She reclined in her chair, retracting from me and the discussion entirely. My mother then let go of my hand, flipped it back to me. “You’re crazy!” she said, maintaining eye contact. My mother interjected, cutting off my dad’s hypnotic, silent cry for connection. He looked lost, incapable of understanding why I was doing what I was doing. My dad looked at me longingly, hoping I would correct what I had said. He didn’t know what it’s like for things to be too much. “What are you talking about?” my dad asked mournfully. I didn’t feel satisfied saying it, though what I said was the truth. Shouting forcefully, I jerked my hand away from her, but it remained in her clutches. I didn’t know why I needed to react by raising my voice. “I don’t feel understood!” My mind was bucking. “What don’t you feel?” She practically jumped on me, while yanking my imprisoned hand toward her. “No, Mom, I wasn’t raped, Jesus.” I took a moment to grind on my teeth and imagine the bit I was chomping at. “Honey, were you-” my mother looked to my dad, then concealed her mouth slightly with the other hand, “ raped?” They didn’t have emotions that were considered “excessive.” I felt like an offender being put at the stocks: my parents were the executioners, and my sisters were the jesters. My sisters didn’t have overflowing, excessive emotions. I was envious, jealous even, of my spectating sisters. They were illuminated by the ominous weather, which was also watching in on the dismal conversation through the windows. I could see behind my parents, through the glass-paned door, my two younger sisters were secretly observing the altercation from the dining room, hiding under the table. My old babysitter noted at one point there were 74 collectible horses in the house. She also maniacally collected sunflower artwork, which was the one obsession, of many, I found endearing. This week in particular, I had purposely destroyed two of my mother’s collectible horses. My parents had somewhat regular “interventions” to address my somewhat regular (sometimes public) emotional breakdowns, my self-medicating habits, and my general shitty attitude. Perhaps it was the ambiguous, gray, confusing feelings I was breathing through. The weather was particularly gray and dismal. I felt like an inmate being prepped for lethal injection. My dad’s office generally utilized natural light due to the expansive glass windows that allowed the light to drown the room, enclosing us in the chamber. My parents were sitting across from me on cushioned, bland-colored chairs in my dad’s office, while I sat on a rickety, torturous wooden chair. Not the way one might take someone’s hand to connect with or comfort them. She had no problem conveying emotion on her face, especially negative ones. She didn’t really have eyebrows, but she didn’t need them. She had a towering stature, with strong, swimmers’ shoulders, but she was hunched often. He was smaller than my mother, physically and figuratively. He was a hard-working, soft and loving man. “You aren’t acting normal,” my dad said with a dopy, concerned look on his face. Reproduced with permission from the student author. Essay by an anonymous student author, 2017.
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