I had a friend when I was in elementary school that I was close to, or as close as I would let anyone get to me that is, and we would do everything together. I wanted to be part of her family, so I spent as much time at her house as I possibly could. I felt safe there. Her parents didn’t fight and I could sense how much they loved her.
She was an only child. Her dad was a good provider so she had plenty of everything. Her mom adored shopping and was always buying her new clothes. Their house was super clean, nothing was broken and their furniture matched. There was a glass canister on the kitchen counter filled with mini peanut butter cups that we could ask for without getting into trouble. Even though relaxing was a foreign concept to me, at least I could observe that my friend did not live in fear of doing something wrong at all times like I did.
No one was drunk at her house. I don’t even remember her parents drinking. Basically, her house was the opposite of mine. I couldn’t tell her about my home life, because I had to keep up the facade. On the rare occasion I was allowed to invite her to come over, my mom would panic and we would run around frantically cleaning in an attempt to maintain the illusion that we were a “normal” family like hers. I was on pins and needles the whole time my friend was there, hoping nothing would go wrong. In the back of my mind, I was carrying the fear that I would say or do something that would upset my dad. I knew he would not say a single word about it while my friend was there. But, as soon as she left, I would get in BIG trouble for being too loud, or too messy or asking for something I shouldn’t have asked for, or not asking politely enough for something I was allowed to ask for or, basically, for behaving like an excited kid. When I say BIG trouble, I’m talking about getting beat with a belt, and/or getting yelled at and slapped across the face, and/or being assigned grueling chores.
In the evenings, my parents would sit at the kitchen table drinking way too much, which would inevitably lead to a screaming match. My mom would wake my brother and I up in the middle of the night and make us pack our bags. I can still see my little fabric suitcase with its swirly green and blue pattern that I kept on the floor of my closet. Mom would urgently scoot us along, out of the house and into the garage where we would quickly pile into the car. My brother and I would be silently crying until we would get settled in and fall asleep. She would drive us around for awhile, eventually realizing she didn’t have anywhere to go and we would end up back at home. Where, once again, she would wake us up to grab our suitcases so we could stumble out of the car and very quietly tiptoe(so as not to disturb Dad) back to our bedrooms.
My brother and I were tiny zombies getting ready for school the next day. Mom would remind us that we couldn’t tell anyone about it. We weren’t supposed to worry because that was going to be the last time. Of course, it wasn’t the last time and it happened again and again and again. I was a very good girl and didn’t tell anyone, not even my best friend. I received the message loud and clear that intimacy was taboo.
My dad usually didn’t get out of bed until noon. He didn’t have a regular job and paycheck—his job was mysterious to me. He supposedly sold insurance and had a half-ass office in our house. His insurance company was just his name on envelopes as far as I could tell. It smelled fishy to me. When I was 19, he was sentenced to 15 years in prison for fraud, embezzlement and tax evasion. To this day, I have a very attuned bullshit meter.
On a side note, when I was four and in kindergarten, my teacher had us sit in a circle and tell everyone about our daddy’s job. I wasn’t sure what my daddy’s job was, but I remembered seeing a photo of him standing in front of a statue of a bull. (I thought the bull was real.) He had on a bullfighter’s hat and was holding up a big red blanket in front of its face. So, of course, I told the class my dad was a bullfighter. My teacher said that was very interesting and did he do anything else? I told her he made money. She wanted to know that if she were to ask him, did I think he would make her some money too? I told her that I was sure he would do that for her if she were to ask him.
Anyway, on with my story. My dad would dress up in really nice suits every day and drive around in a brand new gold Lincoln Continental. At the time, this was considered a super fancy car. I even remember he had a phone installed in his car which was ridiculous. No one had a phone in their car. It was the 1970’s in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Sheesh!
Meanwhile, my mom drove us around in an old lime green station wagon that smelled like gas fumes inside and would give us headaches. We never knew if the engine would conk out when we stopped at a red light. I was absolutely terrified of this happening. I lived with a super high level of anxiety at all times, but riding in that car would send my anxiety level into panic. It was so bad, I’m amazed I didn’t spontaneously combust.
