What Would I Do Without You?
I never lose control. I never sleep without being medicated. I never let others be in charge. It’s all up to me. A deep place in me believes that chaos will be my complete undoing in any set of circumstances where I am not in complete control. Relying on other people makes me profoundly nervous.
The mantra of my subconscious: "You cannot trust anyone to take care of you or do what's needed." I know its origin; this was an absolute truth for many years. When I was young, no adult was stable. No one was there for my protection. Any decision concerning my welfare was reactionary or incidental.
My parents divorced when I was three years old. My mother withheld me from my father to punish him for his infidelities. Was I also being punished? That was not anyone’s concern, particularly my mother’s. It would not have occurred to her. A judge eventually did consider this issue when I was six years old. I had to testify and so did my grandparents. I remember they cried. I have no memory of exactly what was said. The evidence, however, upset my mother. The judge ordered my mother to allow my father visitation rights on the first weekend of every month. The visits were to commence at 5 pm on Friday and end at 5 pm on Sunday. If my father parked his car in my mother's driveway on such a Friday at 4:50 pm or approached the door at 4:55 pm and knocked -- fuck him.
That front door would not be opened until 5 pm. And he damn sure better have me back at that same door by 5 pm on Sunday. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay; more for me than for him.
After all, he had that Cadillac in reverse by 5:01 pm, as required by my mother's interpretation of the law; while I was being swallowed again by the storm of my mother -- at least until the next first weekend of the next month. With her face clenched and eyes blazing, she would pull back the curtain and watch my return from those weekends. I was responsible for her reaction. I had to manage her anger and negotiate her appeasement. I told her that I did not have a good time with Daddy; that is what she wants to hear, right? My internal dialogue was endless as I would walk from his car to her front door: I should be looking sad, right? -- because I was with him? Is that wrong? Am I supposed to look happy because I’m returning to her? Who knew how I really felt? I did not. I was just responsible for everything. I better damn well figure it out and do the right thing. No one else could be trusted to take care of anything, much less me. I had to be in control.
Sometime during my first grade year, my mother remarried Hank, an alcoholic who routinely beat the hell out of her. There was a lot of hell there and no external force could have purged it completely. While the adults would drink and fight and throw things at each other, I would hide. My hiding was not overt. I would not necessarily get under or behind furniture. Rather, I would hide in more subtle ways. I would be quiet. I would anticipate and react accordingly. What could I do to keep the insanity at bay? What could I do to anticipate the next wave of rage and defuse or divert it? How could I be good enough so that the anger and chaos would not consume all of us? When I was in bed at night they would check on me. Is he asleep? Is he hearing this? I would close my eyes tightly and pretend. The truth was any rational adult would know that no one could sleep on that night, in that house, with those voices, with those battles, with that yelling, with that hitting, and with those sounds of breaking glass.
I learned to play different roles and behave in different ways. I would do anything or be anyone to keep the peace and meet expectations. In the delusion of my mother's creation and ordering of the world, I was perfect and self- sufficient. Conveniently, I needed nothing from her -- absolutely nothing. In fact, at times, my perfection was all that made the rest of her life bearable. "What would I do without you?" Those were the words. The clear underlying message: "The world will end should you have any needs, doubts, or imperfections – good thing you don’t -- my well- being depends on you. Your existence is my mirror. Don't let the cracks show."
For my mother, I was the man of the house despite the fact that I was just a boy. I never wanted the role. Still, my stepfather was jealous. He hated me, actually, because he knew my mother would never love him the way she loved me. Just as she needed me to be perfect, she also structured her world view on the absolute truths of his imperfections. My mother and Hank learned they were having a baby. Where would this second son fall on that spectrum of my mother's delusional hierarchy? (Yes, they knew she was having a boy). During one of the nightly- late- night battles, I recall him shouting, “As soon as he's born we might as well take that bastard and bash him on the concrete because that's all he'll ever be to you -- a bastard stepchild!" I was ten years old now and I was responsible for this unborn brother. I did not know exactly why, but I was. Because of me, because of my mother’s unhealthy and extreme vision of me, because of her attachment to that vision, and because of my stepfather’s jealousy, my unborn brother was in danger. We were all in danger. Please, God, help me. Help him. Help us all. Let him be as good as me, I will help him. I promise.
