I buried my face in my favorite pillow, the pale pink one with faded flowers. That pillow had always been a source of comfort, the coolness of it, the familiar smell of shampoo mixed with me, the softness I could bury myself in whenever I needed to feel safe. But tonight, I doubled it up and screamed into it until my throat burned.
The cries, the sobs, came in waves, pouring out of me and crashing into the pillow. In between gasps, I tried to catch my breath, but it felt as though I was chasing something. My chest tightened every time I heard every uneven inhale, struggling. Each breath was a battle, broken and uneven, as if my body was not sure it wanted to keep going or give up entirely.
Once my screaming and sobbing ceased, I felt a wave of fear and listened hard for any signs that my cries had made her angry, any hint she was on her way to continue unleashing her wrath. Listening. Unmoving. Every sound made me flinch, but nothing signaled she was approaching. When I finally believed she wasn’t coming to my room, the event played back in my head.
The sound of her voice bounced around in my head, her words echoing sharp and relentless. “How could you be so stupid? Are you retarded? You look like a slut. What is wrong with you?” Each memory of each criticism struck like a hammer, driving deeper into my psyche. I shut my eyes tight, wishing for her voice to disappear, wishing for her to disappear…mostly wishing I could disappear.
I lay there, shaking, teeth clenching my pillow, willing my emotions to stay intact. I wondered if it would be easier to just accept it, all of it. The words, the labels, the disgust in her voice. Maybe if I stopped fighting it and let it sink in, it wouldn’t hurt so much.
But maybe she was right. Maybe I really was pathetic, shameful, rebellious, bad. Maybe believing her would have helped me understand why she said those things. Maybe then I could stopped feeling so broken, so isolated. It wasn’t even that I wanted to believe her…I just wanted the pain to stop.
Why did I have to insist on having something to say? Why couldn’t I just stay quiet and take it? I knew it was in my best interest to do so…it was what my older siblings modeled, for the most part.
A flashback came to mind…a time when the family sat around our television watching the movie Mommie Dearest. I felt a connection between the experiences lived by the two kids in that movie and my own. Once, when I was being yelled at… for who knows what…I responded, “Yeeeeess, Mommie Dearest.” Immediately regretted it slipping out of my mouth. That definitely got me slapped and sent to my room without dinner.
A sound shook me back to the present. I lay still in my bed, questioning my actions, my “talking back”, and my presence in the world.
But somewhere beneath the grief, the fear, and the shame, new memories emerged. moments of my closest friends and their moms…the kind words that passed between them, the help and support given, the love. A flicker of anger began to rise, deep-seated defiance that felt like it had always been part of me. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Moms are supposed to love their daughters, protect them, make them feel safe. I wasn’t safe. I was never safe.
Her words were dangerous, but worse than that was the danger in those moments when she praised me in front of others, pretending to be a doting mother. That hurt even more…the lies, the pretense. Those moments were scary because I never knew how long the niceties would last, and knowing I could never be too comfortable around her when she was nice…while anticipating the next hint of annoyance or anger…was torture.
I thought about all the triggers: not finishing my food, eating too much, weighing too much. A less than perfect grade. A stumble in sports. Daring to speak up when she screamed at my father or my siblings. Funny how often I threw myself in the line of danger, but always at my expense.
And then there were those other memories…the feelings that cut deeper than all the rest. I remember the first time it happened. I was so young, so eager for her love. I ran to her for a hug after getting hurt, not really expecting, but hoping for warmth and comfort. Instead, her arms went limp, her body stiffened with tension. To her, I was a stranger. I disgusted her. That feeling of unease, of rejection, burned deeper than anything she ever said: her stiff shoulders, the awkward, deafening silence, the coldness in her touch.
I sometimes caught myself thinking I must be a really bad kid…what kind of child is so awful their own mother couldn’t love them? But it wasn’t me. She just couldn’t love…not the way a mother should. My breathing started to slow with this realization, my throat and teeth unclenching.
And then I saw it…on the wall. Pencil marks, my latest family weigh-in, scrawled next to the word “fat.” I knew it was my sibling, her counterpart. It must have been written while I was out in the kitchen getting ripped apart by our mother. My stomach twisted. The shift inside me wasn’t grief anymore. It was rage, cold and clear.
If I stay here, they will break me…this entire family. If I stay here, I will break. Behind this realization was a hint of determination.
At fourteen, it wasn’t right to experience this much hurt and pain. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.
I asked the universe…any god who might listen…to help me find a way out. If I was going to survive, I needed to leave. Once the thought emerged, it took root. It was no longer a thought, it was a truth.
Other thoughts flooded in, unstoppable. This was a matter of survival. I’d be better off on the streets. If there was a god, I would figure it out.
The year prior, I attempted suicide. That ended up with me in the hospital getting my stomach pumped, my parents blaming it on the successful suicide of my cousin…a cousin I didn’t really know. I was too weak and too scared to explain to the doctors the real motivation behind the attempt.
I knew in my heart right then, right there, that I wanted to survive but I knew I couldn’t survive if I stayed.
I didn’t know where I’d go.
But I swore to myself at that moment: anywhere else would be safer than here.
I was shocked at how quickly I moved from complete despair to focusing on creating a plan to get out of that house for good. My focus shifted from the hurt, pain, and sadness and found a sort of solace in the next step…action.
The weight of hopelessness began to lift, replaced by something sharper: resolve and a desire to run while giving them the middle finger.
I didn’t have all the answers, but I didn’t need them. All I needed was the acceptance that I knew I deserved better. A warrior spirit stirred inside me.
I had no other choice, I could not accept this life as my own.