Ashes
Pendygrasse
Changing gears a little bit, I'll tell you about the very beginning of my life. I was born in a small town in Southwest Saskatchewan. My parents at the time lived in a town about twenty kilometres away, in a small trailer near my grandparents. We moved from that trailer to an apartment in Saskatoon, and finally to the first home I remember, a small townhouse on the West Side. For those of you that know the city, you know this isn't the greatest place to raise children, and has only gotten worse over the years. I'm not sure how long we lived in this house for, but I remember it mostly fondly, through the eyes of a child.
My parents, though they did love each other, fought constantly, especially so when drunk. I remember nights where their fighting would go on into the very early morning, sometimes ending with Dad slamming out of the house. One night in particular, I walked up to my very drunk and very angry mother and said,
“Mommy, are you and Dad getting a divorce?”
To which she replied, “I hope so, honey. I really, truly hope so.”
I was probably about four at the time, and as you can imagine this terrified me. A lot of my childhood, when I think about it now, was full of terror and dread. Mostly coming from inside me, sparked by sometimes the smallest things. I got the sense that my mother didn't really mean it, but I knew that they were very angry at each other over something probably very important.
I had a few friends in our fenced-in neighbourhood, the names of which I can't really remember, but I do remember Carly. Carly's mom Lynn was a good friend of my mother's, and they lived across the park from us. Lynn was a strange woman, and so I never really felt comfortable at their house. Our parents were sort of lax in the way they raised us, and so I had knowledge and a vocabulary that I probably shouldn't have had at that age. Not that I swore or anything, but I just had more knowledge of how things were than Carly and her older brothers. We got in trouble at Carly's house for saying the word 'death' or any derivative. How freaking weird is that?
Anyways, the point of this plot thread. I've always been an angry person. Ever since I can remember I've been prone to terrible rages, and my siblings often called me 'Schizo' when I got out of hand. One night while Carly was sleeping over, she did something which I can no longer remember. But it made me angry. Horribly, unbelievably angry. So, I shoved her down onto my bed, climbed on top of her and began violently strangling her. I don't know what made me stop, but eventually I did and she ran downstairs to tell her mom. I immediately felt guilty and scared, not only because I was about to get into serious trouble, but I liked Carly. She was my best friend at the time and I had no idea how I'd gotten to the point of strangling her.
Soon enough I heard my mom calmly call me downstairs to ask what happened. Actually it went something like this:
“Did you choke Carly?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
“She made me mad.”
“Say you're sorry.”
“Sorry for choking you, Carly.”
“Ok, go upstairs and play, girls.”
I was relieved but also a little confused. I just choked out my friend. Did that not require some form of punishment? I don't remember how Lynn reacted but maybe it's because my mom's reaction was so baffling. She could snap over the smallest things, but I wrap my hands around the throat of another small girl and all I need to do is offer a half hearted apology? My mother didn't always make a lot of sense to me.
This is all sounding a little bit disjointed, because I'm jumping from topic to topic and place to place, but really this is how I remember it. My childhood is still a confusing time for me, and I'm not entirely sure of the exact chronology of these events. They just are. They're there in my head and I'll pull them out as they come to me.
My fear of the dark has been with me for my entire life. It was once just a normal childhood fear but has since developed into an adult phobia. I can't fall asleep without some sort of light or sound, because I don't like being left alone with my thoughts. I've fallen asleep in front of the TV many times, much to the frustration of my sister. I haven't ever really tried to explain this to her, I just shrug and say “Sorry. Didn't mean to”. The simple fact is I can't stand to be alone with myself. I've never really been able to. Unless I'm so exhausted that once I hit the bed I'll be out, I need some form of distraction.
I remember one funny thing from around the same time as the story mentioned earlier. My parents were asleep and my sister was doing something, I don't remember what, in the basement. So naturally I was with her to avoid being alone. At some point I decided I really really had to pee, so I asked her to come with me. She refused and said I could do it by myself. So I walked up the stairs and attempted to cross the living room to get to the bathroom. After about six seconds I chickened out and ran back downstairs to beg Elizabeth to come with me. She laughed and assured me that I could do it, but I continued begging and begging until finally my full and frightened bladder let go. I peed all over myself and the stairs, immediately afterward indignantly shouting “Look what you made me dooo!”
This is also the home where my dad became my hero. I was around the same age when at the park in front of our house, I was playing with friends. There was a slide there where the beginning part came up off the ground about four feet. I was sitting preparing to slide down one day when I fell off backward and hit the side of my head on a rock. I sat up, put my hand to my temple and felt wetness. Pulling my hand away, a torrent of blood began to wash down my head and shoulder. I began to scream. Immediately, my father heard my cries and rushed outside with a look on his face I've only seen once since. Utter horror. He ran to me and carried me into the house, cleaning my head and bandaging the relatively small cut. I still have the scar to this day. He watched over me for the rest of the day, and I'd never felt so cared for by my father. It's the fondest and last first-hand memory I have of that house.
