“I don’t really want to talk about what is going on with me…”
I reach for a glass of water. I need a prop to keep going. Something to hold on to that is going to keep me grounded. My mind loves to find the chaos in the silver lining. I like to find the one frayed string on a beautiful dress. I pull on it until the fabric falls apart. Then, I blame myself for trying.
Why do I even care what is going on outside of my nuclear family? I would not dare say this outloud. This would be far too healthy of a declaration. That is the kind of thing I need to keep to myself. I mean we all should care about the world around us but I can’t let go of “the things I cannot change”. Many days I feel like a little child at the foot of my father’s lazy boy recliner wondering what I can do to get this man to stop drinking. A child feeling responsible for the actions of a grown man! Isn’t that a fucking sad statement.
“Are you done here?” the waitress is trying to clear our table. “Yes,” he tells them “you want this to go?” I take it but I know I will never eat it. I just don’t want to let anyone know how I really feel.
Foooooooooooood glorious food. When I arrive home, the munching begins. A handful of pita chips, a few yogurts. Maybe a couple pieces of dark chocolate to reward myself. “But you just ate” those words never cross my mind. Those are words foreign to my language of dysfunction. Yes I just ate at the restaurant but I am home now. That is an entirely different slate of eating. Plus, everything is relatively healthy. I mean, not all of it at one time, but if I was just snacking on one thing, it is all perfectly fine.
The kids are done eating? Let me finish that last few bites. I don’t want that food to go to waste. Here I am again, my face in the pantry. It is almost time for bed. Popcorn? Sure why not. No butter so it should be fine. I did accidentally make enough for 3-4 adults but it wasn’t even cooked in oil. It won’t hurt anything.
The first place I feel my emotions is always in my stomach. That tight feeling tells me that something is wrong long before my brain tells me. I can hear my parents arguing down the hall. The same thing over and over. Will he put his check in the bank? I will come to know this later as financial abuse. Why is my mother crying in the hallway? Why is she so worried “Go be nice to your father” she tells me. I don’t want to. I am afraid of him. But his mood, I’m told. He will be in a better mood. My life revolves around his moods. As I approach him, he smiles. He is so different from the person I saw just a moment ago. The ever turbulent world of living with a Daddy.
Heroin is a poison that has slowly killed my brain. Alcohol is just a means to the mysterious end. Once I put the dope in my receptive body, it left me in the grips of endless insanity. It cured my depression as it infected my life with a greater affliction- the hedonistic pursuit of numb. I was raised to be a user, conditioned to believe my feelings don't really matter. I was told by the adults in my life that children are to be seen and not heard. Can you hear me screaming on the inside? Can you see I can never settle? I bounce from one thing to the next like the tight coil inside a ball, waiting to unravel.
This isn't even about me. It is about YOU. I was thinking about you.. I don't know where you are but I know why you did it. Like a dog that found a special patch, you will scratch this itch until I find you bleeding again.