A story from my past

[Our abuse recovery guide]

Hello all!

I wouldn't call myself a writer. I am usually pretty self-conscious about putting out anything creative into the wild. This seems like a pretty secure place to do that. This story has been on the tip of my tongue for years. Maybe parts are familiar to some of you.

Peace,


"That Broken Corolla"

I remember the day in snippets, Polaroid photos lined up in a row on a string. I recall sitting at the top of the stairs, my mom and dad both crouching above me, arms folded over chests. My mom’s familiar, antagonistically calm tone makes it feel all the more sinister. She lays my faults out on the line, pinning them up, one by one. “You’re selfish”. “You only care about yourself”. “You’re ungrateful”. “You’re a bitch”. And the clincher: “Your dad sacrificed his career, a better salary, better hours for this job so that you could go to school for free. All you care about is yourself. You know what? You may think you’re all that, but you’re not that cool, honey.” I harden. Shame washes over me.

Many years later, I can’t tell you what incited this. I think I was late coming home after hanging out with my friends.

I am 20 years old.

I am used to these messages from my mom. I’ve heard them a million times before. I have learned to recite them before I go to bed, chanting them rhythmically.

Dad, what’s going on? I could hear my dad echo my mom’s painful words, in softer tones, but it still hung there. It stings. I feel soft. I steal glances, his disappointed stares feel confusing, a betrayal. Not you too! I know I’m a piece of PLEASE READ, that I’m selfish and ungrateful, even though I explicitly told you several times how thankful I was for you. Do you really believe that I’m all of that? I didn’t think you were ever a part of any of this.

Shame. That sickly, gut-wrenching wave hits my entire body. No matter what I do to try and stop it from coming, it swallows me whole. I stare at the ground, stony faced. She can’t get me if I don’t move. If I stay silent. She’ll let up eventually if I just take it. Anger surges inside my chest. This is familiar, but I usually catch myself quicker. This makes no sense! I DO care! What does this all mean? I am NOT what you say I am! Or maybe I am, but I have good intentions!

Repress it. Swallow it. Don’t let it out. DON’T LET IT OUT.

I am soft again. I yell something I don’t remember. Something like, I’m done, I can’t do this. You’re wrong. No eye contact. This only provokes. This, in my memory, is a first for me. I never lash back. I never ever try to stamp out the accusations. This only only incites the rage storm. Like a disturbed bee hive, buzzing with kinetic energy. It always comes out to sting eventually.

Though she is queen, I am her jester. I distract. I deescalate. My voice is calmer than hers. I offer condolences. I never ever let it out, or…who knows what would happen. Take it, hands and heart open, accept it graciously. Drink it in like milk. This is your favorite drink. Thank her afterwards. She is right. I am wrong. It’s easier this way. Let it nestle inside. I feel crazy, but I can’t think about that right now. I am master at crazy. Swallow it down in one gulp.

I run out of the house, leaving everything but the keys and my purse. I slam the door of that little green, broken down Toyota Corolla, the one with the perpetually broken handle. When the key turns, the engine revs to life, but sounds tentative. I am crying. I don’t know where to go. I can’t go to my grandpa’s house. I don’t have money or anything to offer him in return. I cannot do school from his house anyway. I don’t have the money for gas. Maybe my boyfriend…I can’t pay him rent. We’re not there yet. He wouldn’t understand. What do I do.

I watch that big, bright house slowly disappear as I drive that Corolla down the road, past the chain link fence that held me in all those years. The house looks calm from the outside. It almost appears as if nothing has happened. The bees have been coaxed away. The nest is quiet. I pretend for a moment that all is well, that I’m off to meet my friends for a normal, quiet dinner. Laughter. Hugs. No confusion. No shame. I’m fine. I actually can’t explain any of this.

I don’t know where else to go. I drive up to what we kids used to call “the 806”, several seemingly empty research buildings at the end of fields of untamed prairie in my hometown of [BLANK]. It’s quiet. That’s what we always said. I find a remote parking spot, and put that Corolla into park. My face is wet with tears, snot smeared on my shirt sleeves. I don’t have any tissues. I can’t stop thinking. Panic. I can’t stay here. I can’t call my boyfriend. My mom will know, and it will only fuel the hate storm against me. How would I explain this? How do I explain what a terrible person I am. How angry my mom is. What the PLEASE READ Dad? How wrong I’ve been. I have no where to go, but for what? I am empty. I cannot form words. I am wailing, punching my gut. Make it stop. Selfish, selfish selfish. It isn’t a word anymore. I fall asleep for hours. I am hardened. I feel nothing.

How do I explain. This is survival.

[Schmem_25]

Hello all!

I wouldn't call myself a writer. I am usually pretty self-conscious about putting out anything creative into the wild. This seems like a pretty secure place to do that. This story has been on the tip of my tongue for years. Maybe parts are familiar to some of you.

Peace,


"That Broken Corolla"

I remember the day in snippets, Polaroid photos lined up in a row on a string. I recall sitting at the top of the stairs, my mom and dad both crouching above me, arms folded over chests. My mom’s familiar, antagonistically calm tone makes it feel all the more sinister. She lays my faults out on the line, pinning them up, one by one. “You’re selfish”. “You only care about yourself”. “You’re ungrateful”. “You’re a bitch”. And the clincher: “Your dad sacrificed his career, a better salary, better hours for this job so that you could go to school for free. All you care about is yourself. You know what? You may think you’re all that, but you’re not that cool, honey.” I harden. Shame washes over me.

