Garbage

"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.