The Hole Within

CHAPTER 3

My home life was becoming increasingly unstable. My parents frequently fought. Al's temper was always a source of anxiety for me. I do not remember how it happened, what the final straw was, but he moved out and they were getting a divorce. For the first time in my life my mom had to get a job. She now had a house with five kids to support. Looking after the three younger children fell to me. Meeting my friends after school was no longer an option. Since Al refused to pay alimony or child support, my mom took another job, then another. Working three jobs, she became a ghost in the house. I took care of the house work, meals and the kids. My older brother took a job to help.

I became more isolated and withdrawn. I am sure I took out some of my frustration on the kids. But I did the best I could. The relationship I had with my mom, such as it was, became non-existent. She had no time or energy. When she was home I learned to read her mood. I became so in tune with her mood / anxiety that I could gauge it perfectly. I could feel her tension build if the kids were too noisy, like a rising thermostat. I would corral them up and make them calm down however I had to in order to stop mom's raising mercury. I learned that a clean kitchen eased her mood, so I made sure to clean it before she got home. It was the little tricks. Taking care of Mom. Taking care of the house. Taking care of the kids.

On occasion, I became mom's confidant. She would cry, stressed about our situation, her divorce, the stress from her jobs, and on and on. I would listen, soothe as much as I was able, and felt special that she confided in me. However, it was too much information for a child of my age. Information that I did not have the emotional capacity to process. I worried. My anxiety spiraled out of control. I felt a deep hole open inside me with no knowledge of how to fill it.

Amazingly, I maintained my grades. School work was the one thing I had control over. I had a favorite teacher, Mrs. Powell, who took special interest in me. Me with my discount store clothes and generic shoes (we could not afford to shop where the rest of the kids did). I hated clothes shopping because I knew we could only afford the bare minimum. Mrs. Powell was beautiful, kind and compassionate. When Mom could not afford the fifteen dollars for my physical education uniform, Mrs. Powell bought it for me so I would not stand out. I secretly, desperately, guiltily wanted her to be my mom. I daydreamed how she would hold me, spend time with me, love me enough to fill the hole. It plagued me with guilt but it did not stop the fantasy. My feelings for her were made complex because, on some level, I had a crush on her. It was a confusing thrill when she touched me or gave me a hug. Growing up Mormon, it never entered my mind that I liked her in that way. A girl was supposed to like a boy. I did not recognize the butterflies in my stomach as anything sexual. All I knew was that I longed for her touch. It was a mixed up feeling of wanting affection of a mother battling with wanting affection for the sexual thrill it gave me. I had had several boyfriends but none elicited the same tingly feeling that her touching me did.

'W.X}