My parents, though they did love each other, fought constantly, especially so when drunk. I remember nights where their fighting would go on into the very early morning, sometimes ending with Dad slamming out of the house. One night in particular, I walked up to my very drunk and very angry mother and said,
“Mommy, are you and Dad getting a divorce?”
To which she replied, “I hope so, honey. I really, truly hope so.”
I was probably about four at the time, and as you can imagine this terrified me. A lot of my childhood, when I think about it now, was full of terror and dread. Mostly coming from inside me, sparked by sometimes the smallest things. I got the sense that my mother didn't really mean it, but I knew that they were very angry at each other over something probably very important.
I had a few friends in our fenced-in neighbourhood, the names of which I can't really remember, but I do remember Carly. Carly's mom Lynn was a good friend of my mother's, and they lived across the park from us. Lynn was a strange woman, and so I never really felt comfortable at their house. Our parents were sort of lax in the way they raised us, and so I had knowledge and a vocabulary that I probably shouldn't have had at that age. Not that I swore or anything, but I just had more knowledge of how things were than Carly and her older brothers. We got in trouble at Carly's house for saying the word 'death' or any derivative. How freaking weird is that?
Anyways, the point of this plot thread. I've always been an angry person. Ever since I can remember I've been prone to terrible rages, and my siblings often called me 'Schizo' when I got out of hand. One night while Carly was sleeping over, she did something which I can no longer remember. But it made me angry. Horribly, unbelievably angry. So, I shoved her down onto my bed, climbed on top of her and began violently strangling her. I don't know what made me stop, but eventually I did and she ran downstairs to tell her mom. I immediately felt guilty and scared, not only because I was about to get into serious trouble, but I liked Carly. She was my best friend at the time and I had no idea how I'd gotten to the point of strangling her.
Soon enough I heard my mom calmly call me downstairs to ask what happened. Actually it went something like this:
“Did you choke Carly?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
“She made me mad.”
“Say you're sorry.”
“Sorry for choking you, Carly.”
“Ok, go upstairs and play, girls.”
I was relieved but also a little confused. I just choked out my friend. Did that not require some form of punishment? I don't remember how Lynn reacted but maybe it's because my mom's reaction was so baffling. She could snap over the smallest things, but I wrap my hands around the throat of another small girl and all I need to do is offer a half hearted apology? My mother didn't always make a lot of sense to me.
This is all sounding a little bit disjointed, because I'm jumping from topic to topic and place to place, but really this is how I remember it. My childhood is still a confusing time for me, and I'm not entirely sure of the exact chronology of these events. They just are. They're there in my head and I'll pull them out as they come to me.
My fear of the dark has been with me for my entire life. It was once just a normal childhood fear but has since developed into an adult phobia. I can't fall asleep without some sort of light or sound, because I don't like being left alone with my thoughts. I've fallen asleep in front of the TV many times, much to the frustration of my sister. I haven't ever really tried to explain this to her, I just shrug and say “Sorry. Didn't mean to”. The simple fact is I can't stand to be alone with myself. I've never really been able to. Unless I'm so exhausted that once I hit the bed I'll be out, I need some form of distraction.
I remember one funny thing from around the same time as the story mentioned earlier. My parents were asleep and my sister was doing something, I don't remember what, in the basement. So naturally I was with her to avoid being alone. At some point I decided I really really had to pee, so I asked her to come with me. She refused and said I could do it by myself. So I walked up the stairs and attempted to cross the living room to get to the bathroom. After about six seconds I chickened out and ran back downstairs to beg Elizabeth to come with me. She laughed and assured me that I could do it, but I continued begging and begging until finally my full and frightened bladder let go. I peed all over myself and the stairs, immediately afterward indignantly shouting “Look what you made me dooo!”
This is also the home where my dad became my hero. I was around the same age when at the park in front of our house, I was playing with friends. There was a slide there where the beginning part came up off the ground about four feet. I was sitting preparing to slide down one day when I fell off backward and hit the side of my head on a rock. I sat up, put my hand to my temple and felt wetness. Pulling my hand away, a torrent of blood began to wash down my head and shoulder. I began to scream. Immediately, my father heard my cries and rushed outside with a look on his face I've only seen once since. Utter horror. He ran to me and carried me into the house, cleaning my head and bandaging the relatively small cut. I still have the scar to this day. He watched over me for the rest of the day, and I'd never felt so cared for by my father. It's the fondest and last first-hand memory I have of that house.