This last week I set up my old dollhouse. It has been in the attic of my grandma’s house for the last 25 years. Time stopped for my dolls. They are forever dancing to the disco albums playing on their record player. They didn’t age and will always be at the prime of their life. Isn’t that funny about dolls? They either are cute babies or at the prime of their lives forever. Not a middle aged lady like this old doll.
I hear the wind whistling through every cracked or slightly open vessel. I feel it wind its way deep down into my soul stirring up memories that I long for but are long gone. The wind cries with an urgency that begs for immediate release but when searched for cannot be found. For me the wind cries “grandma.” It transports me back in time to my grandpa’s truck. I sit peacefully between my grandparents with the window behind my head open a crack forever whistling with the wind. Every time the wind blows, I feel a nostalgic longing for them.
My grandma is the main reason why I survived my childhood. She also gets a lot of credit for helping Mark through too. She is right up there with Mother Theresa in my blog. Mark and I would take turns staying with my grandparents every other weekend. She did all the little things to make me feel special. We worked on puzzles together, she cooked my favorite meals, she made cookies for me, and she always had time to listen. We always celebrated holidays at their house. One Christmas off to the side was something hidden under a large bag. It was for me. Inside was a dollhouse created partially by grandma using little pearl buttons as light fixtures. She also made doll clothes for me from patterns, struggling to get her big fingers into the little tiny clothes to sew them together.
Last week while cleaning out my grandma’s house, I found my old dollhouse. Maybe someday I will set it up the way it used to be in its finery. After 6 years of being vacant, someone wants to buy my grandma’s house. My dad never put the house up for sale and it was left as a shrine to her memory. Despite all of his shortcomings, my dad provided loving care for his parents and aunt in their final years. Every time the wind blows, I will be thinking of them and be thankful for the difference they made in my life.
I lived in one of “those” houses. You know the one. It was a house that a lot of my friends weren’t allowed to go to but I was always welcome at their house. I was invited into the popular group for a little while but that didn’t work out too well for me. I had an issue with conforming to narrow and limiting group norms AND I lived in one of “those” houses. I did have a best friend in high school I will name Shelly. Her parents only let her leave the house to go to school and to walk down to the store to buy them cigarettes. My second best friend was Mary and she was one of 13 kids in her house. Her parents didn’t seem to notice if she was home or not. So this worked!
When Shelly was 17, she was allowed to come over to my house once. She got home an hour late that day. By the time I took her home, the police were there because her parents listed her as a runaway. Shelly was one of those quiet girls that never got into trouble. When she turned 18, she moved in with us. My mom didn’t charge her rent because she didn’t have a job. She did have to help clean the house, which was no easy task because my parents are practically hoarders. At 19, Shelly got married and I was her maid of honor.
Shelly was having a hard time finding a job right out of high school. My mom got her a job as Matt’s teachers aide. After 3 years of being “kicked out of school” for his violent and aggressive behavior, Matt was transitioned back in. He still was angry and would lash out if forced to do schoolwork. At this time, I was going to college and was roommates with Mary. I was soon to meet my future husband who lived in the apartment below mine.
Over time, Matt was still having issues in school. He kept attacking Shelly and pulled her hair. Matt’s teacher convinced Shelly to press charges against Matt because he didn’t have any consequences for his behavior. The next time Matt attacked Shelly at school, she called the police. The police came to the school and arrested Matt with the charge of assault. At this time, I was engaged to Paul. My mother was devastated as she picked Matt up from the police station. I was torn between my best friend and my family. Mary was torn between Shelly and I. It was a big, fricken mess.
After several months of legal issues, Matt was found incompetent to face the charges brought against him and they were dropped. He has the mind of a 7 year old. He does not read or write. He can’t do simple math. I lost my 2 best friends. They didn’t come to my wedding. That is why, parents, you should not have your child’s friends be caregivers! It was a very hard time for me. I haven’t talked to Shelly in almost 2 decades and Mary for at least a decade. People sometimes ask me if I have any friends from high school. Did you just drift apart over time? Yes, it was something like that.
