A visit from my inner child

 

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.

December 13, 1972

 

December 13, 1972

It was Friday the 13^th, and it crossed my mind that I should avoid ladders, black cats, and cracks. I laughed to myself. Friday the 13^th was just another day. I was in a great mood: I was 17, soon to be 18, Christmas was coming, and I was a senior. I was privileged. Seniors got to eat in a special café section for lunch and the back seats of the bus were for us, not the underclassmen. Now I could sing out:

We are the seniors

The mighty mighty seniors

Everywhere we go

People should know

Who we are

So, we tell them

We are the seniors (repeat endlessly)

My first class of the day was Psychology. It was a subject reserved only for seniors, and I was really into it.  Because our last names were so close, I was seated next to my best friend. That morning, however, she wasn’t there. She was upstairs helping the music teacher. Class hadn’t started yet and so I opened Exodus and continued reading.

Suddenly there were loud screams. All of us went to the windows. We could see into the quad (where we were allowed to smoke or just goof off during free time) and students were pouring out of the cafeteria doors, screaming “He’s got a knife!”

We began calling out, “What happened?” and “What’s going on?” and “Who’s got a knife?”

Some of the students stumbled over to answer us.  The maintenance man suddenly pulled out a huge knife (later learned it was a machete) and began terrorizing the students. No one knew why but one guessed it was because one of the students had been calling the man names.

Our classroom was just around the corner from a long hall leading to either the cafeteria or upstairs to the music room.  We could hear more pounding feet coming from the hall and more screams. I thought of my best friend and wondered if she would be in danger.  I got up and started to go to the door, thinking I would go warn her. Fortunately for me, other classmates yelled at me and convinced me to stay where I was.

Our teacher rushed in and locked both doors. As she was doing so, I heard the vice principal’s voice over the intercom, sounding panicky. “Teachers, lock all doors! This is an emergency!” She repeated those words two or three times.

What the hell was going on? We were all buzzing and Ms. Colgan tried to calm us down. Her voice was soothing, comforting. We all took our seats.

There was another loud scream from that hallway. “No, no, let me go!”

We could hear a door slam hard. The custodian’s office was around the corner, and we shared a wall.

“Let me go, let me go!”

“Shut up, shut up or I’m going to kill you!” The man sounded like he meant it.

Shocked, I thought I never thought this would happen here.

There were acts of violence everywhere, but I always thought of my school as a safe place.

I felt the student’s terror. Now she was crying out: “Get the knife off my neck!”  I shuddered. As a child, I learned to detach from my feelings. At home, it was mostly not to feel the fear, anger and worry when my parents fought with violence.  I did it now to stay calm. Some of the students around me were crying, and I didn’t want to do that. I had to stay in control of myself.

The police and media arrived at the same time.  I remember the reporter came to our windows, wanting to talk to us.  We yelled: “Go away!” My feeling was that the reporter was a vulture, circling around a great story. Ms. Colgan went to the window and told him he could not interview us, and she had no comment to give while the hostage situation was going on.

The reporter was shooed away by a cop wearing what looked like battle gear.  He spoke to Ms. Colgan, and we could hear their conversation. He wanted us all to lie down on the floor in case there were flying bullets.

We all got down on the floor.  We were on the first floor and on a slab. It was cold that day and so was the floor. When the thought crossed my mind that I could be shot accidentally, I had to shove it back and put it in a drawer of my brain’s “Don’t Think About This” dresser. I opened my book again and continued to read. I was learning all about the Holocaust and the cruel, inhuman treatment of Jewish people. I was at the part where defiant prisoners of a ghetto in Warsaw, Poland began to fight back against Nazi’s attempts to starve and deport them to concentration camps. I rooted for those brave Jews.

Distantly, I heard Ms. Colgan comforting crying students and those who were praying. I heard her say to the class that since we could hear what was going on, the custodian would also be able to hear us. We should stay as still as possible so that we didn’t somehow make the custodian angrier.

The student cried out: “Oh God, please get this knife off my neck!”

The custodian’s answer: “There IS no God and I’m going to kill you!”

The student continued to call out to God.

I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling her terror. Then I opened my eyes and noted that my fingernails and fingers had turned blue.  The floor was so cold. I was dressed warmly but was so cold now. I began trembling as the girl continued to call to God to save her. The trembling began in my toes, moved up my calves to my thighs, to my upper body and then arms. I dropped the book because my hands were shaking. The trembling stopped for a moment and then began again.

I don’t know how long it went on. I was having trouble controlling my thoughts now. What would happen to the girl? Would the custodian really kill her? Where was my best friend? Was she safe?

