A Brief Prelude
My parents were going through an incredibly bad divorce, of which my sister and I were collateral damage. With myself being the oldest, I was getting the brunt of the effects, especially from my mother. She talked badly of my father, had incredible mood swings, etc… When she was depressed, she cried to me uncontrollably most times.
This was incredibly difficult because I was put in the position of being the consoling parent, which understandably was an unfair position for an 11 yr. old to be in. Children should be able to find their safety and comfort in their parents, not vice versa. All of this was very upsetting and confusing for me. I still needed a mother’s strength to fall back on, and now it was gone, and to be honest, it also angered me. This, in my mind, was completely unfair.
Then on the opposite end of the spectrum was her uncontrollable anger. She would absolutely lose her shit if we did anything wrong. I’ve had flashlights thrown at me, hit with wooden spoons, etc. One event in particular really stands out, and I will never forget it as long as I have a memory.
I played youth sports growing up, and the trophies I received (which, at that time, they gave for actually accomplishing something, not just because I participated) were very important to me. They gave me a sense of pride and accomplishment, and since I was relatively shy, they built my self-esteem and helped me in social situations.
So, one day, and I believe it was because I had suggested maybe living with my father, I’m not absolutely sure about that, my mother became enraged with me and threw every one of my trophies down the concrete stairs into the basement and shattered every last one. In doing so, she also completely shattered my pride from those accomplishments. I’ve never forgiven her for that.
A couple of months later, I had my first panic attack. In order to understand how traumatic this was to me, I’ll have to give the details of said incident.
Sheer Panic
I remember it was early October and unseasonably cold and rainy for Virginia. My friend and I asked my mother if we could start a fire in the fireplace, and she said we could. Now remember, I am only 11 yrs. old, and up until my father left, which was around August I believe, he was the one who lit the fires. We were not permitted to mess around with the fireplace at all. So, there were some things I needed to check…like to see if the flue was open.
It wasn’t.
As the entire house started filling with smoke, I became a bit panicky, and my mother’s screaming wasn’t helping any. The smoke alarms were going off, and I was told to turn them off while we aired out the house. So, I went upstairs, got a stool, and tried to turn it off, which I had no idea how. I unplugged the battery. That didn’t work. I pressed any button I could find. Still blaring quite loudly. These were some fucking hardcore smoke detectors.
The last thing I could think of was to take it apart by unscrewing and removing the inner plate. I turn it over, and there’s a sticker: Warning, Radioactive material, Do Not Remove. Now, this was 1980, around the time of 3 Mile Island and in the middle of the Cold War, and to kids, radiation was really, really bad.
Radiation = Death.
So naturally, I lost my shit. I ran down to my mother in a full-out (and certainly justifiable, all things considered) panic mode. I needed her to save me. What response do I get? “If you think you’re dying, call the poison hotline,” and “Stop being such a baby.” I’m standing there, crying my eyes out, thinking I’m going to die, and does she comfort, reassure, or help me in any way?
Fuck no.
I ran outside and threw up. I couldn’t breathe and was dizzy. So, I took off my shirt and laid down on the concrete with a slight drizzle coming down, waiting to die. It was only when my uncle came home and helped me call the poison hotline that I could calm down.
As I sit here and write this out, the adult in me wants to go back and comfort the child, put an arm around him, and let him know I would never let him die, not on my watch. I have his back.
From that point forward, I never trusted her again.
Actually, that was the beginning of only being able to trust in myself, for my trust in adults was shattered. My mind changed drastically that day. I started building an inner wall to protect myself, a place where I controlled my feelings and emotions that no one could get to unless I let them in, which was incredibly rare. I surrounded this wall with anger, my watchman, and my security. And this was only the beginning.
*This post was written while listening to Time by Pink Floyd*
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