Ever since I was a little girl I was extremely sensitive. I remember at 3 or 4 years old, watching Land Before Time (for the first and last time) and uncontrollably crying when the mom died. My mom (who wasn’t watching with my sister and I) brought me into the other room, sat me on the counter, and said STOP CRYING. She told me I was never allowed to watch that movie again and I never did.
When we would go to family friends houses my mom would make it a point to bring up how sensitive I was, or my sister would join in. I remember the joke was that I would cry at a McDonald’s commercial if given the chance. Everyone laughed. I couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6.
When I was about that same age, my mom brought my sister and I into my sisters room and plopped us on her bed, a serious look on her face. I knew something was wrong and this is why maybe this memory has stayed with me. My mom preceeded to tell us about her childhood. The sexual abuse by her brother who died in a horrific car accident killing two other young girls. The fact that her father would stay up and scream all night. She took us down to the library so we could see pictures of the fiery car accident that took her brother. I didn’t even know what death was, let alone sex, let alone abuse. I just knew it was bad. I knew no matter what happened to me my mom was in more pain. I knew that it was my job to comfort her, to try to take it away.
My father was a firefighter. So he would be 3 days on, 4 days off. 4 days on, 3 days off. I didn’t really understand that as a child, but I knew dad was a firefighter, I knew when I visited I could pick a candy bar from their store at the fire house, and I knew when we were there loud alarms sounded and everyone ran around and left. I also knew that when my dad came home we had to be quiet. He would normally go in the basement, and I wouldn’t ever say this to anyone, but I was a little scared of him back then. Maybe a little curious. He would stay in the basement, somewhere my sister and I weren’t allowed, and then once everyone was asleep he would come upstairs and watch TV. Like having a stranger in the house.
Sometimes I would watch my dad from the upstairs balcony. I would peer over while he watched TV and try to tell how he was feeling. Could I approach him? What would he say if I asked if I could watch Gilligan’s Island with him? Sometimes he would let me, sometimes he wouldn’t. There were other times when he wouldn’t be able to stand straight, his words would be slurred, white sticks would fall out of his pocket. Those were the nights I was most scared not understanding what was going on with him. I know he did the best he could, sometimes there’s just too many things you can’t talk about.
I guess the point is throughout this time, this confusing time, I realized some things. There was a lot of pain. The world didnt revolve around me. And since I was so little, I guess I developed this theory that if I could fix everyone else’s pain that maybe it would fix me too. At night I would pray so hard for the whole entire world I just wanted to love everything and everyone in it.
But thats just when I was little. 4, 5, 6. That’s just how I felt as a little kid. Of course at some point I grew out of it. Rebelled. Became an angry teenager. The funny thing is when I began to heal I had to start with this little girl. The one that would hide when the screaming would start. The one that had too big of a heart for this world.
The Girl Without A Face 