(no subject)
Maya and Andrea saw my mom come after me down the basement stairs with a yardstick.
I don't remember what it was about. I can't feel what I ought to be feeling at the incident, even now. I mostly feel a deep sorrow for my mother, which is, I suppose, how the cycle perpetuates itself. A deep sorrow and an understanding of her pain and rage, and a lump of guilt in my throat for exposing her by telling stories like this.
I still worry someone will see this and think ill of her. I still don't know the place of compassion when unraveling the cycle of abuse and trauma.
The incident stands out because it was one of the few times, maybe the only time, any of my friends saw her violence towards me.
Similarly, my panic attack on Qantas airlines over the black Pacific when I was 14 stands out. I never lost control in public. I watched it happening to myself. I can't feel now what I felt then either, what prompted that moment of fear, my face pressed into a scratchy airline pillow, unable to stop gasping.
It felt like the flight would never end. Chasing the night. We saw the coastline of Australia in the darkness before dawn, lit up, with morning coming from the east. The graceful shape of the continent against the waves.
I think I thought I would be healed by now. I went inwards in my twenties. I did so much work. I faced so much. I had help.
I don't remember how I felt, standing in the basement with Maya and Andrea afterward, or if we even talked about it. I believe even now I feel guilty. The narrative running through my psyche like a tired old train is that I deserved it. I must have done something to goad my mother into hitting me with a yardstick in front of my friends. I know she's fragile, I know her. I wanted to shame her in front of my friends. How could I.
Writing about it makes me aware that it's there. So thank you.
The child will do anything to protect itself against these things.
I don't remember what it was about. I can't feel what I ought to be feeling at the incident, even now. I mostly feel a deep sorrow for my mother, which is, I suppose, how the cycle perpetuates itself. A deep sorrow and an understanding of her pain and rage, and a lump of guilt in my throat for exposing her by telling stories like this.
I still worry someone will see this and think ill of her. I still don't know the place of compassion when unraveling the cycle of abuse and trauma.
The incident stands out because it was one of the few times, maybe the only time, any of my friends saw her violence towards me.
Similarly, my panic attack on Qantas airlines over the black Pacific when I was 14 stands out. I never lost control in public. I watched it happening to myself. I can't feel now what I felt then either, what prompted that moment of fear, my face pressed into a scratchy airline pillow, unable to stop gasping.
It felt like the flight would never end. Chasing the night. We saw the coastline of Australia in the darkness before dawn, lit up, with morning coming from the east. The graceful shape of the continent against the waves.
I think I thought I would be healed by now. I went inwards in my twenties. I did so much work. I faced so much. I had help.
I don't remember how I felt, standing in the basement with Maya and Andrea afterward, or if we even talked about it. I believe even now I feel guilty. The narrative running through my psyche like a tired old train is that I deserved it. I must have done something to goad my mother into hitting me with a yardstick in front of my friends. I know she's fragile, I know her. I wanted to shame her in front of my friends. How could I.
Writing about it makes me aware that it's there. So thank you.
The child will do anything to protect itself against these things.