Unwanted: Memoirs of a Garbage Person

Written by: Trashlett

Chapter 2- A New Dynamic Emerges

My dad had gotten a job as an engineer at an oil company that was taking us to California. The neighborhood children and I gathered, as children do, to discuss the news in serious ways, each child taking turns to portray the knowledgeable sage. It was unanimously agreed that life would be very different and I would need to be prepared. First, of course, I would have to know how to surf, as everyone in California surfs, since everyone lives by the beach. My parents had not mentioned it, but it was said with such authority, the others solemnly nodding along in silent agreement, so it had to be true. I felt excitement flutter in my tiny chest, outweighing any trepidation of change and loneliness to come. The council of wise, OshKosh B'Gosh adorned scholars had come to the conclusion that no one would be able to understand me. We racked our collective brains, looking to television, movies, and mostly cartoons of the time, to figure out the words I would need to know to bridge the tremendous language barrier. “Tubular,” “Far Out,” and "Bitchen” (although the last one, none of us could say above a whisper) were some of the ones we were positive needed to be added to my new vernacular. Lastly, they all agreed—

“Every day will be sunny”

Of everything that we had gotten incorrect about the move to the Central Valley of California—hours from the ocean, where no one talks like a Valley Girl—the most glaring mistake was that no one saw the storm brewing on the horizon.

When the Drumbeat Changes, The Dance Changes

Phrases like "new life" or "new beginning" are full of hope and positivity. I think there is a reason for that. No one starts anything intending for a nosedive into despair. So this new chapter was no different. We had another spacious, two-story home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, with a huge backyard to play in. When rooms were picked out, my sister was given the largest one, farthest from my parents. I was given the one next to my parents, sharing an adjoining wall, since I was the youngest and might have nightmares. My brother was given the room across from my sister. Everyone was pleased with the arrangements.

As soon as we settled in, a couple of noticeable things happened. First, my mom left for a week. When she came back, her once flat chest was remarkably more voluptuous.

Second, once we arrived at our new home, a new dynamic emerged between my siblings and me. They no longer let me play with them. Even though my brother and I were a year apart and there was roughly a decade of difference between my brother and sister, they became a tight-knit duo, and I was no longer invited.

I was also the butt of pranks and jokes. They often relished getting me in trouble. They had realized during the move that when it was two against one, our mom would believe the majority. This gave them the freedom to frame me for all sorts of things that they had staged: making messes, breaking things, as well as lying about me doing things like name-calling and hitting.

My sister began her first year of high school. My brother and I were in elementary school, one year apart. I became a Brownie, and my brother a Boy Scout. My dad worked daily but was home every evening and on the weekends. Life had diverged from the one we knew, but it was still a good life.

One day, my mom, who, since marrying my father, had become a homemaker, decided that she wanted to rejoin the workforce. My parents had met in Colorado at the Coors Brewing Company. He was a brewer, and she was a factory worker at the plant. This time, she had her aspirations set higher than being a mere factory worker.

She had met some new friends. My comrades from Alabama may have been wrong about everything in California, but if pressed, I believe they could have predicted Peggy and Melinda with uncanny precision.

These were “California friends.” They rocked peroxide blonde hair with dark brown roots, styled in high, voluminous bouffants that reached the edges of their shoulder pads. Their nails were long and always the same, one-shade-too-bright red as their lipstick. Heels were high, and necklines were low. They were real estate agents: the words capitalized and in neon lights. They were on a mission to help my mother get a real estate license as well. It was the final task for initiation into their crew.

You see, she had already taken to dressing like them. The big hair, the heels, the flashy nails—she had become a bombshell. I have a lot of bad memories of my mother, but she was stunning, and I admired her. I still remember the sound her heels would make as she click-clacked across the linoleum. I would close my eyes and just listen, thinking, “How grown up. This sounds—woman.” As soon as I was able, I would wear heels myself, just to hear the sound.

In my adulthood, I may have a different style, but I admit to living a long life of big hair, long nails, and low necklines myself, perhaps to emulate the only parts of my mother that I ever truly admired.

My mother was a smart and resourceful woman. She obtained her real estate license in a flash. Soon, a large magnetic sticker with her bouffant, neon red, smiling face and phone number adorned the side of our shiny new white Thunderbird (for clients, of course). We had a huge brick-sized car phone wired to the center console, for important calls she would need to take while on the go.

She would often be out, meeting clients, hosting open houses, closing deals, and other quite important "real estate business." In addition to her daytime duties, she emphasized the importance of going to mixers to meet other real estate agents. These mixers were drinking events in which she would partake heavily, often returning home stumbling and ragged. This was a new sight to us, who had seen our mother with a beer in her hand but never drunk before.

