My Scrapes and Bruises

Any scientist will tell you that random events tend to happen in clusters. I know this. I live it. I wait for weeks and weeks, tapping my fingers, until something happens. These long-awaited happenings come in like waves, sometimes sparking hope, sometimes despair, sometimes fear.

I've only been at this for about a year. Compared to most activists waiting for a collapse I am embarrassingly inexperienced. But still. A year is a year. Most activists have acquired deep wounds in their hearts and minds from the waiting, the bearing witness, and the fighting that this life entails. My scrapes and bruises are nothing compared to some. But still. I've managed to learn a few things.

This world does things to children who allow themselves to be shaped by it. (I remember verbalizing this quite well as a young child. "Dad, sometimes I wish I didn't have to adjust to the world. I wish the world would adjust to me!")The world took my parents, two young, in-love people with the there lives ahead of them, and fashioned them into hard workers and hard drinkers. They became proud and resentful. They became unconcerned with each other. And from the moment of their divorce, I felt a crack, which seemed bigger at the time, in my chest.

Sometimes I think civilization exists to make us into beasts of burden, able to tolerate greater and greater levels of pain as we grow and age.

As it turned out, the divorce was a small matter. My parents could act civil around each other, and I still got to see both of them, so I was content.

But the next wave loomed. My mother, who had been a hard drinker since my birth, had gone on a long binge and cancelled visitation. We all saw it coming. We knew what she was doing. I was scared. I didn't want my mom to die. I asked my dad to take me to her house. I was 12 years old. When we got there my mom was unconscious. I remember screaming and crying because I felt that was what my dad expected of me as he watched from the front door. If my dad hadn't been there I would have just stood there, looking. A dramatic scene followed. My mom woke up, and asked us to leave. My dad refused. My dad, I think purposefully added drama to to situation through his words and actions, "Did you hear? She you to get out! Out of her house!" My dad shook his head at my mother. "Go outside."

I went. I waited. I hate that dreadful, awful waiting. I could hear the screams echo from the living room. "Sit down! Sit down! Put the bottles in the bag. Leave you to die? What's wrong with you?"

What's wrong with you?

What's wrong with you?

I've been asked that question many times. What's wrong with you? When I allow depression to show on my face. What's wrong with you? When I make mistakes. What's wrong with you? When I do things out of the ordinary. What's wrong with you? If they had known about my obsession with my weight. What's wrong with you? To my little brother who tries so very, very hard not to mess up. What's wrong with you? To my father whose drinking surfaced shortly after my thirteenth birthday, and who nearly totaled the car, with me inside, on the day I was supposed to have my party. What's wrong with you? To my stepmother who can't help but scream at us for not mopping up all the crumbs on the floor. What's wrong with you? Say the teachers. What's wrong with you?

What's wrong with me? With us?

After the my mom's episode there was a major custody battle, during which I was expected to testify, but didn't have to. I moved to a new school. I left my friends without saying goodbye. For a while it felt like there was no place of refuge. Throughout the eighth grade I spent my days in a new school with no friends to speak of, and my nights at home with my father, who refused to admit his drinking problem even when semi-sprawled on the floor. I tried talking to the school counselor, who tried to help, but no one seemed to be able to tell me what I wanted to hear, or what I needed to hear.

High school came just in time. You know those once-in-a-lifetime teachers whose presence serves as a symbol of hope for you in your lonely teenage life? I found one. Mr. Bo was intelligent and understanding. But, I have to admit, the real reason he had my attention was that, even for a forty-year-old, he was really attractive. He had a kind of ex-hippie vibe with brown shoulder-length hair, light-blue eyes, and a sweet smile. However, this would have only held my attention for so long, because I'd had plenty of attractive teachers before. (Been there, done that twice.)

He was the first teacher who really seemed to care that we knew what was going on in the world. He talked about politics, wars, and disease. He made us all read Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn. By the end of the year I had something to care about again. I'd found a place of refuge. I was swept into an intellectual community of people who were prepared to fight for the truth. Ibsen once wrote, "I want to find out who is right, me or society." The quote applies for me as well is it did for Nora.

In the past year, as a child, as a girl, and as a human being I have found some satisfaction, a salve for my wounds. I've been liberated, like Julie in My Ishmael. Maybe there is nothing wrong with me. Maybe it's not my fault.