It was quiet now. We could hear the girl and custodian speaking but couldn’t make out the words.

And then there were noises from the office. Some of us sat up and looked out our back door. We saw paramedics rush by with a stretcher. We couldn’t see who was on it, but I thought: thank God, it’s the student and she’s safe! Other classmates came to the same conclusion, and we got up. It was over.

I could feel pent up energy draining away. Some of my classmates began to laugh in relief.

Then there was a loud gunshot and we all dived for the floor again.  I only heard that one blast but learned later that there were eleven. I thought he’s dead. We stayed on that floor for a long time while the SWAT team finished doing whatever they had to do.

Finally, the vice principal came on the PA again, announcing the crisis was over and we could continue with our schedule. Anyone who wanted to leave early and go home would be excused.

I was confused, wondering what period we were in now. The bells had been silenced during the crisis. Should I stay, or should I go home? Could I continue to pretend everything was fine? Or should I go so that I could cry in my bedroom?

Ms. Colgan was speaking now, and her words registered. Take the weekend to try and relax. Talk about what happened with your family. Write it down. We’ll talk about this again on Monday. 

Students were filling the hallway. My classmates filed out. I got my stuff and went out the back door, unsure what to do.

My best friend appeared, and we were overjoyed to see each other. I asked about her experience.

She’d been assisting the music teacher when they heard the commotion in the cafeteria right below them. When the screaming and running began, the music teacher and my best friend took refuge in her little office. She locked the door. Moments later, they heard the doorknob being rattled and heavy breathing. And then whoever was at the door left. They stayed in the office until the vice principal announced we could move on or go home.

She asked if I was OK. I lied. I told her I was fine and gave a short version of my experience. Then we parted as she was unaffected and was on her way to the next class.

I was not okay. The full measure of what happened hit me hard. I decided to go home. My Psychology classmates all decided to go home too.

So many feelings were swirling around me, yet I still felt very numb. I almost felt like I was watching myself go through the motions of catching the #10 bus, which took me to downtown Baltimore. I transferred to the #8 bus which would bring me to my neighborhood. I had a short walk to get home.

As I was nearing my house, I saw my brother coming toward me from the other side of the street. He saw me and began running toward me. He went to a different high school and was in the cafeteria having lunch. A friend of his was playing a transistor radio and the program was interrupted to break the news about my school. He got up and walked out of his school. His plan was to see if I was safe at home and, if not, he was going to take buses to my school.

The dam broke and I burst into tears. I told him everything.

The story was covered on the news that night. That’s when I learned how many bullets had been fired. The reporter explained how the girl, a 15-year-old sophomore, had gotten free. The custodian began saying that he was sick, and she offered to go with him to the emergency room. He was surprised and asked if she meant it. She answered yes, and he let her go.  Once the girl was whisked away, the SWAT team told the custodian to put the machete down and come out. But the custodian rushed them, raising the machete. So, they shot and killed him.

Over dinner, I told my parents what had happened. It was slow going because we still relied on lipreading and some fingerspelling.  Friday was their bowling night in a Deaf league. I wanted them to stay home because I felt scared. They showed some sympathy for the story but their attitude about staying home was that I was being silly. I was safe at home and there was no reason to be scared. My dad advised me to just forget about it.

After they left, my brother asked me if I wanted him to stay home. I knew Fridays were party nights for his gang and appreciated the sacrifice he wanted to make, but I said no, I’d be fine. He looked relieved and I understood why.  I knew he loved me, but we’d grown apart as we went through the teenage years. He was going with a gang now, smoking, drinking and who knows what else. He didn’t know how to respond to my upset.

After my brother went out to join his friends, I went to my room and cuddled with my panther cat, Pepper. I got out my journal and filled pages, pouring out what happened and the feelings that had hit me after the crisis was over.

The following Monday, Ms. Colgan asked us to take the time to write down everything we remembered. Once again, I opened up and poured out my feelings about what had happened. After we were all done, Ms. Colgan said the best thing we could do to get through the experience was to talk about it to people who would listen and to keep writing about it. She explained reactions that later would be called Post Traumatic Syndrome.

I was diagnosed with PTSD when I was in my 50s, a reaction not only to what happened that day but also because of growing up with domestic violence.

This happened 50 years ago. Each December 13, the memories return. I will write about what happened that day. Then I check to see if my fingernails are blue because I feel cold.

