The Mirror Cracks
My story begins in a large city in the Southeast U.S.:
Atlanta. More specifically, Decatur.
Decatur was a really cultural little city inside the perimeter of I-285, east of Atlanta. Festivals always seemed to be going on at the square! It was a city that was very conducive to walking, biking, buses, trains, and cars (and it still is today!). Decatur really was just a great place to grow and live. I find myself missing it at times, until I realize how high property value is and the amount of people that now live in the Metro Atlanta area. I think I’m content to just visit from time to time.
My family seemed to be that picture-perfect model as well. Dad was a lawyer, mom stayed at home, we had a nanny (who was such a wonderful influence in my life), my grandmother (which I will refer to as “Goo” from here going forward), and great neighbors that just seemed to be perfect like we were.
But slowly, I became aware of the fractures in the glass of that image I perceived. Mom and dad would get upset and scream at first. Then one would hit the other. I had no understanding of physical violence at this point of my life, as I only recall these things from the age of 3 and beyond. I had a sibling that had just been born before several months prior to me noticing these things. However, that was not the worst of it.
I also discovered that their violent tendencies was fueled by alcohol, or as I understood it be at the time as “beer.” This pattern continued for several years. Not to say that entire time was all bad, but these moments were definitely not infrequent either. My worst memories came sometime before I suppose I was 6 or 7. Mom and dad had been drinking and something sparked an argument, which quickly escalated into something far worse. I remember dad grabbing my sister and I and going to their bedroom and closing the door. Only to be scared by my mom’s rage and the sight of a kitchen knife tearing through the door. Why was mom doing this? Why would she want to hurt dad? I couldn’t reconcile this in my head, and all I could do was cry in confusion.
Another time, I even saw her draw a gun on my dad and point it at him. I had no idea what a gun was, but I knew when mom was in this state, if she was pointing things at dad, it couldn’t be good. I cried, clinging to her leg to not hurt dad. Of course nothing came of it, but that is a memory I would never pray anyone, regardless of age to experience. These events persisted until one day my dad realized the effect it had on my sister and me. HE decided to seek options for a better living environment, which lead him to AA. I even went with him to some of those meetings. I had no idea what that would mean for him to see me there, but as an adult, I can only fathom what he felt. My mother, however didn’t want to follow, and continued to drink and have fits of anger and rage.
While this brokenness was awful and confusing for a child to experience, I had no idea what else could come and fracture the already cracked image I had.