outside one more time. She was storming toward the store looking madder than I had ever seen. “There you are. Where were you?” I asked. I felt relieved, mad, and panicked all at the same time.
“Where was I?! Where were you? Are you too stupid to follow directions? I told you to pick those items up and meet back here.”
“I did that. You weren’t here.” I replied flatly.
“Bull. I was here waiting and you didn’t show. Do you have any idea how much time you wasted by pulling this stupid move? God you are so stupid.” She looked away from me and started to march off “Get in the damn car RIGHT NOW!”
How had this become my fault? Had I misheard her? Maybe she meant she was going to park nearby and watch for me. Maybe she got distracted. Maybe I messed up somehow. I felt the tears prickle in my sockets. I was no longer the independent 18 year old, I was now reduced to a scared and insecure 5 year old who was stupid and worthless. I tried to focus on my breathing so the tears would not pour down my face. I just needed to make it home before I fell apart. All I could hear was “you are so stupid, it’s all your fault”. A negative mantra playing through my head.
We pulled up to the house and she slammed the car door. She was still as mad as ever. I grabbed the two plants from the back since she was already in the house back to her cooking with her new sour cream. I put them near the front door and took off my shoes and coat. Then I went to my room and dug in my purse for my small Swiss army knife and went to the bathroom. I knew I needed time away from her and she wouldn’t think twice about me with the cooking before her. My hands were shaking. I felt so very small, so very Inconsequential. A mistake. My chest felt so tight from all the things I felt like saying to my mom. Wasted words because she didn’t care what came out of my mouth. Words that didn’t matter, feelings that didn’t matter. Thoughts that meant nothing to anyone. They felt important to me, but I was told so often that they meant nothing, that I had believed no one cared about them, so why share them. Why tell my mom that I went out of the store several times looking for her? Why tell her that I was scared that something had happened to her or to someone back home? Those actions and emotions were stupid and didn’t matter. Yet they bubbled over in my chest making it feel like I was going to burst into a million pieces. The pressure was suffocating. As I dragged the blade along my inner arm, the relief was instantaneous. Blood and tears fell onto my bare leg and I felt the air move in and out of my chest at a more steady rhythm. I was like an overinflated balloon, about to burst, and someone decided to open the knot to let some air out and relieve the pressure. There was no euphoria. I did not get off on cutting myself. But it was the only band-aid I had in my arsenal to stop the bleeding of my heart.
I became more clearer headed as I sat there. I needed to wrap my wound, clean my knife, delete the message on the answering machine, and avoid talking about the grocery store misunderstanding. I could do that. But it would not erase the scars that were freshly put on my internal self. I grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and put a piece of gauze on my cut and wrapped it with a thin ace wrap. Lucky for me that it was winter and I could pull my long sleeves down to cover the wound. I cleaned the knife with soap and water and put it in my pocket and then headed out of the bathroom to delete the voicemail.
Chapter 11
I liked Christmas, so why would this year be any different? Christmas, for me, was asking and hoping for things you really wanted and being disappointed by each gift. It seemed everyone, including Santa, knew what I “needed” or should have which differed greatly
“Where was I?! Where were you? Are you too stupid to follow directions? I told you to pick those items up and meet back here.”
“I did that. You weren’t here.” I replied flatly.
“Bull. I was here waiting and you didn’t show. Do you have any idea how much time you wasted by pulling this stupid move? God you are so stupid.” She looked away from me and started to march off “Get in the damn car RIGHT NOW!”
How had this become my fault? Had I misheard her? Maybe she meant she was going to park nearby and watch for me. Maybe she got distracted. Maybe I messed up somehow. I felt the tears prickle in my sockets. I was no longer the independent 18 year old, I was now reduced to a scared and insecure 5 year old who was stupid and worthless. I tried to focus on my breathing so the tears would not pour down my face. I just needed to make it home before I fell apart. All I could hear was “you are so stupid, it’s all your fault”. A negative mantra playing through my head.
We pulled up to the house and she slammed the car door. She was still as mad as ever. I grabbed the two plants from the back since she was already in the house back to her cooking with her new sour cream. I put them near the front door and took off my shoes and coat. Then I went to my room and dug in my purse for my small Swiss army knife and went to the bathroom. I knew I needed time away from her and she wouldn’t think twice about me with the cooking before her. My hands were shaking. I felt so very small, so very Inconsequential. A mistake. My chest felt so tight from all the things I felt like saying to my mom. Wasted words because she didn’t care what came out of my mouth. Words that didn’t matter, feelings that didn’t matter. Thoughts that meant nothing to anyone. They felt important to me, but I was told so often that they meant nothing, that I had believed no one cared about them, so why share them. Why tell my mom that I went out of the store several times looking for her? Why tell her that I was scared that something had happened to her or to someone back home? Those actions and emotions were stupid and didn’t matter. Yet they bubbled over in my chest making it feel like I was going to burst into a million pieces. The pressure was suffocating. As I dragged the blade along my inner arm, the relief was instantaneous. Blood and tears fell onto my bare leg and I felt the air move in and out of my chest at a more steady rhythm. I was like an overinflated balloon, about to burst, and someone decided to open the knot to let some air out and relieve the pressure. There was no euphoria. I did not get off on cutting myself. But it was the only band-aid I had in my arsenal to stop the bleeding of my heart.
I became more clearer headed as I sat there. I needed to wrap my wound, clean my knife, delete the message on the answering machine, and avoid talking about the grocery store misunderstanding. I could do that. But it would not erase the scars that were freshly put on my internal self. I grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and put a piece of gauze on my cut and wrapped it with a thin ace wrap. Lucky for me that it was winter and I could pull my long sleeves down to cover the wound. I cleaned the knife with soap and water and put it in my pocket and then headed out of the bathroom to delete the voicemail.
Chapter 11
I liked Christmas, so why would this year be any different? Christmas, for me, was asking and hoping for things you really wanted and being disappointed by each gift. It seemed everyone, including Santa, knew what I “needed” or should have which differed greatly
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