New Memoir Excerpt- Becoming invisible
Dear Friend,
For 48 years something felt wrong. Now, after four years of working with a good therapist, 12 step program, and connecting to people who understand, I know what it was. Very early in my life I was taught to believe certain things about myself from someone that I loved. That has sabotaged every effort I have made to be happy and fulfilled.
A Gift
What started as a journal has become a memoir, which has been an unexpected gift. Why? Because, as you’ll read below, I was able to go back to the exact moments where I learned to doubt, and eventually hate myself. That led to anxiety and always feeling like something was missing, or wrong. The journey back was never about blame, but understanding. That led to healing, forgiving, and finally, loving.
The memoir excerpt below is remarkable for me because it let’s me observe one of the specific moments where, as a child, I learned to hide in plain site, become invisible, believe I was stupid and careless, and that my presence, specifically my face, could disgust someone that mattered to me more than anyone. If you’d like, read below, and if anything resonates with you, I’d love to hear from you.
Also, my latest podcast where therapist Jill Mackey and I dive deep to explore that critical voice in your heads, and how to quiet it, can be found below
Thanks for reading/watching/listening.
Sending love and support,
Peter
Memoir Excerpt
Waking From the Fire
Names, Flames, & A Desire For Fame
An Inspirational Memoir
Excerpt from Chapter 7 Hiding Places
…My next memory is of sitting in the back of my father’s van again. This time, with brown paper bags. We’re returning from the supermarket; one of the few times I recall us doing anything as a family, except the time we pick something up from a large brown building. That time, my father pivots from the front seat and points his large finger in my face, clenches his teeth, and warns me, “If you tell anyone we’re on food stamps, I’ll kill you!” At four years old I don’t know what food stamps are, but I nod my head.
When he pulls to the curb I open the van door and watch helplessly, like in slow motion, as the watermelon my father took his time choosing at the supermarket rolls out and lands on the curb, smashing to pieces. My brother says, “He was yelling at you to be careful of the watermelon opening the door, but being a five year old kid you didn’t react in time.” My mother recalls in a soft voice, lowering her head, avoiding my eyes. “When your father came around to your side of the van and saw the watermelon, he slapped your face and screamed how stupid and careless you were. The neighbors were watching so I stepped in between you and him. He yelled, ‘He’s sleeping in the basement. I don’t want to see his face for the rest of the night.”
I take myself back to the night of the watermelon incident, as my brother, sister, and now Bella, call it, still vivid in my memory. I’m crouching in our dark, damp, mildewy, half furnished basement. My father’s one floor above me, pacing. I can hear him cursing God through the floor. When I share this writing with a friend, she asks, “Why do you do this to yourself?” I explain, “Forcing my mind to recall every sound, smell, color, and emotion, then write about it, and share it with Frank, my therapist, is the best way I have to help that little boy understand what happened. Some people, trying to be helpful, tell me to “Let it go.” But how could I let go of something I didn’t know I carried? First, I had to go back. That was the only way I could move forward.
From our basement, I can hear him stomping in and out of every room of our small apartment, each step of his heavy work boot vibrating through my chest, making it harder to breathe, worried he’s coming down. I think, If he does, Mama won’t be there this time. It’ll be just the two of us.
At the bottom of the steps is a naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Toward the back is another one. I stare at the one closest to me and the shadows it casts, praying it won’t go out. I’m afraid of the dark, so I never come down here alone at night. It’s creepy during the day. There are noises coming from the closet that a five year old boy thinks sound like monsters.
I sit crouched in a dark corner, and wait.
It’s night now. The stomping and cursing has stopped. Alone with the shadows and noises, I hear someone gently slinking down the stairs. It’s my mother. She whispers, “Come up, I think he’s calmed down now.” She’s not convincing. I shake my head side to side. From past experiences I don’t believe my mother can protect me. I’m sure the sight of me will send him into another rage. I think about what he said, “I don’t want to see his face for the rest of the night.” So I want to be a good boy and listen this time. My mother tries again, “It’s okay, come up.” I’m adamant, “No.” The shadows and noises make my chest hurt, but going upstairs would be worse. She gives up.
Soon I hear sounds on the stairs again. Someone else is coming down, slowly. I make my body smaller. It’s my brother. He recalls, “I came down to tease you. I walked past the clothes and sheets mom hung in the basement to dry. I didn’t know where you were. I found you sitting in a back corner. You had a big round spot on your pants where you pissed on yourself.”
My mother and brother continue to come down in intervals late into the night, trying to convince me to come up. I refuse. Bending my knees and pulling my ankles in as far as possible, then wrapping them with my arms, I’m determined to wait until morning. My 12-step program writes, “We controlled our thoughts, our voices, and many times our posture to escape detection from an abusive parent or caregiver.” (Step 3 BRB).
Curled there, I play back what happened. As the hours slowly go by, I’ll agree with my father, that I was stupid and careless, and that’s what made him angry. If he saw my face he’d be reminded of my stupidity and carelessness, so I’d better stay downstairs. He often warns me he’ll kill me if I don’t listen. He’s convincing. The more I think, the more I scold myself, Why couldn’t I have been more careful with the watermelon? I rewind the scene over and over again, seeing the watermelon rolling, cursing myself for not reaching out to stop it. Strangely, I feel badly for the watermelon, that I hurt it by letting it smash to pieces. Exhausted, I shut my eyes and pray;
I wish I was a better kid.
I wish he would leave.
I wish I was dead.
After tonight, whenever I can, I leave a room when my father enters it.
About this time is when the dreams start. In them, I’m running because I’ve done something bad and I’m in trouble. It’s always dark. There’s someone after me. If they catch me, I know they’ll hurt me. Recently, I got caught. There’s a dark figure of a man I can’t make out behind a glass door. We’re at a stand still. That’s when I see the gun he’s holding. It’s pointed at my head. Before I can run, he pulls the trigger. The glass door shatters and I feel the impact of the bullet snap my head back. With my finger I trace the hole in my forehead. Slowly, my blood leaks out over my face. It’s warm. Right before I sense my eyes are about to close forever, I turn to my 10 year old son Nicholas, standing next to me, his hand in mine, and beg, “Buddy, please don’t let this be your last memory of me. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to teach you more. I love you.”
Thanks for reading.
Here are some steps and resources that may help you.
Find a good therapist (They’re not all created equal. If there’s been family trauma/dysfunction in your life, ask if they have expertise in that area. Frank was my 5th, and best therapist)
Look for a 12-step program if that makes sense for you. I joined Adult Children of Alcoholics & Dysfunctional Families. It saved my life.
Ask like minded family & friends for help. Not the friends & family that will judge, but the ones who understand what it is to struggle
Never give up. I was ready to. Thank God I didn’t. My relationships, especially with my children, have never been stronger.
If it’s right for you, I’d like to work with you- Life & Health Coaching