My name is Amber.
I was the wanted child of two troubled teen parents who sought after each other from their troubled home lives. Mom dealt with an abusive father who burdened girls and individuality. Dad dealt with an unhinged narcissistic mother and lived on the cold streets of just about every state. Both in high school when meeting, they learned that they were both broken, and found peace in each others company.
But unfortunately, two wrongs don't make a right.
They ran away together away from their complications and into each others arms. It must've been warm and comforting though, because they had me. Being the only child of two teen parents is not easy, because they say that your mind is stuck at the age of which your trauma began. My parents were stuck at 18 and 19, and have been for my whole life. It seemed like my mom inherited her fathers anger issues and my dad inherited patience from someone we don't know, because he didn't know his dad.
I remember being 4 years old, sitting at the dinner table with tears in my eyes as my mom made me practice writing my name. She screamed, threatened and hit me when I couldn't do something right. The paper became wet and my body shook. After writing each letter and telling me how ugly it looks, and her raising her hand to strike me I began hyperventilating. Then shaking and nearly vomiting.
Believe it or not, I was having panic attacks at 4 years old. She was much bigger and stronger than me, so I was smaller and couldn't muster up the courage to fend for myself. Back then I always wished something bigger and stronger would come save me. Unfortunately, those days rarely came. But when they did, it was my dad. He usually barged in and yelled at her back, then they bickered back and forth, but at least the attention was off of me. My dad was the only one who saved me from my mothers wrath. Unfortunately she scared off just about anyone who tried to tell her anything about her anger issues.
My dad would pick me up off the floor, and ask, "what did mommy do" and to that I couldn't get enough breath to explain it, because I was still hyperventilating. This would continue for hours. And wouldn't stop until I went to bed. Dad would tuck me in before I went to sleep, comfort and kiss me goodnight. I'd be hyperventilating but at least I would be secure in my comforting Dora the Explorer bed, where the only monsters that could get me were make-believe and hidden in the folds of the dark room.
This is one of the earliest recollections of panic attacks, though I'm sure nobody else remembers because it was a fucking Thursday and it's what kickstarted me not having the heart to fly.
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Memoirs of a Featherless Bird
Non-Fiction"The thing about plucking your own feathers, is that not only do you get an addiction, you get a friend, a partner, a nurturer, and a label." ~Author This somber story take place in the eyes of a girl who finds herself addicted to pain at a very y...
