I’m two years old in an oxygen tent in the hospital. They say I have bad lungs. I don’t feel good and I’m sad and I want my mommy. The nurse says, “Be a good girl — don’t cry. She’ll be here in the morning.” I bury my face in my damp, musty-smelling, stuffed doll, so the nurse doesn’t see my tears. I hate my bad lungs.
I’m a little older, four maybe, and Dad’s in trouble. He came home late and Mommy is mad because he lost money on The Argos. I don’t know what that means but she’s not saying anything at all now and that makes my stomach hurt. Daddy is sad so I try to cheer him up. He pats my head and says, “Good ‘ol Coo,” and opens a beer.
I’m five. I’m lying on my back and can feel the cool grass tickling my sweaty legs as I look up at the soft, marshmallow clouds. My sister is there too and we stretch our arms out, our fingers barely touching. I’m licking the last of the orange Freezie from my lips when she points up to the sky and says, “Look — a chicken!” We giggle.
First day of Kindergarten. Excited, I climb the big steps of the school bus and turn to walk down the aisle, looking for a seat. A boy at the back calls out, “Hey, ketchup face!” I stop and frown, confused. There’s no ketchup on my face… All too quickly I understand — my birthmark. My cheeks feel hot and I wish I could disappear. I quickly sit down and look at my new shoes, blinking the tears away.
I am seven now, sitting beside Mommy in her big bed. She has her book and I have mine and she is drawing little designs on my back with her fingers while I lean forward, never wanting this moment to end. I stay quiet, hoping that she won’t see the minutes ticking by on the bedside clock and realize it’s past my bedtime.
I’m eleven, mesmerized by the warm feeling spreading slowly throughout my body. We’re sitting outside the school on a warm summer’s night, drinking some stolen bottles of tepid beer. I’m giggling and my heart feels light and my worries are shrinking by the sip.“Why haven’t we done this before? I want to drink ALL the time, “ I say to my friend. She nods, sagely. “I knew you’d like it.”
I’m seventeen and very grown up. I’m in Antigua with my family. It’s late, and one of the local Antiguan guys (I can’t remember his name) is walking me down the beach, away from the hotel. I’m a little wobbly. A voice deep down inside of me is whispering a warning, but it’s too late anyway. Shortly after, the sound of my feeble protests is drowned out by the crashing waves.
Twenty-one now, and I wake up crying, crying so hard I can barely breathe. The nurse shushes me. “Stop it, you’re disturbing the other patients. Have some toast and then you can leave.” Doesn’t she know what I just did? Why I’m there? But I do as I’m told and quiet down. I don’t want to upset anyone.
The years are passing by, faster now. I’m thirty, married with two children, no sleep. Hollow, so hollow. Shouldn’t I be happy? Wasn’t this what I’d always dreamed of?
Now I’m thirty-five. Three amazing boys, a good job, nice house, and loving husband. And yet I know I don’t deserve this life — it must be a mistake.
I’m forty-three and married again. He likes it when I drink. I’m easier to control and agree to do things I wouldn’t normally do. When he’s gone I drink more to dampen the self-loathing that bubbles up like hot bile in my throat.
It scares me when he gets mad, so I tiptoe around, keeping the boys quiet, making sure he stays happy. It’s just easier that way.
Forty-five and I am at the proverbial rock bottom. If I don’t quit drinking, I will lose my family. I hate myself, hard. How did I let it get so bad? I consider suicide, but don’t want to burden my children with such ugliness. I’ve done enough harm. So I do all the things one needs to do in such a situation, and begin my recovery.
Without alcohol to fuel the toxic dance of the narcissist and codependent, marriage number two sputters and dies. A new recovery begins and joins the other recovery, already in progress.
I’m 50 and the wounded child inside of me is demanding to be seen. At first, she is small, glowing like an ember. But as I expose and discard the deadwood that has been choking her flame, oxygen rushes in and she comes to life. She can breathe now, and finally, begin to heal.
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This above essay is a brief preview of my memoir-in-progress. In it, I am exploring the themes of family dysfunction, trauma, and addiction and how we can use these challenges as teachers, and ultimately heal our inner child.
Thank you so much for reading!