Many years later, I can’t tell you what incited this. I think I was late coming home after hanging out with my friends.

I am 20 years old.

I am used to these messages from my mom. I’ve heard them a million times before. I have learned to recite them before I go to bed, chanting them rhythmically.

Dad, what’s going on? I could hear my dad echo my mom’s painful words, in softer tones, but it still hung there. It stings. I feel soft. I steal glances, his disappointed stares feel confusing, a betrayal. Not you too! I know I’m a piece of PLEASE READ, that I’m selfish and ungrateful, even though I explicitly told you several times how thankful I was for you. Do you really believe that I’m all of that? I didn’t think you were ever a part of any of this.

Shame. That sickly, gut-wrenching wave hits my entire body. No matter what I do to try and stop it from coming, it swallows me whole. I stare at the ground, stony faced. She can’t get me if I don’t move. If I stay silent. She’ll let up eventually if I just take it. Anger surges inside my chest. This is familiar, but I usually catch myself quicker. This makes no sense! I DO care! What does this all mean? I am NOT what you say I am! Or maybe I am, but I have good intentions!

Repress it. Swallow it. Don’t let it out. DON’T LET IT OUT.

I am soft again. I yell something I don’t remember. Something like, I’m done, I can’t do this. You’re wrong. No eye contact. This only provokes. This, in my memory, is a first for me. I never lash back. I never ever try to stamp out the accusations. This only only incites the rage storm. Like a disturbed bee hive, buzzing with kinetic energy. It always comes out to sting eventually.

Though she is queen, I am her jester. I distract. I deescalate. My voice is calmer than hers. I offer condolences. I never ever let it out, or…who knows what would happen. Take it, hands and heart open, accept it graciously. Drink it in like milk. This is your favorite drink. Thank her afterwards. She is right. I am wrong. It’s easier this way. Let it nestle inside. I feel crazy, but I can’t think about that right now. I am master at crazy. Swallow it down in one gulp.

I run out of the house, leaving everything but the keys and my purse. I slam the door of that little green, broken down Toyota Corolla, the one with the perpetually broken handle. When the key turns, the engine revs to life, but sounds tentative. I am crying. I don’t know where to go. I can’t go to my grandpa’s house. I don’t have money or anything to offer him in return. I cannot do school from his house anyway. I don’t have the money for gas. Maybe my boyfriend…I can’t pay him rent. We’re not there yet. He wouldn’t understand. What do I do.

I watch that big, bright house slowly disappear as I drive that Corolla down the road, past the chain link fence that held me in all those years. The house looks calm from the outside. It almost appears as if nothing has happened. The bees have been coaxed away. The nest is quiet. I pretend for a moment that all is well, that I’m off to meet my friends for a normal, quiet dinner. Laughter. Hugs. No confusion. No shame. I’m fine. I actually can’t explain any of this.

I don’t know where else to go. I drive up to what we kids used to call “the 806”, several seemingly empty research buildings at the end of fields of untamed prairie in my hometown of [BLANK]. It’s quiet. That’s what we always said. I find a remote parking spot, and put that Corolla into park. My face is wet with tears, snot smeared on my shirt sleeves. I don’t have any tissues. I can’t stop thinking. Panic. I can’t stay here. I can’t call my boyfriend. My mom will know, and it will only fuel the hate storm against me. How would I explain this? How do I explain what a terrible person I am. How angry my mom is. What the PLEASE READ Dad? How wrong I’ve been. I have no where to go, but for what? I am empty. I cannot form words. I am wailing, punching my gut. Make it stop. Selfish, selfish selfish. It isn’t a word anymore. I fall asleep for hours. I am hardened. I feel nothing.

How do I explain. This is survival.

[JNChell]

“The Broken Corolla”. Can you highlight the parts that signify BPD for us? Or, I’m sorry, for you? What is this poem about? What are you saying?  This is very interesting.

[Harri]

Hi Schmem.

You are quite the writer and your ability to capture the feelings and describe them is excellent.  Reading along, I got the feeling the story is about more than one incident and perhaps encompasses several of similar experiences?  I was sad to know that you experienced such cruelty.  I can very much relate to the depth of the emotional pain you describe so well and then the numbness.  

How wrong I’ve been.

What did you think you were wrong about?  Do you still think you are wrong?

 

[Schmem_25]

@JNChell, this was a story about my mom, kicking me out of the house when I was 20 yo. Like @Harri said, it tells of a lot of pain that comes from many parts. I am angry at my dad for taking my mom's side, though I know that he knows that my mom is projecting. My mom was so angry, and I think my dad thought that the only way he could try and curb the anger, or at least work to deflect it away from himself, was to take her side. This was painful and betraying to me. My dad is a kind soul, so it didn't match what I knew he truly felt inside. My mom is projecting her feelings about herself (i.e. selfish) onto me. "Selfish" encompasses my abandonment of my mom, that I was starting to think about my own needs instead of hers. My mom was watching me start to grow up, to stay out late and hang out with friends and my boyfriend, and this to her was abandonment because I wasn't at home as much to take care of her. She was probably envisioning the future without me and feeling scared that I wouldn't take care of her anymore. I couldn't give my time to her like I could before.

@Harri, thankfully, I have, through a lot of therapy and time, come to discover that I did nothing truly wrong, that this wasn't about me, that it was a projection. The emotions I'm expressing here are me trying to sort out my true self from the projections, but I'm unable to. I take on what she says I am because I don't know what else to do. I'm grateful that I am not in that place anymore. At least most of the time.