As the puzzle pieces fell into place that summer, a current crisis ensued. Triggering uncontrollable flashbacks, (some for the first time) body memories, and nightmares.
A long dormant eating disorder began to rear its ugly head as my only familiar coping mechanism. I thought I had conquered this old foe nearly a decade earlier.
Caught completely off guard, and unprepared for what I was experiencing, I fell helplessly into my past.
Memories of that august evening, days after my 14th birthday, are as vivid as if they happened yesterday.
Perched atop the cluttered bed, adorned with a pink heirloom quilt my great-grandmother had made when I was born. It had squares of tulips scattered throughout its body and was tied together with pieces of multi-colored yarn.
I rubbed two pieces of yellow yarn between my forefinger and thumb, waiting for my parents to shut the bedroom door.
Both of them were serious.
Dad’s nose had huge pores and always had sweat on it.
I concentrated on the yarn I was twirling, to keep from being nervous. I could tell this was a big deal.
The words couldn’t come fast enough for me, I just wanted them to be out with it already…ugh!
My mom spoke baby talk.
It made me feel very uncomfortable.
Now she’s crying.
Just SHUT UP! Anything to get her to shut up!
I HATE when she cries! Not a “I feel bad when she cries” kind of thing. I want to drop kick her face when she cries! I want to hit her upside the head and tell her to STOP IT!!!
It feels like nails on a chalk board. My ass can’t stay in one place and all I can hear is her whimpering. It makes me so uncomfortable that I think I would do anything to shut her up.
When she cries, it feels like a lie.
I feel guilty for thinking these kinds of things about my own mother. A child should not have these feelings. Something must be really wrong with me. I bury this deep down, and wrestle with it on a deep level…
What did she just say?