Breakfast

I have a few memories of my kitchen table. The plastic tablecloth. I want to say the tablecloth’s image has tiny houses everywhere. Words are there but I can’t read them.

The kitchen table was where I was homeschooled. On good days, we got up early, studied scripture with Dad, got dressed, and were finished by lunchtime. I remember not knowing what to do with myself after lunch. I was told I should be grateful I didn’t have homework. I spent a lot of time outside burning bugs with a magnifying glass, swinging on the tire swing in the back, and riding our bikes around the neighborhood. On bad days, I remember being in my room, surrounded by my toys, my 45s, playing records, and switching from Big Band to early rock and roll from my Dad’s collection.

A good day meant a lot was required of us. Cleaning, structure, and being dressed up when we weren’t going anywhere. A bad day meant we would fend for ourselves. We grab our school workbooks (Abeka, anyone?), grab cereal, eat, work, finish, and wander.

What made a good day? Perhaps I should define what “good” meant. At one point, one of my parents read “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People”. This was probably the first self-help book that entered my life. Apparently, Highly Effective People never feel bad. They didn’t experience (or wouldn’t allow themselves) feelings of anger, fear, exhaustion, or frustration. On “good” days, we weren’t allowed to feel those “negative” feelings. They were off-limits. We were positive. All day we focused on positive thinking. Scriptures like Psalm 118:24 were used often, especially on Sunday.

Emphasis on “will”.

No whining. No crying. Smile, be happy. Today is the day! Time to clean the house!

One thing we would get on “good” days. Breakfast. Hot breakfast. Eggs, bacon, some type of food that would fill and warm. Typing this, I wonder if that’s a part of what would trigger the good days. My mother was given a food allowance. She couldn’t just buy something when we needed it. As we lived on one income, a Preacher’s salary in a small town does not afford much. The grocery budget was strict and controlled. So, sometimes, we had eggs and bacon and sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes, our shelves were empty.

I have always been hungry. Right now, all I want is eggs and bacon. A hot breakfast signals that everything is going to be okay, that we are okay. Who is “we”? My mom. It means we she has strength for the day. Yes, I may not be allowed to feel a specific way about school or church, but it means that Mom is strong enough today.

What made a “bad” day?

Quiet. No one is waking me up. Mom is in bed. No lights are on. I’ve slept in but I don’t feel good. Sometimes, I wake up not knowing what I would find turning the corner in the kitchen. Someone could be crying. Sometimes there was fighting*. There is no direction. I can feel what I want since no one has the strength to police it. There is also no breakfast. Possibly there isn’t food in the house. I scrounge around for what I can find. Hopefully, there is cereal. I pour myself a bowl and pour in the sugar. The sugar is at least 1/2 inch deep. I homeschool myself. I follow the directions. I bring my work to Mom when I’m finished. I am done for the day. She is not strong enough. I am lost.

Sometimes, there are in-between days. Mom trying to gather strength. And, we are still in bed. She is exercising to the only exercise tape I’ve known her to own: Stormie Omartian’s “Fit for a King”. Or, I wake her up. I turn on Sherlock Holmes, give her orange juice, and leave her alone. She will be better soon. Sometimes up is better than down. At least I know what to expect.

We weren’t abused but I lived this perpetual roller coaster for years. Swinging sharply between good and bad. Describing these experiences to my counselor in 2016, she said my home sounded like an alcoholic’s. I went to the library and picked up books like “Adult Children of Alcoholics”. Reading the description of alcoholic families and the roles children play, I nodded my head. Yes. This is us. We are an alcoholic family without the alcohol. At least alcohol would have explained the behavior. For years, I just didn’t know what our “alcohol” was.

Mostly, I can’t control any of this. The food, the good, the bad, the seven habits, the scripture. I can help mom feel stronger, but beyond that, everything is out of my control. I am a child. I am hungry.

There are three things I can control. One is my imagination. In my mind, I am a princess surrounded by everything I need. I get to think about things beyond food and clothes and parents who may or may not be functioning. I disappear a lot. No one bothers me. I dive deep into these worlds often. I get to decide how the story goes, who I’m surrounded by, and what I experience. A tiny Walter Mitty.

The second is what I read. Pretty much everything is available to me in the house. I read anything anyway, from cereal boxes to Frank Peretti books. No one bothers me when I’m reading. Reading is an escape and I use it often.

The other is my words. My words matter far more than I know. “No” is off-limits. I get in trouble for things I say, either jokingly or while being serious. Apparently, I whine a lot. Over time, I learn which topics or conversations trigger arguments. I avoid certain topics. No one bothers me if I don’t say anything upsetting. As an adult, I police myself, my children, and my spouse with what topics are okay. I am learning to break this now. It’s hard. The behavior is so ingrained.

This became the goal: not to be bothered. I could survive if I disappeared, read for a while, and didn’t say anything that would rock the boat. I learn how to create peace. I didn’t understand then that peace like this is expensive. It costs everyone involved.

And, it was never my job.

* I know my parents fought. Often. I have no memory of what it was like. What I do remember is cleaning my room. I’ve always been messy, but I do remember cleaning when I was stressed. I guess I hoped to “make things better”. My room has always felt overwhelming to me.