A Childhood That Wasn't
In the first chapter of The Complete ACOA Sourcebook: Adult Children of Alcoholics at Home, at Work, and in Love, it talks about when a child is not a child, saying, "other people saw you as a child, unless they got close enough to that edge of sadness in your eyes or that worried look on your brow."
In 1981, after many years of distress and thought, I "ran away" from home. I was put into foster care, where I remained until I graduated from high school on February 23, 1983.
In the spring of 1981, when I was in eleventh grade, and I remember this as if it happened yesterday, my ninth-grade English teacher, Mr. Mandli, commented that I had lost the look of a hunted dog that he had always seen in my eyes. I remember it still because it was such a telling statement.
Researchers into the affects of alcohol on children say that those children tend to assume certain roles in the household; roles such as, the remarkable, successful, overachieving child; or the family scapegoat, in trouble all the time; or the class clown, laughing on the outside, and crying on the inside; or the withdrawn child in the corner, never drawing attention to himself or herself. Growing up in my house, I was the family scapegoat.
"In general, one alcoholic environment is like another. The undercurrent of tension and anxiety is ever present."
To paraphrase, sometimes the alcoholic parent was everything you would like that parent to be, caring, interested, involved, etc., and you knew that parent loved you.
Other times, that wasn't the case.
While my other parent was not an alcoholic, chemical dependency, in the form of prescription painkillers and anti-anxiety medications, was an issue all the same. One that was so much like the alcoholism as to be its identical twin, or mirror image. And the toxins that are alcoholism and other addictions fed off of one another and grew and flourished, simultaneously defining and destroying what would have been my family, had I had one. All these years later, 30, 35, how many years has it been? How many years did it last? Do you start the count when the abuse first started, when you first became conscious of the existence of a problem, or when you finally escaped? I don't know. I don't even know if I remember when
it started; I have a vague recollection, more of an impression, really, of life before alcoholism, despair, and addiction. But part of me isn't even sure that that impression is real. Was there ever actually a time when I was happy? Or have I just convinced myself that there had to have been a happy time? Somehow, in the back of my mind, or at the bottom of my heart, where I haven't dared to visit for fear of what I would find; somehow, I can't help but believe that there were happy times, before the twins, before leaving Kansas.
I don't know, though. I have forgotten so many things. So much of my past, including most of my childhood, has been buried away somewhere. I have entire years, series of years that I have completely blocked out. I remember a few specific events... I remember crossing the street on Lido Boulevard to Jones Beach. I remember the grasshopper cage I made in Kindergarten. I remember the circular foyer in the Lawrence Memorial Hospital on the day that the twins were born. I remember my grandfather's basement, and the watch that he would "wind" by shaking it. I remember dance class in Kindergarten. I remember when my mother was pregnant with the twins, and I was no longer allowed to jump into her lap. That hurt me so deeply. I thought that she loved the babies more than me. I remember wanting a little brother who wouldn't steal my toys. Instead, I got two sisters, who did. And, not only did they steal my toys, but they were born with a built-in "partner," whereas I didn't have anybody. I remember reading in my parents' bed. I remember sleeping on the screened-in porch on Louisiana Street. I remember going to see the movie Run, Appaloosa, Run, with Stevie D. and his father. I remember throwing up in the middle of the classroom in first grade.
Other than that, and through to at least third grade, I don't remember much of anything at all. Maybe a few snippets here and there. I smell, or a warm breeze, or a moment of joy, but not much else of substance, that is, if you call the list I just made "substance."
I don't know.
Being home was how I imagined hell.
In 1981, after many years of distress and thought, I "ran away" from home. I was put into foster care, where I remained until I graduated from high school on February 23, 1983.
In the spring of 1981, when I was in eleventh grade, and I remember this as if it happened yesterday, my ninth-grade English teacher, Mr. Mandli, commented that I had lost the look of a hunted dog that he had always seen in my eyes. I remember it still because it was such a telling statement.
Researchers into the affects of alcohol on children say that those children tend to assume certain roles in the household; roles such as, the remarkable, successful, overachieving child; or the family scapegoat, in trouble all the time; or the class clown, laughing on the outside, and crying on the inside; or the withdrawn child in the corner, never drawing attention to himself or herself. Growing up in my house, I was the family scapegoat.
"In general, one alcoholic environment is like another. The undercurrent of tension and anxiety is ever present."
To paraphrase, sometimes the alcoholic parent was everything you would like that parent to be, caring, interested, involved, etc., and you knew that parent loved you.
Other times, that wasn't the case.
While my other parent was not an alcoholic, chemical dependency, in the form of prescription painkillers and anti-anxiety medications, was an issue all the same. One that was so much like the alcoholism as to be its identical twin, or mirror image. And the toxins that are alcoholism and other addictions fed off of one another and grew and flourished, simultaneously defining and destroying what would have been my family, had I had one. All these years later, 30, 35, how many years has it been? How many years did it last? Do you start the count when the abuse first started, when you first became conscious of the existence of a problem, or when you finally escaped? I don't know. I don't even know if I remember when
it started; I have a vague recollection, more of an impression, really, of life before alcoholism, despair, and addiction. But part of me isn't even sure that that impression is real. Was there ever actually a time when I was happy? Or have I just convinced myself that there had to have been a happy time? Somehow, in the back of my mind, or at the bottom of my heart, where I haven't dared to visit for fear of what I would find; somehow, I can't help but believe that there were happy times, before the twins, before leaving Kansas.
I don't know, though. I have forgotten so many things. So much of my past, including most of my childhood, has been buried away somewhere. I have entire years, series of years that I have completely blocked out. I remember a few specific events... I remember crossing the street on Lido Boulevard to Jones Beach. I remember the grasshopper cage I made in Kindergarten. I remember the circular foyer in the Lawrence Memorial Hospital on the day that the twins were born. I remember my grandfather's basement, and the watch that he would "wind" by shaking it. I remember dance class in Kindergarten. I remember when my mother was pregnant with the twins, and I was no longer allowed to jump into her lap. That hurt me so deeply. I thought that she loved the babies more than me. I remember wanting a little brother who wouldn't steal my toys. Instead, I got two sisters, who did. And, not only did they steal my toys, but they were born with a built-in "partner," whereas I didn't have anybody. I remember reading in my parents' bed. I remember sleeping on the screened-in porch on Louisiana Street. I remember going to see the movie Run, Appaloosa, Run, with Stevie D. and his father. I remember throwing up in the middle of the classroom in first grade.
Other than that, and through to at least third grade, I don't remember much of anything at all. Maybe a few snippets here and there. I smell, or a warm breeze, or a moment of joy, but not much else of substance, that is, if you call the list I just made "substance."
I don't know.
Being home was how I imagined hell.
The tension was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. The nervous, angry feeling was in the air. Nobody had to say a word, as everybody could feel it. It was extremely tense and uncomfortable. Yet there was no way to get away from it, no place to hide and you wondered, Will it ever end?
You probably had fantasies about leaving home, about running away, about having it over with, about [...] becoming sober and live being fine and beautiful. You began to live in a fairy-tale world, with fantasy and in dreams. You lived a lot on hope, because you didn't want to believe what was happening. You knew that you couldn't talk about it with your friends or adults outside your family. Because you believed you had to keep those feelings to yourself, you learned to keep most of your other feelings to yourself. You couldn't let the rest of the world know what was going on in your home, Who would believe you, anyway?
posted by Nana @ 00:16
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