none of it mattered anyway.
The second thing I learned was that school was the only place where I wasn’t alone. And I began to love it for that reason. I began to crave it.
The sadness I felt then, and even sometimes now, blares within me. It’s an all-encompassing, piercing sound—a fire alarm. It shrieks so loudly, I cower. I seek refuge by covering my ears. I think briefly about ducking beneath a stairwell, hoping its shrillness will be muffled if I hide from it. But it finds me, always. It finds mewhen I’m in the shower or walking on a treadmill; it wakes me suddenly in the night. It forces me to uncover my ears. And I hear it while trying not to listen to what it means. The pain, the sound—it’s deafening. After listening for so long, I become immune to it. The urgent alarm turns to a hollow ringing, a monotone that feels far away and permanent. And sometimes, though the dull pain in my ears reminds me, I can make myself forget I’m hearing it at all.
Eating made me forget. The flavors, the textures, and smells entertained me enough to mute my other senses. Filling my belly stuffed my mind so completely that no space existed for sadness. Packing myself with sweets until I ached created a new sensation, one that had nothing to do with intense loneliness and broken dads.
The kitchen, too, made me forget. That galley in our apartment had become the only space at home I could tolerate. The cramped quarters felt comforting. Staying in there prevented me from lingering in the vulnerability, the wide-openness of reality.
In hindsight, I see so clearly the isolation, the desperation for attention and affection of any kind that absorbed me. Mom returned to work three days after the funeral. Anthony didn’t go back to school in Arizona. He began staying out with friends all night, working, doing anything to avoid coming home. I was desperate for one of them to stay with me, to keep me from feeling as though Dad’s death was eating away at me, slowly and alone. But neither ever did. And I never asked them to.
I prayed for invitations to hang out with friends, for anything that might involve a real plated meal and a family. Our home had become the loneliest place I’d ever been, and I hated it. I hated that I was the one who had to lock the front and back doors to ourapartment each night before heading to bed. I hated worrying that another tow truck might show up early in the morning to repossess our car and that maybe this time I’d be the only one home. I hated worrying that the electric company might turn off the lights again, and then I’d be left not only alone, but in darkness, too. I hated myself for wishing that Anthony felt guilty for going out, because I understood why no one would want to remain in our lifeless home. I hated the feeling of helplessness, of knowing that Mom was working to support me while I sat at home gorging myself on almost all of the only food she could afford. I hated it each time I stuffed the cardboard of a cereal box into our trash can, knowing that I’d just eaten five bowls and she’d eaten none.
But hating it didn’t change anything; it didn’t fill our home with more people, more food, or more comfort. None of us could offer each other anything substantial. Not Mom, not Anthony, not me. Instead, Mom and Anthony left, surviving by busying themselves. And I, for my part, ate.
When I’d finish eating all the sweets in our kitchen, usually a measly three days after Mom had gone grocery shopping, I’d begin baking. I restocked our cabinets with homemade treats. Almost exclusively, I lifted recipes from the pages of the one, the only recipe book that sat on our counter:
The Silver Palate Cookbook
, our favorite. Mom, concerned with even the mention of clutter, wasn’t the kind to leave things out—especially things that belonged on bookcases or in cabinets. That she let that tome keep company with her KitchenAid stand mixer on the counter meant something.
Since my fifth
The second thing I learned was that school was the only place where I wasn’t alone. And I began to love it for that reason. I began to crave it.
The sadness I felt then, and even sometimes now, blares within me. It’s an all-encompassing, piercing sound—a fire alarm. It shrieks so loudly, I cower. I seek refuge by covering my ears. I think briefly about ducking beneath a stairwell, hoping its shrillness will be muffled if I hide from it. But it finds me, always. It finds mewhen I’m in the shower or walking on a treadmill; it wakes me suddenly in the night. It forces me to uncover my ears. And I hear it while trying not to listen to what it means. The pain, the sound—it’s deafening. After listening for so long, I become immune to it. The urgent alarm turns to a hollow ringing, a monotone that feels far away and permanent. And sometimes, though the dull pain in my ears reminds me, I can make myself forget I’m hearing it at all.
Eating made me forget. The flavors, the textures, and smells entertained me enough to mute my other senses. Filling my belly stuffed my mind so completely that no space existed for sadness. Packing myself with sweets until I ached created a new sensation, one that had nothing to do with intense loneliness and broken dads.
The kitchen, too, made me forget. That galley in our apartment had become the only space at home I could tolerate. The cramped quarters felt comforting. Staying in there prevented me from lingering in the vulnerability, the wide-openness of reality.
In hindsight, I see so clearly the isolation, the desperation for attention and affection of any kind that absorbed me. Mom returned to work three days after the funeral. Anthony didn’t go back to school in Arizona. He began staying out with friends all night, working, doing anything to avoid coming home. I was desperate for one of them to stay with me, to keep me from feeling as though Dad’s death was eating away at me, slowly and alone. But neither ever did. And I never asked them to.
I prayed for invitations to hang out with friends, for anything that might involve a real plated meal and a family. Our home had become the loneliest place I’d ever been, and I hated it. I hated that I was the one who had to lock the front and back doors to ourapartment each night before heading to bed. I hated worrying that another tow truck might show up early in the morning to repossess our car and that maybe this time I’d be the only one home. I hated worrying that the electric company might turn off the lights again, and then I’d be left not only alone, but in darkness, too. I hated myself for wishing that Anthony felt guilty for going out, because I understood why no one would want to remain in our lifeless home. I hated the feeling of helplessness, of knowing that Mom was working to support me while I sat at home gorging myself on almost all of the only food she could afford. I hated it each time I stuffed the cardboard of a cereal box into our trash can, knowing that I’d just eaten five bowls and she’d eaten none.
But hating it didn’t change anything; it didn’t fill our home with more people, more food, or more comfort. None of us could offer each other anything substantial. Not Mom, not Anthony, not me. Instead, Mom and Anthony left, surviving by busying themselves. And I, for my part, ate.
When I’d finish eating all the sweets in our kitchen, usually a measly three days after Mom had gone grocery shopping, I’d begin baking. I restocked our cabinets with homemade treats. Almost exclusively, I lifted recipes from the pages of the one, the only recipe book that sat on our counter:
The Silver Palate Cookbook
, our favorite. Mom, concerned with even the mention of clutter, wasn’t the kind to leave things out—especially things that belonged on bookcases or in cabinets. That she let that tome keep company with her KitchenAid stand mixer on the counter meant something.
Since my fifth
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