The Forgotten Years

If there was one thing I learned how to do by growing up in this way, it was to deny myself.  We were expected to deny ourselves just about everything.  The world, we were told, held only damnation and hell.  All things of this earth would do nothing for us in the eyes of the Lord.  We were to take up our cross and follow the footsteps of Jesus.  This sounded good in theory, but it created an entire culture of “deny, deny, deny”.  It got to the point that I would do something and realizing that it was “of the world”, I would pretend that I hadn’t done it.

I was in a perpetual state of denial.  I was growing up with such conflicting realities that I felt almost like two different people.  There was the me who wanted to watch television, play sports, join Girl Scouts, listen to music on the radio full blast, kiss boys, wear jeans, learn how to use make-up, don a few rings, pierce my ears, cut my hair and simply be allowed to be a kid.  Then there was the other me who wanted so desperately to “belong”, to be one of “them”.

I often wonder if this contributed to my ability to lie during these years.  I could convince just about anyone of anything, or at least I thought I could.  I would stand up in Sunday morning house meeting and give my testimony, reading verses from the Bible and talk about how much I wanted to be like this person or that person or do a better job of being a “good example” to the worldly people.  Then I would leave the gathering in my Sunday best and arrive home to our little house in the valley only to get that dress off as quickly as possible and change into something more comfortable.  Usually this was the one pair of jeans I owned and a t-shirt.

I recall sticking my head in the sand from about fourth grade until probably the seventh.  Those years went by leaving only a whiff of memories.  Kind of like the smell of something in the wind.  You have a vague recognition and think, “I know that smell.”  And then it’s gone.  Poof, off to somewhere you have never been.  I know this time in my life must have been pretty tumultuous as I only recall about half a dozen things. 

I remember my father getting angry about something while he was sitting on the couch in the living room.  I believe it was a Sunday afternoon as I recall the Sunday comic page from the newspaper.  I remember wanting to read them.  Then, for whatever reason, he got so angry that he grabbed the entire paper off the floor and ripped it to shreds.  I was upset that I was now not going to be able to read the comics (remember, we weren’t allowed to watch television).  I said something like, “Some of us haven’t read that yet.” 

I remember his face was beet red with anger and as he ripped up the paper he snarled at me and said (and I remember his voice until this very day), “Go to Hell!”  My heart was beating in my chest like that of a tiny bird.  I felt it was going to explode.  My ears began to ring with that loud, high pitched tone that screams and doesn’t stop.  I stood up from the brown shag carpet and walked to the basement stairway.  I recall wearing a pair of pink gauchos with a white ruffled t-shirt.  I walked down the stairs to my bedroom with its beige walls and beige carpet.  I lay down on my navy blue bedspread and cried my eyes out. 

I heard a knock on my door a few minutes later and my father entered my room.  He walked over to my bed and sat down beside me.  He placed his hand on my back and I refused to look at him.  “Shelly, I am sorry I said that to you.” He said in a low voice.

I looked up from my pillow.  I remember purposely not looking at him.  I looked at the wall in front of me and through gritted teeth I replied, “Don’t you EVER come in my room again.”  I was so angry and hurt and filled with pain that I never wanted him to come near me ever again in my life, much less enter my sanctuary, my place of escape, my bedroom.  He had told me to go to hell.  How could anyone, much less a father do this to a child.  My heart was broken.  I realize now that he was only human and had his faults and fears.  My relationship with him was never the same after that.  His drinking got worse and he was away from home more than he was there.  And you know what?  He never did come in my room again, ever.

The next few years went by in a muddled mixture of church meetings and counseling sessions.  My mother had told my father that he had better get help for his drinking and drug abuse or she was going to leave him.  She was tired of the abuse, both verbal and physical.  His job took him out of town quite a bit and that was a relief, but when he returned he was distant and usually drunk, so in a step contrary to the denial she usually cherished, she threw out the ultimatum.  He agreed to get counseling. 

By then my older sister, I’ll call her Marie, was drinking and doing whatever she could to numb the pain she was feeling for whatever reason she felt it.  Like I said, I really don’t remember many details of those years.  Perhaps it is a defense mechanism to shield me from the pain that would be further brought on by the memories. 

I remember being sick for nearly my entire seventh grade year.  I had Mononucleosis.  I spent that year mostly in bed.  My grandmother came to take care of me since both my mother and father worked and I was barely able to walk on my own.  I was very ill.  My throat was so swollen shut that my mother could hear me breathing from her bedroom.  I was fed liquids mostly since I could barely swallow and I simply existed.

The summer before my eighth grade year we moved again.  We did this quite often due to my parent’s occupations.  I decided that this was going to be where I changed who I was.  This new place was going to give me a newfound self.  I was going to become something different from what I had been.  I cut bangs in my hair and stopped “taking part” in Sunday meetings.  I still went, as my mother insisted, but I refused to stand and give my testimony anymore.  I refused to be a part of this thing called they called the truth.  If this was the truth I decided I was fully prepared to live the lie.