The real estate business, although it seemed like a solitary venture, was not. Never forget that she was now solidified as part of a trio of cutthroat real estate women, oozing with attitude and dripping in cheap costume jewelry. Several nights, at least, the gang would get together at bars and clubs to commiserate over "real estate things," talk strategies, and blow off the stress that came with being such high-power females.

Her family began to see her less and less. When she came home, she stumbled through the door and into arguments with my father—slurring insults as she passed him to their room. Dad began sleeping exclusively on the couch. He claimed it was for his poor back, trying to downplay the drinking and arguments that were quickly becoming a common occurrence.

In one moment of anger, you can undo aeons of gifts and blessings.

One night, not long after we had all been tucked into bed, Dad had not come home yet, and Mom, for a change, was home. All of us were jolted awake by screaming downstairs. It wasn't scared screaming or panicked, but an angry, guttural roar. It wasn't raw and wordless either. The words flowed, slow and deliberate, pausing only for a low, vicious laughter. I had never heard this before, although since that night, it was something I experienced often—a whirlwind of sadistic wrath and force.

Although we had not heard it before, we could tell who it was. My mother was on the phone with my dad. I did not know why she was so angry or why he had not come home. I do not even recall everything that was said. I just remember the feeling: wide-eyed fear and the shock of the façade of my mother cracking with the barbaric sound of every word and ghastly peal of taunting laughter. My siblings and I crept to the bottom step of the stairs, out of sight, to listen in. We sat, huddled together, silently crying in a rare show of camaraderie. The only words I distinctly remember her yelling, in her feral pitch, were that he was a “fat fuck,” and the last thing, before she slammed the receiver with a reverberating slam, forcing the bell inside the phone to give a helpless ring, she cried in a banshee screech, “I want a divorce!”

At that last proclamation, my own cries could no longer be silenced, alerting her to our presence pressed tightly together on the stairs. She flew around the corner facing us. My sister had wrapped my brother and me close to her lithe, bony chest as the three of us sobbed. Mother's wild demeanor froze, and it seemed as if a shock washed over her as she stood momentarily, mouth agape. Regaining herself, the wrathful creature we had witnessed seemed to retreat into the recesses of her heart, as a saccharine sweet mother's smile spread across her face. “Oh, don't cry!” she cooed in an exaggerated voice. It was the same rushed consoling tones you’ve undoubtedly heard as a small child while having a meltdown in a public space. It was comforting, minus the softness. More placating a problem than soothing a feeling. “Mommy was just mad! We would neeeever get a divorce!” The word "never" drawn out long, as if to reassure but gave away her insincerity.

Once our tears stopped falling, noses were blown, and we were past the risk of any of the upset vomiting prone to youth, we were herded to our respective beds and tucked in. None of us were okay. Our fears had been far from dispelled, but at least we were quiet.

The next morning, our father, having returned sometime in the night or early morning, ushered us into the kitchen for a “family meeting.” Our parents gathered us at the kitchen table to announce their divorce. It was staged like an after-school special. My mother sat in the chair at the head of the table, with my father standing behind her, an arm resting on her shoulder for support, as if posing for a Sears family portrait. Even in divorce, they were a perfect couple, with the perfect family, even if the screaming of the night before still lingered on the walls and hung heavy in our ears. We were gently told, “This just happens,” “This doesn’t mean we love you any less,” and “This isn't your fault.” We were asked if we had questions or wanted to talk.

Looking back, I think we all had the same questions. We all wanted to talk about the same things, but we had never been allowed to acknowledge our family as anything less than perfect. Even this private conversation about divorce felt more like propaganda than an honest conversation. Our reactions to this shared experience varied greatly, however. While my brother and I were still processing what was happening, my sister, who was a one-time veteran of divorce, exploded. “I can't believe you would do this!” she wailed, running to her room, leaving only the thuds of her footsteps and sounds of her loud weeping. My brother seemed to be snapped out of his stupor by my sister's explosion and left in a similar flourish; however, he didn't cry. He balled his fists, red-faced, screaming, “I hate you!” over and over as he ran to his own room, louder stomping footfalls following him there. I watched everything happen around me as if it were happening to someone else. Another family, maybe a less-than-perfect family. I stayed sitting at the table, quiet, and head down. Confused and numb, trying to wrap myself around the reality of what had just happened. I glanced up long enough to see my parents glance at me, then at each other, expressionless as they got up silently and walked away.

All said and done, I feel the entire experience is a fairly good representation of who each of us were in our family dynamic.

In Alabama, I had thought we were the perfect family, the kind that you see on TV. When we settled in California, the cracks began to show. Slowly at first, like a foot unknowingly catching a thin patch of ice. Suddenly, those small cracks gave way, and before we knew it, we were all plunged into the frigid depths.

Knowing what I know now, how the foundation of our family was built on the betrayal and abandonment of several different families, it seems like this was the only inevitable outcome. As a child, ignorant of the sins of my parents, the changes to follow were both monumental and without any semblance of reason or fairness.

