Enjoy the silence

 

We don't talk out of the house! That was dad's words. Everytime she did this while we were growing up. Every time she used to take us in her car, or on a train, or even on foot. Every time we went to school exhausted, dirty, homework not done. Every time we were reprimanded by teachers for being absent, being late or being lethargic in class. We don't talk out of the house. I wonder if they ever bought the vague excuses of a ten year old? To them, all I was, was the naughty, disobedient kid with the silver spoon. I did ok I suppose, I got by. But sometimes I wonder what I would have become had I not been a parental child, being a mother not only to my younger siblings, but to my mother as well.

My childhood memories are filled with images I'd rather forget. Thinking about it brings on feelings of terror, sadness and a feeling of total and utter hopelessness. I had no one looking out for me really. Educators? No. I wasn't allowed to tell. Friends? No. I wasn't allowed to tell. Parents? Please, I was the parent. There was always my grandma's house. The only place in the world I felt safe because I knew she wouldn't let her near us in that state. It also helped that my army of aunts were there most of the time as well, and one thing about our family, say what you want about them, but they protected us kids like a pack of wolves.

As a child, I remember my mother smelling like beer, passed out or vomitting, being aggressive...I was afraid of her, scared and helpless. I remember dodgy motel rooms, train stations, franticly looking for a phonebooth to call my dad, dirty houses in the wrong parts of town where so-called extended "family" stayed, I remember doing my best not to cry...not when I was in these situations and certainly not at school when I was yelled at for being tardy. I couldn't help it though, when we eventually found our way home and mom got a few smacks for doing it again. But we don't talk out of the house...

I remember broken glass, the smell of petrol, tyres and an over revved clutch. I remember waking up with a dashboard on my lap and a tree between my legs. I remember cutting my foot on the debris in the road after she skipped the red light and being the only reason why they didn't put her in jail. But we don't talk out of the house...

The memories didn't fade but the fear grew. It still haunts me to this day, as nothing's gotten better. Sometimes I think it's getting worse. The only difference is the mechanical death trap she doesn't have any more and the last ounce of self respect she might have had is long gone with it.

Yes, I'm older now, and I can still look out for myself, but I've gotten to a point where I just can't be the passenger on her ride of destruction any more. I cannot clean up her messes any more, I cannot be her parent any more. I cannot sacrifice my health, my emotional well-being, my home, my hopes of one day having my own family or my sanity any more and I cannot live in the shadow of a family's denial anymore. I just can't. I'm done!

So there, I've done it...I spoke out of the house and I broke the silence. I know this is going to create a storm in a teacup in my little realm, but I guess everyone has their limits, even me, and I think it's about time...For those who choose to judge me, go ahead, feel free, you're welcome to take my problems!