I was raised in a house full of introverts with the exception of Luke. At one time that probably made Matt’s bizarre behavior all the more shocking. Anything could set Matt off so we had to make sure that anything didn’t happen. We had to tiptoe around the house in a whisper, no loud music and absolutely no anger was allowed. Anger was wrong. But that didn’t seem to stop my parents from arguing when they thought we were asleep at night or before we woke up in the morning. Matt was the burner on high underneath my pot of water. Just when the water was rolling and coming to a full raging boil, the lid was forced on. Sometimes a little steam would escape, as from a tea kettle, but never before a full roaring scream could be issued. The hot water stayed trapped inside making my blood boil. It was a long time before I learned that feeling angry was ok. When I finally opened that spout, I boiled over with anger for a long time.
I also had to be perfect. Completely, inhumanly perfect. When Matt hit me I was not supposed to strike back or feel anger. I was lucky to be normal. Lucky! I got in big trouble when I struck back, but Matt was never once told that what he was doing was wrong whether he could control it or not. When my grades dropped in grade school, my dolls were taken away for a semester until I was perfect again. I couldn’t play piccolo in middle school because it was so high pitched that people could hear if I made a mistake. The same thing with singing. But this perfection was not just imposed on me. Mark had to be perfect and so did my mom herself. We all knew that my dad, Matt, and Luke were flawed.
For example, Mark put his hand on his girlfriend’s knee and got in trouble for that. Luke stayed out all night with his girlfriend and never even bothered to call. He did not get in trouble. I asked my mom about this unfairness and she said she expected more from Mark. I became judge over Mark and Luke. Most of the time I sided with Mark which caused fighting with Luke. Luke and I got in a big fight which wasn’t allowed. My mom tried to stop us. I retorted with, “Why should I stop fighting with Luke when you and dad fight all the time?” But most of the time our house was filled with silent rage and imperfect strivings toward perfection.
Biofeedback. Matt was obsessed with little girls. He could hear the high pitched voices of their teasing and laughter on the grade school playground. Their mockery and teasing played like a recording over and over in his head for over a decade. He also heard voices in his head to hurt little girls. Since I was the only little girl around I was most often the target of his attacks. He pulled my hair, scratched up my arms, and swung at me with a closed fist to the upper arm sometimes on a daily basis. My mantra while enduring this was that every bruise or scar was going to make me stronger. Believe me, it has made me a stronger person mentally and physically as a marathon trainee.
Eventually I did what most little girls do, I grew up. I became my brother’s caregiver. Parents, a strong word of advice, this is a bad idea! It is also a very bad idea to have your children’s friends be caregivers too. Another blog, another blog. I grew up but Matt didn’t. He was still fixated on hurting little girls. Mom found a new doctor who was into biofeedback. It involved hooking Matt up to a small machine to monitor when Matt was feeling anxiety. Using biological cues, he was suppose to be able to stop himself before hurting someone. So in the summer I would trudge around the local parks that were full of laughing and squealing little girls so we could hook Matt up to this equipment. I know this was supposed to be a good thing, but it felt so terribly wrong.
Still no cure.
Earlier this week I took my middle child out with some friends for his 15th birthday. As I was paying for them to get in, the woman behind the counter asked if any of the boys were over 18. Over 18?!? I know some of the boys are sprouting mustaches, but still! Honestly, that made me feel a little old. A few minutes later the song Glory Days came on the radio while I was watching the boys do flips off the high dive. This ignited a thought in the blogging lobe of my brain. These are my glory days right now. Hey, who said that middle age can’t be the new adolescence?
