then in the t.v. room. I went outside and wandered around the backyard, I had been increasingly moving more quickly with each step and I was almost sprinting when I got back into the house.
I stood quietly and looked around. "Dad, where is mom?" I said this very loudly into the empty space. "How the fuck should I know?" They had been arguing when I got home from school. They were usually always arguing about something and, as usual, just me walking through the door after school was enough to drag me into it. I had always done something wrong and I always needed to be yelled at. And, I truly believed that this is what normal looked like: people yelling, stomping, glaring, tossing things around and then finally ignoring one another. The old silent treatment. The silent treatment with no explanation was the best, as it was sure to induce hour upon hour of guilty shameful feelings. This was all very normal. Except for the threat. That was new…
The Garage.
I quickly walked through the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. There she was. The garage door was closed, the car was running, her head was on the steering wheel, and a bottle of whiskey was in her hand. I turned and ran inside, fast! I grabbed the phone from the kitchen. I dialed 911. "My mom is in the garage with the car running, I think she is trying to kill herself!" "My address is...." "She's been drinking and..." "Let me check..." As I turned to go back to the garage my mom walked inside.
"She just came inside." I said into the phone.
"Who are you talking to?" My mom asked.
"I called 911; I thought you were trying to kill yourself.”
At that moment I turned from my mom and back to the woman on the phone. "She's fine. It's ok." I was told that someone had already been sent and that they would be here soon, just to check on us. I hung up the phone.
"You are such a liar! You never thought I was going to kill myself. You are just trying to get me in trouble!"
I could smell the sour stink of whiskey on her breath and feel the heat on my skin. She stomped away and I stood speechless.
