01.25.01 - 01:01:01

what i never got were the silences. what i never understood, what seemed to burn so much more than her hand (which never really hurt, hurt) was how you could do that and not say anything, how you could do anything and not even acknowledge it.

sometimes she apologized, but always couched in certain terms - why do you make me do this? i'm sorry, but you drove me to this. - that it was worse. and it isn't that i was an angel, and it isn't that i wasn't difficult. and i would like to think that she would never had, had she known how much it hurt, what a burden all that horrifying guilt was. none of it erases everything that she did, and does, now, not at all. but it stains it somehow, because we won't ever say it. she didn't lose her temper, i was uncontrollable. she didn't hit me, i made her do it. or god. or someone.

see, i can remember so clearly, so very clearly, ten years old. a vaccuum, a floor that wasn't cleaned to her exacting standards, and my mother kneeling at the base of the stairs, clasping her hands, and praying out loud. 'please, god. don't make me hit her. please, god. don't make me.'

it's so much worse when you don't say it, because then it might just exist in your head. one a.m. a school night, and she's shoving the phone in my direction, screaming. 'call them. go on, call the police. they won't believe you. you don't have any bruises.' which is true, i never did, it wasn't like that, it wasn't that bad. but i wanted to, i wanted someone to rescue me, or something. but then i thought about school, and how could i ever face everyone, if they found out? i wouldn't be able to deal with the pity.

midnight. fourteen years old, and locked out of the house. i dented a door with my clarinet case, banging, trying to get her to let me in. and she was screaming at my dad, how he always took my side, how she would take my brother and divorce him, because she just couldn't live with that bitch. and i started walking away, it was autumn, it was cold and the stars were out, and i was suddenly full of the conviction that i could just leave. i'd walk to the truck stop, hitch a ride, and the road would take me away. and i wondered where i would sleep, and it didn't matter.

but of course, my dad picked me up in the minivan before i was even out of the neighborhood. and we didn't say much, never said anything really. so it was all there, but not there. and it still kinda is. because it wasn't that bad, i guess. i had broken glass, and a paring knife hidden in my room, and sometimes i cut my arms, or legs, to feel real, to focus, when i thought i would never get away. and it wouldn't have been that bad, if i hadn't felt so ashamed.

and i even understand her now, and i still love her to distraction, and mostly i don't even think about it, except sometimes. i apologized rather a lot, but she didn't. well. not out loud.

and i wish i could just not think about it, or that it was worse than it was (and therefore real) or better (and therefore real) so i wouldn't be crazy for thinking about it. because sometimes i feel like that.

i really do.