We never had enough money for groceries. My parents fought about that a lot. While my best friend was cozy at home with her worry-free life, I was answering phone calls from bill collectors. My parents delegated this unpleasant task to me. When the bill collector would ask if my mommy or daddy could come to the phone, I was given specific instructions to respond, very politely, that they weren’t available at the moment and could I take a message. The bill collector would then get angry and belligerent and tell me he knew I was lying. I would start crying and he would hang up… until the next time he called and we would go through the same rigamarole again.
One time, when I was home alone, a guy from the power company knocked on the door and told me he was sorry, but he was going to have to turn off our electricity because the bill hadn’t been paid. I remember panicking and feeling really scared. I kept thinking that the food in the refrigerator and freezer would spoil. What were we going to do if that happened?
My biggest secret of all was that I kept a bottle of whiskey or vodka under my bed so I could take sips of it to calm the vicious storm raging inside my body. It was easy for me to take a bottle of booze because my parents would just assume they drank it. For some reason, there always seemed to be enough money to buy alcohol.
My parents really liked to keep up the illusion that we were just like everyone else in our middle class neighborhood. I was very good at protecting their reputation. It used to drive me crazy that they would sit at the kitchen table getting drunk and making mean, judgmental comments about all of the people I thought were our family and friends. It was so confusing to me. It’s no wonder I tried to stay at my friend’s house as much as possible.
I started attending church with my friend’s family on Sundays. It was a good excuse for me to spend Saturday nights at their house. It wasn’t about church for me, I just wanted the feeling of security and predictability in my life. The only experience I had with church up until then was very sporadic. Occasionally, Mom would dress me up, drop me off at Sunday School and pick me up when it was over. She didn’t attend church herself while I was there. I don’t know what imaginary parenting rule she was following thinking that dropping me off at Sunday School was the responsible thing to do. We never discussed religion or spirituality inside our home. Ever.
My best friend’s parents bought her a brand new, shiny 10-speed bike. Naturally, I wanted one too. So, I begged for a new bike even though it wasn’t a good idea to beg my dad for anything—that would be grounds for punishment, and I’d never know just how severe it would be. Was a new bike worth it? I decided it was. I wasn’t backing down no matter what punishment he came up with, so he finally gave in and took me to the local bike shop. He didn’t specifically say it, but I knew I had to keep my mouth shut and let him pick out the bike. He picked one that was too big for me. I could barely touch the ground with my tiptoes. But, I wasn’t going to bring it up because the situation was very fragile, and if I made a wrong move, he would change his mind and we would leave empty handed.
After he bought the bike, he told me I had to ride it back home. I was 10 or 11 years old at the time and I had absolutely no idea that was the plan. He hadn’t said a word about it on the car ride to the bike shop. I can only imagine what he was thinking, “If she is capable of asking for a bike, she is capable of riding it home.”
We lived in a rural area, so it was about a 15 mile ride back home. The speed limit was 55 mph with pretty steep hills. I didn’t question it at the time because I was so excited. I’m sure I thought I was strong enough because I’d been riding my little girl banana seat bike with ribbons coming out of the handles for years by then. For my safety, I was only allowed to ride around the yard and driveway.
I had to hide how petrified I was of riding on the road with cars for the first time. I was also really worried about the bike being a little too big for me because I wasn’t able to control it all that well. I had to assume it was safe because my dad was having me do it. Right? No, of course it wasn’t safe. He’s lucky I didn’t fall over and hurt myself or, worse, get hit by a car. He didn’t care, it was his way of showing me who was in control and punishing me for begging for a bike. I will give him credit for driving slowly behind me and letting cars pass him—at least that was something I guess.
When I finally made it home, I pulled onto the grass in our yard. I swung my leg around and toppled off my beautiful bike and immediately fell to the ground. My legs felt like they were made of jelly and collapsed underneath me. I remember my dad chuckling to himself as he walked right past me and headed into the house. I was unable to stand up for a good 15-20 minutes. I just laid in the grass looking up at the sky until my legs started getting their strength back so I could stand upright again. And, oh boy, were my legs sore the next day. My dad had a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he watched me hobble around the house.
Thanks Dad. Lesson learned. I will never forget that I’m not supposed to ask for anything. I’m not important enough.
I can’t help but wonder if he never really accepted me because I was adopted. Sadly, his daughter did not survive her birth and I immediately replaced her. I was a constant reminder of what he lost. My mom clung to me, but he rejected me. I desperately wanted his approval. There was nothing I could do to get it. I tried to be the perfect daughter, but it didn’t work. I loved him, but he hated me.