Once upon a time, I was nineteen years old and living at home with my dysfunctional drinking parents who also happened to be Deaf. I was very unhappy at home because of the drinking and domestic violence but hadn’t yet struck out on my own because of an overly developed sense of responsibility. Who else would interpret for my parents when necessary?
I took sign language classes at the Methodist Church for the Deaf in Baltimore. I was active in the Deaf community there and working my way toward becoming an interpreter. My parents didn’t attend that church. They felt the church did not approve of the Silent Oriole Club, and that’s where my parents went most of the time, to drink, gamble and socialize.
One night there was another serious fight between my parents before dad left for work. He was a printer for the Washington Star in D.C. and worked the overnight shift.
In the morning, I was up and getting ready for work. I passed my parents’ room and saw that my mother seemed to be in a very deep sleep. That was unusual because she was normally up before me. Then I saw the pill bottle on the floor. It was for sine Quan, a depressant the doctor had prescribed for her, and it was empty. I tried to rouse her. She was breathing but totally out cold. I saw a note on her pillow but didn’t stop to read it.
I ran down the stairs, racing to the kitchen to use the phone and call Emergency. My dad was just coming in from work as I was starting to speak to the operator, and I quickly signed what happened. He rushed over, grabbed the receiver, and hung up. He didn’t want me calling anyone yet. He went up the stairs two at a time. The phone began ringing.
I let it ring. I was afraid it was the operator calling back. The phone stopped ringing but, a few moments later, as Dad entered the kitchen, it began ringing again. This time I picked it up and it was the operator. “Is everything all right there?” she asked in a concerned voice. “Do you need the ambulance or the police?”
I stuttered, signing the question to dad and he violently shook his head no. No police, no ambulance. So, I began to reassure the operator that we were okay. “Are you sure?” she asked doubtfully.
I said I was, and she released the call. I was furious with dad. Why didn’t he want me to get help?
Let her sleep it off, he signed. She’ll be fine.
When he left the kitchen, I called the doctor’s answering service and got the answering service to page him. He was very cranky when he called back and very rude. He said we should get mom up and walk and if she didn’t come to, go to the hospital. I heard dad coming back downstairs so I hung up. When he came into the kitchen, I signed to him the advice the doctor had given.
We dragged mom out of bed. We half-dragged, half-walked her around and around and around until she began to wake and become cognizant of where she was. I had to get away, so I left the two of them to confer, and I didn’t care if there was another fight. I was half out of my mind, angry and terrified and I had to get out of there.
I thought of calling the church. Fortunately, the hearing pastor was there and before I finished my story, he was saying “Grab a bag and get out of there now. Come down to the church.”
With that, I ran back upstairs to my room, loaded up my suitcase with all my journals, a change of clothes and some pajamas. I practically leaped down the stairs and was galloping toward the door. Mom was in the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She looked pale and distraught and waved at me to go, go, and signed that she understood.
The minister helped me get a room at a Methodist women’s boarding house. Everyone at the church was supportive, but I was still traumatized. Starting out at the boarding house helped me adjust to independence because I wasn’t all on my own. There were other boarders to social with and a certain structure (mealtime, signing out, curfew, time to return before the doors were locked, etc.) to follow. Most important of all, I was able to decompress in peace.
Of course, there were a lot of other traumatic events in my life that I learned to cope with from attending ACA (Adult Children of Alcoholics) meetings and therapy. Yet, these memories still flood back and so one of my diagnoses is PTSD. I learned that there are triggers that cause flash backs. One trigger is when something similar occurs, and that’s what happened over the weekend.
The same but different: an 18-year-old family member living with a dysfunctional adult had a crisis over the weekend. The teen had to leave to avoid another terrible argument. After sleeping in his truck overnight at a local lake, he came to our house to talk with us. It’s an intolerable situation. He needs to break free, as I did so many years ago. Right now, he’s staying with us to decompress and think. He keeps vacillating about what he wants to do. He loves the abusive adult who’d been caring for him for a great deal of his life, but he doesn’t want to be mistreated.
We’re in the process of trying to help him without saying “You should…” He’s a young man now yet still a kid with a growing brain. What we’ve been doing is going over options and strategies and advice, but the ultimate decision will be his.
During this, I’ve been having these flashback memories. I don’t say anything about it except to give a bare bones summary of leaving home at the age of 19. I’ve sought support from my support group. One person said that my inner child wants to be heard. Another mentioned that it’s an opportunity to heal again from an old injury. My therapist has said these memories will always show up again under stress or similar circumstances. Quietly, I reassure my inner child that she is safe and will be safe from now on. I assure her that I will do my best to help this family member not suffer any more trauma from what’s happening. My inner child wants this young person to be safe too. I give my inner child a big hug. It’ll be all right.
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