the things you learn

Young? Old? How much do you really change in a few years? Scientists discovered humans are creatures of habit, so you would think they don't change much; unless they are in a stressful situation and have to adapt. Then they carry the new adaptation for the rest of their lives. Always subconsciously doing things that were needed to survive in that era, even if they are safe from all dangers. Five instances I had to adapt to survive and how I am still only just surviving.

One, six years old; I remember the nights that felt like they would drag on for decades. Started as hushed whispers, whispers that cut through the air like a thin knife through a delicate cake. As you think everything will be fine, the volume starts to increase. Now it's not just a mere whisper but a sequence of doors slamming, screaming at the heavens, and vicious words of threats. Four kids, all but one, are hiding out. The one who was sure that their job at that moment was to sneak under the table with the dog, just to cover his ears and teary-eyed, explained they were not yelling at him. It was pure and utter chaos until the bang and the silence. A few seconds passed before a scurry of little feet echoed through the kitchen, all making a run to the bedroom, all the little hands reaching out and grabbing something to throw, hit, or prod if their mother was in danger. Not this time, said mother was making her way outside, getting in the car and leaving for work as if nothing had happened; only the red puffiness of her eyes hinted she had been crying.

You see, at merely six years old, I learned how to handle yelling and how to protect. If you're being yelled at by a man, you do not yell. You do not yell for the fact that, most likely, you will get hit. Men are quick to anger. They do not like being lectured by a woman, let alone a woman younger than them. If you are not the one in “trouble,” you do not interfere unless you are certain your party has been hurt, no need to make the man feel cornered. That's when they get violent. If you have the option, you get out. You leave then and there. I have used the last tactic with hard threats. Men shut up real quick when they have a warrant hanging over their head, and you have 911 dialed. 

Two, thirteen years old; Lying in a bed, a little too small for the size of the child. Feet hung over the side as they lay there talking to a friend, a friend they had eyes on for a while. The bed was slapped into a room the size of a closet. Not quite big enough to be called a room. The room was attached to the backside of the home. A home that was adjacent to a field of dead grass. Quiet knocks on the door that is attached to the room, the room that is attached to the backside of the home. And the home that is adjacent to the field of dead grass. Words came in a jumble as the child followed their mother to her room. Sitting on the floor, more words were shot out. In quick whispers. Six words. All it took was six words, six words, to draw another child into the room in screams. Six words to change the word home from a building to a closet-sized room that was always littered with discarded trash, and it only took a few months to change home from a room to a person, a gentle person, a person you could tell anything. 

Two and a half, thirteen years old; Widened eyes, sleep still clinging to a body, screaming, red-stained carpet—all the right things for a horror movie. But horror movies aren't supposed to happen to thirteen-year-olds. A thirteen year old that had finally gotten a good night's rest. A thirteen year old is not to be blamed for someone dying because they fell asleep. But it wasn't their fault. They had lost their son, a promising kid. A kid who would sit up all night with you and listen to you rant and vent, never muttering a whisper about his own struggles. A kid who had helped a struggling soul through a tough part of their life. A kid who was now no longer alive, in a room with red-stained carpet. A kid who had taken his own life on Christmas Eve while on call with his sleeping girlfriend. 

Ten. Ten friends I have lost due to them taking their own lives. Twelve if you count the family members. Thirteen if you wanted to throw in boyfriend. I now lay awake in the night, alert to every buzz that rings through my phone. Checking up on people who may be struggling. Never actually getting a full night's rest. Terrified to close my eyes, in fear that when I wake, I will be greeted with the cold and dead ones of another friend. When people start to get close, you push them away. Romantic relationships are an irrational fear since they only last a week or someone dies. My home had died, and I learned… Some people just never get to be blessed with a home.

Three, seven years old; Whoever said sticks and stone may break my bone, but words will never hurt me; are dumb. Purely and utterly stupid. Because as the young child stands next to their mother, they are not introduced with a “This is my youngest” or even “this is my child” it's just a simple five words. “This is my fat kid,” followed by the name. It was always like this. Involuntarily the child started to change. They began to wear long shirts while swimming paired with shorts, not in a terrible way. Sitting at the dining table a little too long, staring at the plate in front of them. On their eighth birthday, a picture was snapped. You could see the longing eyes to binge in the cake, devour it all by themselves. When the cake was being passed about, all they could mutter was, “I hate frosting.” Soon excuses sprung up from left and right, always something new: I hate sweet things, donuts are disgusting, I'm a vegetarian. 

The numbers drop quickly, almost too quickly. Light shone under the bathroom floor as a slender figure steps up to the podium, to see if they were finally at their goal. Nothing, one digit went up a little too far. Disbelief, absolute disgust. The anger levitated them up the stairs and pulled them into the dead kitchen. They bathed in the glow of the refrigerator's grace. Grabbing hands in a sign of defeat, understanding how much this would set them back but not really caring at that moment, only seeking comfort they could not get from anywhere else. A hollow stomach was filled once again, in the morning they would wake to regret it for all their worth.