When I was in middle school, I tried out for cheerleading. I was the only girl that didn’t make it. The high school choir director was the middle school cheerleading coach. For some reason, she never liked me. Tryouts were on an evening that I was sick, no exceptions. So I had to come in to tryouts with a fever. Right now I could save face and blame the failure on the fever, but I sucked. Then I was homeschooled between 8th and 10th grade. When I came back to high school as a junior, I was far behind in sports. But sports was never my passion at the time, music was.
What I really wanted to do was join jazz choir. I didn’t even audition. Despite having a three octave range, I lacked confidence. The choir director cut my solo for solo and ensemble saying it wasn’t good enough. But maybe she wasn’t a good enough teacher to make this song bird sing. While I was homeschooled, I wrote my own music and sang it on the piano. I could hear a song and be able to pound it out on the piano and sing it as well. My dad yelled at me though, saying I was making a horrible racket. I wanted to join the choir in college, but feared I wasn’t good enough and never tried out. At my last high school reunion after rocking the karaoke machine a spouse of a classmate said I must have been a star in choir. I am so glad that my oldest daughter is a three octave choir star. I don’t want to live it through her, I want to still be able to live it myself.
In college, I commuted to school while living at home about half of my college years. Mom still needed my help raising my brothers. I also became a caregiver for two other disabled people. No new sense of freedom or keg parties for me. Now my children are almost raised and I have a new sense of freedom that I never had before. I am going to make up for the lost time. I love running and decided that I am going to run a marathon. Things are going great, they really are. I figure that I have about a ten year span to finally have my glory days. I am a few days from my 41st birthday. I am not sure I can keep up this marathon pace forever. I am at a major crossroad here. Should I keep myself in marathon condition after the marathon next month or cut back to a half marathon pace? Will my body burn out faster at an extreme level or will I be able to have a longer “run” overall if I cut back the stress on my body? Something to think about on my run today. After today I will have a total of 33 miles in for the week and I feel better than I ever felt in my whole life.
I remember the first day and last day the best, everything else is a blur of white fur. My parents and brothers came to pick me up from my grandma’s one evening after being at a birthday party of a little boy who had severe cerebral palsey. I opted out of going to the party because the previous year this little boy’s older brother decided to take me out on a little adventure which involved me getting lost in the woods. We trudged through the woods for hours, he knew his way back but I didn’t. He made me carry “dinosaur bones”, basically any old bones he could find, back to his house. If I didn’t carry those bones, I didn’t go home type of arrangement. Needless to say, I stayed at grandma’s house the next year. Mark came in the house to get me exclaiming that we now have our first dog. I didn’t believe him at first. It was dark out when I peeked into the car. Sure enough there was a big white dog in there. She was a stray named Whitey. The friendliest dog ever.
The last day started like any other. It was a Saturday. I volunteered with grandma, Aunt Grace, and a few other older church ladies at the thrift shop. They always had me running the cash register. I don’t know why because I was only 13. Grandma said that if anyone wanted me to take their items out to their car for them that I needed to have her do it. Something about that not being very safe even though I was old enough to run the cash register.
There was a problem with the dog when I got home. She was having a hard time going on her daily walk with mom. Mom said that Whitey probably drank the milk she set out for the cats. Her fur was matted up on her backside and she couldn’t go to the bathroom easily. Mom gave her a bath and trimmed her fur but she did not get better. Mom and I took her to the vet. The x-Ray showed that her intestine twisted. At this time, we made a horrible mistake by taking our dog back home.
Afternoon turned towards evening with no improvement. During this time, I received a call from a girl named Ann who was a homeschooled. (This happened during our three years of being home bound after Matt got kicked out of school for his violent autistic behavior). Ann called to tell me about her trip to Australia that they just got back from. Sorry, gotta go, my dog is dying here. Can’t hear about your wonderful vacation. My mom, brothers, and I sat next to Whitey for the next several hours. Dad checked out and was watching TV. I am going to spare you the details here, but trust me when I tell you that my dog died an extremely painful death that lasted over the span of several hours. A couple of hours in my mom asked me if she should call the neighbor over to shoot our dog. I said, “Absolutely not!” This was a man who shot his cute little Beagle puppy for chasing his chickens. This type of logic is exactly why you do not ask a 13 year old to help make major decisions in the family!
