Hurt-Early Beginnings

It was a strange sound. The wooden legs scraping on the wooden floor, the furious rocking back and forth of the mattress, and the strained wheezing sound. In the darkness it would be a puzzle to piece together. Given some light one could make out the boy lying on his side, violently rocking back and forth, gasping for breath.

On many mornings, I’d wake up with my stomach and ribs aching from the workout, the inside of my stomach hurting from all the air I’d gulped down the night before. Somehow I’d manage to actually go through a ‘normal’ morning routine, eat breakfast, and head out the door to elementary school. I don’t know how I got through the days without collapsing in the classroom from extensive exhaustion. Perhaps I caught up on my sleep during nap-time, or during extended games of “Heads-Up, 7-Up”.

I wondered before, and wonder more now that I’m a parent, where in the hell were MY parents? Granted, my dad left to work out of state for long periods of time. But wasn’t he there some time? I truly don’t remember; probably blocked it out. Or it fell out during the extensive knocking of the bed. And mom. That’s a mystery too. She couldn’t have had alcohol related blackouts all of those nights, right?

It’s been knocking around in my head for about a year now. I’d managed to keep it pretty much suppressed for most of my life. At this juncture of the journey I’ve had opportunity to reflect (some of it chosen, some of it bestowed). So I ask questions. Some have answers. Some don’t. And some of the answers will be evident in time. And maybe some of the questions need to be asked of others, though I’m not excited about doing the asking.