Four, 14 years old; Sometimes trauma doesn't seem bad at first. You don't even realize what's happening until it's over. Or in my case a year after. Vulgar rap music shouted out of the car's radio, speeding down a street. We turned in a trailer park that was all too familiar. Kids ran about laughing and playing, oblivious to what was going on in the brown little trailer. Within it, two grown adults were higher than the sky while the children hung out and played some sort of shooting game. All but one, they sat at the table with the adults, accustomed to this type of behavior. When the rolled-up herbs were passed to the child a mere shake of the head would normally send it on its merry way. 

Sure this doesn't seem too bad, I mean compared to the rest of this it is just a small bit in a huge storybook. But it was a Friday tradition, with horrible men. No child should ever have to sit at a table with convicted felons as they got higher than a kite. But now I am able to hide anything. I can hide little packages that I don't want found, I can hide journals I write stupid little stories in. I can hide my troubles, I can hide my past, I can hide the way I feel. But it also taught me I can get along with anyone. As long as you are quiet, you learn things. 

Five, eight years old; A mother’s word is law, you listen to them and you don't question it. Mothers shape their children, they sculpt them with two delicate hands, adding features and giving words of advice. But when a mother who had never had a good mental state in her life tried to raise four kids, well, that never ends well. She sprinkled us all with her own mental illnesses. Picking the weakest link and the most loyal to plant lies in their head, raising that one as a pawn to protect her and hold her emotions. She fed lies about the other parent in hopes all her hard work could not get wiped away. Sending in whispers about how bad their dad was, how she was so scared to lose them. 

Her tactics worked. Because now I am not sure if I am overly empathetic or only able to hold my mothers emotions. She gave me stacks of mental illnesses to add onto the ones her husband had caused. The same husband who isn't even allowed by children. The same husband she had let give away countless of my animals and who had wrote a mere thirteen year old a suicide letter to make them feel bad. Who had told a fourteen year old it was their fault they wanted to end their life, that if they were stronger and more like their sister they would be able to just bottle up their feelings. My mother caused my male authority issues; I can't look at my own father without being scared of being yelled at and threatened. She is the reason I will never get a stable relationship, she is the reason I will have to go to countless years of therapy. To unlearn all the hate she has taught me. But I will still protect her, I will still defend her, and I will still hold her emotions above my own, till my dying breath. 

I pity the younger me, I do. But I also wish they were strong enough, strong enough to leave when they could. They had every chance, all the resources. But as I write this I picture myself on a movie set, as if all my memories were played out. I walk over to a six year old me, getting on my hands and knees and crawling under with them. Instead of helping them shield my dog’s ears, I pull them gently into my lap and cover their ears, holding them while the others run to the room. They don't need to watch their mother walk away like this. 

I pick myself up and carry them to their bedroom, but as I enter the room, it transforms. Now I hear his voice again, but I can't focus too hard on that right now because thirteen year old me needs someone to be with them. As my mother comes into the room, I scoop up the thirteen year old’s hand. We walk together. I can’t shield them from this. They need to hear this, even if it breaks them.

As we walk into my mother’s room, suddenly it’s my sister's old room, my new room. The pain comes crashing down like a thunderous strike. I grab the phone quickly and hang up the call mere seconds before myself wakes up. No one should ever see that much blood. 

I know what's coming next. I dart to the kitchen, but instead, it's a group of my mother’s friends. She is introducing seven year old me. Quickly like a flash, I get behind myself and cover their ears. Whispering how she is lying and that I was never big enough to be referred to as a “fat kid.” I showed them what happened to us, but all I saw in their eyes were envy. There was no escaping this one. 

The eyes of younger me are so dull and so deep that I need to take a long blink, but I find myself in the movie set that is outside my house—being beckoned to the car. I grab the shoulders of fourteen year old me and pull them back inside. Setting them down with a phone and telling them to call a friend to hang out or play a game with Lilly. 

As I turn around, I watch my mother walk in. She is crying. Even now, even after I have fixed so many memories and comforted myself through all these years. I can only watch as my mother walks over and slinks over the couch. She lets go of all her problems. All ages of myself are present, sitting and listening, making sure she is okay. As much as I wanted to scream and yell at them, everything we worked for was ruined and torn down. I found myself sitting down on her left and giving her a hug. Letting her know I am there for her, I will always be there for my mother until my dying breath. Because what am I without the purpose she raised me for.

note from the author (me!)- I wrote this my sophomore year of highschool, I am not 18 and graduated my writing skills have improved since then so please be kind to my younger self. She means a lot to me <3