After several more hours and after mom called the emergency vet services to see if there was surgery or anything else we could do, my dog died. I still have her collar in my jewelry drawer today. I still feel pained that I made the wrong decision if I really think about it. I still feel angry that I had to make a lot of adult decisions as a child that I wasn’t ready to make.
The next morning as mom and I left for church, I saw Whitey laying on the front lawn. The wind was gently blowing her fur. I imagined that she was sleeping and that none of this really happened. I did that a lot as a kid, pretending that painful things didn’t happen.
Drip, drip, drip. Water runs slowly at first, seeping into the basement. The water threatens my dad’s graveyard of electronics. Radios, VCR’s, some his for hobby, but mainly electronics that need fixing or are unfixable. Broken parts, machines on the floor open from the last ditch effort operation to save them. Laughter. “Dad is going to be mad” said Matt. Matt has a new obsession. When no one is watching he goes into the laundry room on the first floor and overflows the utility tub. Laughter. My dad yells in horror at the prospect of his electronics’ burial in water. Matt flooded the house multiple times over the year. I can’t pinpoint when this obsession started or ended, it happened about 3 decades ago.
Drip, drip, drip. Water runs slowly towards the basement. This time the fish tank broke that was sitting by the front door that no one uses. Luke used the front door that day. He flung the door open and the door knob went right through the fish tank. Luke and I try to grab the fish, save them. I reach my hand in to grab a fish. The fish is slimey. I scream and pull back my hand cutting my arm on the broken glass. My dad enters the scene and is mad because the water is everywhere. My dad grabs me by the arm and throws me out of the house. He said, “Go get f*cked and get the hell out of my house.” I wander around outside crying. I was only trying to save a fish. My mom had to call over my grandma that night. She was the only one who could console me.
After I was old enough to drive, I started hanging out at the roller rink a couple of small towns over. The roller rink was small too. It seemed like we were turning more than we were going straight. I always ended up with a blister on one side of one foot since we only skated one song in the opposite direction.
There was a little girl that would go skating when I was there too. She was about 5 years old. Her parents would drop her off during open skating and head to the bar next door. It seems like when someone shirks off their responsibilities, other people take it on. Good thing I was like a big sister, protective instead of predatory. There was one occasion though when she protected me. I was hanging out with another friend when this older girl came up to my friend shoving her and accusing her of looking at her boyfriend. I told this older girl to leave my friend alone. She took my head and bashed it into the wall. My little friend told the owner I was in trouble and he kicked the older girl out. She promised she would find me and kick my ass in the parking lot when skating was over. I admit I was a bit worried. I was used to getting hurt by my brother, but was not good at fighting back. I refused to leave early, but she never showed.
The second time someone got kicked out again inadvertedly had to do with me. My mom thought it would be a good idea to take Matt roller skating with me. Mom took Matt by the hand, gently leading him around the rink like a small child. The slow skate started and the lights dimmed. Matt had to go to the bathroom. Mom took off his skates and put on his shoes. On the way out he grabbed a little girl by the hair and started kicking her over and over. It took a couple of people to get him off of her. The girl’s dad was furious. Once again, the owner came over and kicked us out. My mom was crying, apologizing profusely, saying it wasn’t his fault. The owner was understanding, but said we would have to leave just the same.
It was storming when we left the skating rink. I drove home in the pouring rain, tears pouring from my eyes. I screamed at my mom that I was never having kids because I never wanted to have one like Matt. My mom kept repeating over and over that she was thankful that Matt did not have his roller skates on while he was kicking that girl. We were both crying hysterically, the thunder a perfect crescendo for our outpouring of grief. I remember listening to In A Gadda Da Vida the whole mournful trip home. It was just another day in the life.
Outrunning my demons 