16 Pool Balls
A childhood filled with arguing means nothing is off the table
My mom has been sick lately, prompting many visits, phone calls, and FaceTime calls with my family.
My siblings and I get along very well, especially considering the chaos of our childhood. During one of our calls, we discussed how our childhood memories are so different, even though we all lived as a family unit until we were 16, 12, and 8.
A central feature of my family was a lack of honest, open, and loving communication- or any communication at all, frankly. I would interpret my family’s dynamics as best I could, mostly deciding that it was all my fault, as kids often do. As the oldest child, I took on the mental burden of family problems.
My parents fought frequently. A Catholic, my mom felt she had to make the marriage work. I think my dad was too complacent to leave- after all, my mom did all the childrearing and household chores and worked full time.
Even though our family didn’t seem happy, I was terrified of my parents divorcing. At night, I would lay rigid with fear in my bed, listening to my parents fight downstairs, trying to decipher the argument to figure out whether my parents were separating or if we were ‘safe’ for another night. Stability and safety felt fragile, and I walked on eggshells in my family to avoid upsetting the balance.
