Chapter 13 – Mother developed a habit of self-diagnosis when I was very little. This understandably stemmed at least in part from the family’s lack of access to medical care at the time, but it led Mother to very problematic conclusions and treatments.
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Chapter 12 – My parents frequently delivered trite variations on, “Drugs are bad. Don’t ever do drugs.” They couldn’t say more than that, because they also insisted they that they knew absolutely nothing about, had never been around, had never done, and never would do, any drugs. They are liars
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Chapter 11 – Mother had this thing she would say when she was getting ready for her day. “I need to put on my face.” Even when I was little, this sentiment rang with discord in my mind.
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Chapter 10 – I do not think I will ever entirely get over how badly I was bullied or how poorly I was treated as a small child, especially given how much those things benefited my parents.
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Chapter 9 – Father appreciated it when I was there for him, but he repeatedly demonstrated that he was not willing to be there for me, so I knew it was pointless to ever ask him to be there.
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Chapter 8 – I could not even begin to guess exactly how many times Mother denied various innocent requests based on “demonic” qualities. Suffice it to say, it was a lot, and was usually applied in baffling and seemingly arbitrary ways. When it was not arbitrary, it usually aligned with some Satanic Panic hysteria in the news at the time.
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Chapter 7 – In the late 80’s my mother deep dove into memory regression therapy. She then attended multiple trauma healing 12 step programs for her “recovered memories”, with all the gravitas of attending social clubs.
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Chapter 6 – I believe it is fairly common for neglected children who do not get enough love, attention, and guidance at home to seek substitute parental figures outside the home. At least, that was true in my case, even if it is only in retrospect that I can see and understand what I was searching for.
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Chapter 5 – I remember filling the fridge with literal mud pies when I was a toddler, so it would no longer be empty. I remember the dirt tasting good, and slightly sweet. I remember the crushing disappointment when my parents informed me that the mud pies did not count as food, that I was not helping.
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Chapter 4 – “Artists always starve.” That sentence will probably echo in my head in Father’s voice for the rest of my life.
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