Imagining The Darkness (eBook)

Chapter 3:
Choices

Generally, I felt very isolated inside myself from as far back as I can remember. As the oldest child, I suppose that I saw things differently. Even at seven years old, I noticed things. The subtle things that I was supposed to ignore. Somehow being shown a pretty simple view of life by my grandparents made me hyper-aware of things that were out of place. I used to think that life happened to us and we didn’t have much choice. Now I know that life is nothing but a culmination of choices, choices we either make or choices we choose not to make. The phrase, “If you see something, say something,” became common when my daughter was little. The truth is that we do a decent job of protecting ourselves, but we let others fend for themselves. If someone was hurting someone else or themself in front of you, how would you react? Would you intervene? Call the police? Walk away? If a friend was talking to you about an abusive spouse or parent, how would you use that information? Fear makes us do things that we normally would not. Fear makes us pretend we didn’t see the couple fighting at the bar. Fear makes us walk past the homeless man peddling for change without stopping. Fear makes us turn the television off instead of donating to all the kids and puppies asking for money. Fear can even make us silent when we ourselves are being treated badly. Silence is just as dangerous as a whip.

There are a few things that you find out are normal as you grow up, such as having a mom and a dad and feeling loved and safe. Going to school and having conversations about our weekends or family dynamics was not something I was able to enjoy. It was so embarrassing. I would lie to make myself not sound so pathetic. I needed to fit in like everyone else. I would be frustrated by my lack of imagination when trying to find the right words to say to belong. One of my favorite lies came after my mom decided to remarry, and I got a stepbrother and sister. My stepbrother’s mom’s name was Daphne, and that name sounded so much more exciting than my own. I would pretend I was her and write it on my school papers. Eventually, my teacher asked me to stop since that was not my name. I also peed my pants at the bus stop, which was definitely uphill one way and too far to make it home and back before the bus came. I told everyone my new baby sister threw up on me. I was five years old, and I again had a new baby sister; we lived with my grandparents, my dad was getting remarried, and he had moved to a place called Indiana for good. Lies are easier than the truth sometimes. I wanted to be included so badly. I was never picked for sports teams at recess; the cliques had already developed in our small town by kindergarten. I did not feel that I was exceptionally smart; mostly, I felt school was boring and did not make much sense until later in my life. I struggled to see the chalkboard, and I probably had an attention issue before it was a recognized concern. I felt so awkward trying to make friends and just being a kid. I had no idea what to talk about with someone my age. I was more comfortable talking to my teachers than my peers. My dad was gone. I didn’t feel like I was ever my own person; I was just playing one long game of make-believe.

I became a reflection of my mom’s emotions. How she became was how I would be. I watched as she picked up the pieces of our lives and made her version of the best of them. Avon soft musk was her signature scent. That was as normal and as at home as anything was growing up. She smelled like heaven, and I would stop dead in my tracks to breathe her in. She wore the lotion and the perfume. I could find her anywhere, just following my nose. She worked as a waitress at the Cupboard Cafe when I was little. Mom was so good with people; she would travel from table to table, her laughter and smile brightening the room. I remember one Halloween; she went to work dressed as Catwoman in a full leather suit, heeled boots, and cat ears. Her long hair flowing behind her–she was incredible. My mother also expertly held a grudge. The older I got I would pick up on tales of her coworkers and her bosses at the time and their wrongdoings. She loved what she did but not always who she worked with. If you wronged her, you wronged her for life. This, of course, was the rule for more than coworkers.

She came home with her future husband in December 1992. She walked into my grandparents’ living room, standing next to a bearded man wearing flannel. They were getting married. I knew mom had gone on dates before, but this was the first time I had heard his name. He drove a big red car with a red interior, and his ashtray was full of cigarettes. Not long after their announcement, he took my mom, my sisters, and me out for ice cream. I don’t remember if we spoke to each other then. I was afraid and excited at the same time. I only knew one life, and that life did not include a dad or trips to Dairy Queen. I would find out later that mom had only known this man a month before marrying him. My seventh birthday came in the middle of that month, and he gave me a snow globe. I kept it on a shelf on my bunk bed that I shared with my middle sister. One afternoon she rattled the bed playing, and the globe toppled over and broke, its sparkly water soaking my bedding. I was furious with her–mostly because I didn’t want my soon-to-be stepdad to be mad at me, but also because little sisters are the worst. He could leave like my dad did, and I wasn’t sure if I liked him or not yet–all because of a broken toy.

My Nonni and I were sitting next to each other at the courthouse just before the wedding began, and she leaned over and said to me, “This is the end of our lives as we know them.” At the age of seven, I knew something wasn’t right. It was a feeling deep in my stomach that I would have for so long that it became a part of me. I sat fidgeting through the short ceremony. Not long after my grandmother made her ominous statement, I remember hearing everyone talking in my grandparents’ kitchen. My stepdad was discussing claiming his new dependents on his taxes. I could hear my grandmother’s disapproval in her responses. Anytime my stepdad was around, there would be a look on Nonni’s face that I had never seen before. I used to think people held back their feelings to avoid hurting people or making a scene. I know now that we tend to keep our mouths shut out of fear of our own rejection. No, we don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but once again, self-preservation is our top priority. My Nonni said nothing. My Papa said nothing. She would laugh or smile when necessary and then go back to looking like she was trying to solve an unsolvable puzzle.

I used to think that people make choices based on the example they had as children. Which I now know is bullshit. Under that logic, with the example of my grandparents as a guide, you would think that when my mom decided to marry again, she would pick someone who could give her that type of love. You would think that she would pick a hero for the rest of our story. You would think that we would have our happily ever after.

After the wedding, we moved out of my grandparents’ house and moved in with my stepdad. He had a trailer in a part of town I had never seen before. Everyone calls the area Five Points and I have never understood why. I used to think everyone lived in comfy little houses with old fireplaces and doilies. Now I know they don’t. Sometimes they live in homes without floors, and sometimes homes with bed sheets for doors. Some people have mud for their backyards instead of grass. Some people own chickens that have nicer houses than they do themselves. I saw all of these things once we moved to Five Points. I saw families with more kids than there were rooms times two. I would see trash piled up on the side of the road and in ditches. I would watch dogs without collars or leashes running with their spoils down gravel roads. The smell of hot garbage haunts me to this day. We were often left outside to entertain ourselves with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I had Kool-Aid for the first time. There seemed to always be Kool-Aid in pitchers in the fridge to drink. The packets were cheaper than actual snacks or healthier drinks. I vowed never to drink Kool-Aid again after that summer. The move from my grandparents’ beautiful little home with their cute little yard to this place was absolutely shocking. Nothing was cute or nice in this part of town.

After we moved across town, I learned that I had a stepsister and brother to meet–a stepsister a week younger than me and a stepbrother the same age as my youngest sister, just under two years old at the time. Five kids under the age of eight in a wood-paneled single-wide trailer that was too small, with concrete blocks as front steps. The front yard was nothing but red clay and weeds. It was like we were stuck in a very bad dream with no chance of waking up. My step siblings were not with us full-time at first, and their visits were short.

I decided pretty quickly that I did not want a stepdad. I didn’t need one. We didn’t dance with mom anymore. She was always busy. When I got home from school one afternoon, I found a note on the fridge that said, “You can call me daddy if you want to,” written on one of my school papers; I was immediately sick. I spiraled in every direction. I was upset at the notion of calling someone “Daddy” other than my daddy, who happened to be nowhere to be found. I also had zero desire to have the responsibility of emotions towards someone else. I wanted to say “NO!” Instead, I pretended I’d never read it. I did not have...