Mad As Hell But Taking Dan Rather's Advice

It all boiled over yesterday after that vicious attack on Paul Pelosi (meant for Speaker Nancy Pelosi), Ke being approved back into Facebook, and the threat implied in Randy Quaid’s GQP tweet.  What happened is very clear proof the coup on our democracy is not over.  And people like Ke and Quaid and are making outrageous disgusting behavior the new norm. And “Christian” nationalists keep dragging God and Jesus into their sorry behavior. 

This is how I feel:

I'm As Mad As Hell

And then I read Dan Rather’s tweet.  Dan Rather is one of the very few journalists I trust for the truth. His advice today makes complete sense to me.  I plan to put aside thoughts, grief, and despair about the evil doings of the GQP, trumpers, and “Christian” nationalists.

Today my daughters are coming for a visit.  I’m planning a nice roast chicken dinner and we’ll visit and then either watch a movie or a Netflix series.

I am going to reread Jane Goodall’s The Book Of Hope.  She said that many times she’s felt anger and despair about what was happening but still kept nourishing that flame of hope that things will get better.  She suggested several things to remember during dark times and now, of course, I can’t remember them all.  Worthy of a reread for sure.

I’m going to be phone banking, encouraging voters to mail their ballots or go to the polls.  Some of the dialers I use have software that will bring up locations for voting and if anyone is unsure where to show up, I can give them answers.  I do feel much better when I talk to voters and share our views.

There will be music almost 24/7 this weekend.  Right now, I’m listening to Tran Siberian Orchestra’s Lost Christmas Eve. Yes, I know we haven’t had Halloween yet.  This music comforts and soothes me. 

And then there’s Country First.

I do have hope in spite of being angry.  I am staying steady.

 

Lost in the Twilight Zone

 

It’s funny: everyday I collect news stories on topics I want to write about. In the last week or so, I just keep setting them aside.

I feel like I’m wandering around in the Twilight Zone.

Or, a more up-to-date type experience: I’m in the Upside Down and can’t find my way out.

I’ve written about this before but it seems every day news items are more mind blowing.

The midterms are in less than two weeks.  Almost everywhere it seems that qualified candidates are in a virtual dead-heat with mind-dead, tRump parroting, ultra-right-wing conservatives. And why? I still don’t get it.

In Georgia, voters have a current senator now that is a thoughtful, rational, and even better yet, Christian minister in Raphael Warnock. Yet many are going for brain damaged or just flat-out stupid Hershel Walker.  Not only has he been lying and making ridiculously stupid remarks, Mr. Pro Life has at least 2 women publicly testifying he wanted them to abort his babies with them. In normal times, this would be a total deal breaker for Mr. Walker.  Apparently, the Upside Down is now known as the “New Normal” where it’s OK to be a fool, a liar and a hypocrite as long as you are a Rethuglican.

In Pennsylvania, there’ve been positive and negative takes on Lt. Gov. John Fetterman’s debate with snake oil salesman Dr. Oz.  Fetterman had a major stroke less than 6 months ago and is doing amazingly well in his recovery.  He still has some processing issues and needed some accommodation for the debate, to have the questions in text for him to read.  Dr. Oz has been in hot water for his many erroneous medical claims.  Not only that, he doesn’t even live in PA.  In spite of all that, major media is all gloom and doom about Fetterman.  It’s depressing.  The man is intelligent and has some great ideas; Dr. Oz panders to the tRumpers.  His most recent statement during the debate was that a woman’s reproductive care should be up to the woman, her doctor and, oh yeah, local legislators. 

In all the other battleground states, decent Democratic candidates or office holders are struggling to keep even with inept Rethuglicans endorsed by tRump—and some of these clowns are just evil.  Why? Because Rethuglican millionaire/billionaires are pouring in ad money to support the idiots on the Rethug ticket.

A sense of simple decency and kindness barely exists online at all.

I can’t look at major media anymore.  The headlines are infuriating and depressing as Democrats & President Biden are bashed without quarter and tRumpers are fawned over like they’re gods.  No wonder they walk around arrogantly broadcasting their anti-Semitic, racist, ugly views. There’s no blowback. Their own party members won’t say anything and, surprisingly, neither will the Democrats.

The Democratic leadership has been asleep at the wheel almost the entire time President Biden has been in office.  There have been so many blown opportunities for talking points to connect with voters.  It’s like that whole party has OD’d on Valium or something.

I set aside topics I want to write about because going down those roads would only serve to make me more discouraged.  There are only 2 weeks to the election and I want to keep a flame of hope kindled.  From now until the election is over, I’m going to set news aside and just focus on job hunting and writing for NaNoWriMo in November.  If we do have a blue wave or tsunami, I can write about things that need to be changed.  If we don’t, it won’t matter because we won’t have a democracy anymore.