My Childhood - Original Writing

Decent Essays
In various chapters of my childhood, all I can remember is her. In those moments, I am a character shrunk to microscopic proportions, and she is the frightening giant towering over my entire universe. I become invisible. I collapse into myself, engulfed by my mother’s fury and love and contempt: all that threatened to tear me apart only to piece me together again with a soft “You know how much I love you, don’t you?” And don’t I? Had my mother’s disquieting presence in my childhood overshadowed completely the happy memories of digging flowerbeds, of building the treehouse in the syrupy warmth of some late summer, of the dizzying feeling of being spun around and around in her arms? The answer itself is a paradox. There are two things of which I was certain. The first: that my mother must love me to the best that she is able. The second: that I have never felt safe in her wake. Family picnics go hand in hand with frantic 911 calls, an over-frosted birthday cake precedes a painful divorce, the finger painting taped to the fridge obscures the domestic abuse pamphlet buried in my father’s sock drawer. In the earliest years of my childhood, my mother’s periods of normalcy became punctuated by ever more frequent and pronounced episodes. During these violent outbursts, I found refuge with my brother; together, we would hide under a tent of blankets, pretending that our anxious whispers could drown out the deafening roars of our parents in the living room, wishing to be oceans
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