The next three years were the same as the prior three, only with different scenery. Part of the delusion was that we were upwardly mobile and classy, which translated into clothes, cars and homes we could never afford. All the while there was still drinking, drama, loud voices and violence. The baby would cry now, too. I made straight A’s. Don’t worry about me. I have everything under control.
There was a lovely five-bedroom home on a 200-acre farm with lots of white fences and really pretty, expensive show horses. However, the phone was disconnected. Domestic help and farm hands would come and go without collecting back wages. Then Hank and his business declared bankruptcy.
There was no money to pay bills, including the mortgage on the farm and the house. The prior owner of the farm held the lien on the farm. After Hank and my mother were in default for several months, he foreclosed on the house. While packing our belongings to leave her beautiful dream home, my mother would scream obscenities about the prior owner ,“that bastard,” and rant that he had cheated us by foreclosing on our property. Yes, only that bastard was to blame. It was all his fault. Hank got a job in Texas after losing the farm and his company and declaring bankruptcy. The rest of the family followed a few months later. My mother disconnected the Waterford chandelier and shoved it in the car in a typical, hysterical rage on the way out of town. That’ll show that bastard.
Was there similar revenge available to spite the bankruptcy court? Or that lying bitch of a cousin who claimed Hank had made a drunken pass at her? And what about my father? He was never told that his son was moving 800 miles away. Did it ever occur to anyone to tell him? Was the omission intentional or inadvertent? Would he care or secretly be relieved? Why give him something to go to court about again?
All the while, I was a good boy. I knew that no one wanted to know that I was sad or upset about being uprooted from friends and school and the only comforts available to me. Those emotions would just be upsetting, or worse yet, ignored. I needed to pretend that everything was all right. There was no need for more trouble. We had enough already. It’s all up to me. Be good. Make it right. My mother may not have realized that her coveted Waterford chandelier was not going to look quite right in the low ceiling of that cheaply built, harvest gold and avocado green, seventies-nature-themed duplex Hank had rented in Texas. Hank used a realtor, Pat, to find a place to lease for his wife, stepson, son and the baby that was on the way. Oh yes, my mother was pregnant again Perfect timing. Pat had pink lipstick and pink shoes. “Cheap.” This was my mother’s accurate description, even before she knew Hank was screwing Pat between visits to check out condos, apartments and duplexes --or perhaps during such visits. Hank was nothing if not drunk and efficient.
Within a few weeks of relocating, my mother smelled the coffee about Pat and kicked Hank out of the duplex. She then had a bad miscarriage, lost a lot of blood, called an ambulance and left 13-year-old me to tend to my 3-year-old brother. Hank was missing in action. Mom was in an unknown hospital. Calls were made to distant relatives. Days later, unknown strangers -- well, they were tangentially known by the distant relatives-- swept us up and took us in during mom’s recovery.
Meanwhile, drunken Hank returned to the duplex long enough to put some bacon on the stove, start a grease fire in the kitchen, pass out on the couch, and wake up just as the fire engines arrived to put out the flames. The place burned down and all was consumed by the flames. Of course, he got out just fine. While we waited for my mother’s release from the hospital, I continued to care for my brother in the home of the rescuing strangers. “Don’t cry.” I tried to soothe him. Everything was fine, really. I was in charge. I was in control. Don’t worry about him. Don’t worry about me. I will manage everything fine without any help.
I have issues with intimacy and authenticity. I’ve had therapy. One therapist told me “You would have no idea what to do with someone who did not thoroughly disappoint you.” Wow. The sadder truth may be that I’ve been unconsciously driven to seek out those who disappoint me. Sometimes I haven’t found them. Sometimes I found friends who were fully present. Many times it seemed they cared too much. Their comfort made me uncomfortable – this cannot be home – they’re too reliable, too good, safe, boring. I did not know what to do with them.
A childhood spent with reckless adults has left me compulsively self-reliant. I learned that other people will only let you down. I learned that no one is interested in knowing any parts of us that are flawed, needy or deficient. I learned that no one else can be in charge.
That’s why it makes me nervous to rely on other people. Really, how could you expect me to trust you? It’s all up to me to be good and make it right. No? Prove it. Secretly, I hope you do. Maybe I could be the one to say it. What would I do without you?
AnonymousSubmitted 5.15.09