Family Portrait
An early memory of a difficult childhood
(Trigger warning: abuse)
Sometimes I see a picture of myself and I have no memory of not only it being taken but also no memory of the day, event, or activity associated with the picture. Then again there are pictures that keep my memories alive. I remember that day, how I felt, what happened before the picture, and even what happened after.
One picture that has haunted me like this for my entire life would surprise anyone. It is a beautiful family picture. We are all adorable, especially me. A sweet little girl among brothers, out front, smiling. Our outfits are matching. We are all calm and happy and serene. My head is cocked a bit. There is something off about me. Probably no one in the world could spot it, but I could immediately. Why is my head cocked? I remember not knowing how to make a happy pose. Wondering if my face was still red from crying. I thought if I tilted my head I would not betray my true feelings. My sadness, my fear, my terror, my worry. I wondered what would happen to me if I did not give a convincing portrayal of my piece of a happy family. I was 4.
It was an evening photography appointment, so my dad would be home to be a part of it. I remember being told what to wear. I remember being told we could not wear the clothes too early in the day so they would be fresh for the picture. I remember my mom in our only bathroom for a long time. Doing her hair, doing her makeup. I remember she was already upset and yelling at my brothers who were in their room. I was in my room. Sitting on the scratchy green carpet in front of my closet. I was anxious. I had to poop (still my usual body reaction when I am anxious). I could no longer wait. I messed on the carpet just a little. Then what happened? Did my mother discover this mess? Did cleaning it and my sudden need for the bathroom throw off the schedule of getting ready? My brain cannot connect these dots.
My next memory is back in my room. My mother was in full rage. She was screaming at me. She shook my little body. I fell but she didn’t stop shaking. My head hit the wooden floor. Then she told me to get dressed. I did as I was told. I worked hard to stop sobbing, knowing that I would need to if I did not want to experience more of her anger. I came to the bathroom to show her I was ready. She looked at me with disgust. “Splash cold water on your face. You look like you’ve been crying.” I did.
This was not the first time, by far, I had been a victim of my mother’s rage, nor would it be the last. But later, when that picture was hung on our wall all I could see was myself lying, acting. I hated that picture. I did not know anything at 4. This was my world. I was in it but that picture showed me that some part of me was also somehow outside of it. I would rather say that I rebelled, sought help, anything. But instead I took the path of doing anything I could to look blameless. Learned to control my bowels more, learned to look for cues from my mother about when to be ready, what to look like, what to make my room look like. I learned to survive.