My father quickly moved into a small apartment several miles away. As is customary in divorced families, we saw him every other weekend. His absence did not ensure that my mother dedicated more time at home or less time drinking. To make up for the deficit, it was decided that we should begin to pull our weight.

People were created to be loved. Things were created to be used. The world is in chaos because things are being loved and people are being used.

Enter the index cards: neatly written index cards, clear enough for even me at 7 years old to read, littered the house. One was taped to the washer, one to the dryer. This was how I was expected to begin to do my own laundry. A step ladder leaned against the wall in the laundry room to make sure everything was within reach. Index cards on the fridge listed tasks to be completed to clean each room and whose responsibility each room was. These were weekly tasks split between my brother and me.

We adjusted reasonably quickly, on my part, and I can assume my siblings did as well, because we were growing afraid of who our mother was becoming. I was not perfect, however. I was in first grade and had never had chores or responsibilities before this. She would get home from work and fly through the house, inspecting room after room. When she saw things that didn’t meet her expectations, she pounced; not like a lion, but like a tornado. She came from all sides, suffocating and enveloping you. I remember being backed against a wall with her beast out in full view. Arms on each side, making escape impossible, never touching me, but crushing me all the same. Screaming over a spot on a window, or an edge unvacuumed. A ledge undusted. Small overlooked items for a young child still learning, but enough to send her into an unfettered rage.

Of all the chores, the one I learned to hate, and still do to this day, was doing the dishes. All dishes had to be washed by hand completely before being put into the dishwasher. It was an easy enough task, and I never minded it. It had to be done before she got home. One day, my mind wandered, and so did I. I found myself playing in the backyard. "Only for a few minutes," I told myself, but before long, I heard a low, quiet, seething voice commanding me inside. She had come home. The dishes filled the sink, untouched. I watched in terror as she took them out, placed them on the counter, and began to fill the sink with soapy water. The steam rose. I could feel the heat from where I stood and began to cry silently, so as not to anger her further.

As the sink was filled and the water stopped, steam still rose from its surface. She set the step stool to the sink and motioned me to get up in silence. I did. As soon as I was in position, she grabbed me roughly by my scrawny, bird-like upper arms, her long acrylic nails digging into my skin, and plunged my arms to the elbows into the water. The pain went through my body like a shot. I could feel it in my toes as I cried out. She screamed back, “No! Your arms will stay here until every dish is done. This is your fault!” I was given enough freedom to move my hands out of the water only to gather a dirty dish from one side of the sink and place it clean on the other side. The rest of the time, my soft skin was being boiled as it was submerged in the water. By the end, my sobs were no more than choking. My mom thrust my bright red arms out of the water, looking at me disgustedly. “Don’t cry,” was the last thing she said as I was excused to my room. My arms stayed that color for days. Using my fingers while they healed brought the pain back immediately. As soon as I would start to have trouble doing something because of the pain, however, I would imagine what the next punishment would be if I didn’t complete my task, complained, or asked for help. This was the age I learned to power through pain.

Even our food became governed by index cards. My sister had taken charge of our breakfasts and packed lunches. She was given accompanying notecards for acceptable foods. There was a small recipe card box of notecards on the counter for acceptable after-school snacks for us. I would make my snacks strictly from foods listed in the approved list, afraid to catch her ire. It was an increasingly impossible task, as when she was home, we would be interrogated about what we had eaten throughout the day. She would nod along, tight-lipped, unimpressed, until inevitably it would be my turn to list my afternoon snack. More often than not, this would cause an eruption of anger. “You ate what?" "Do you think you needed that?" "You keep eating like a pig and see where it gets you!” “Who will ever want someone who eats like you?” Her deep mocking laughter, dripping with cruelty. My siblings snickering along in unison. They themselves, having eaten the same foods, but somehow escaping the ridicule. It became a game, where before I could even give my answer they would excitedly quip, “Sarah had nachos!” “Sarah had apples and peanut butter!” eager to see the chaos unfold, assured that the lightning crashing would never touch them.

My mother remained in charge of dinner for one more year, until that task fell to me; no lessons in cooking preceded this, only more detailed note cards and a fridge full of groceries.

Although she was in high school, my sister was given the responsibility of becoming our new mom. She watched us daily, and once she had a license and a small VW Rabbit, she drove us where we needed to be. She had a job as a bagger at the local grocery store on top of everything else. She helped us with homework and tucked us in at night. No matter what has transpired in the years to follow between us, I will always both pity her for the singular type of abuse she suffered and be grateful for the sacrifice of her youth to take care of us.

When my mom was home, she was usually with the man she had been cheating on my dad with. His name was Dave. Dave had just reached the legal age to drink and was new to the club scene where they met. He was a college student, and his parents were rich. My dad was a decade my mom’s senior, so Dave’s youth was noticeable, even to me, but not as something wrong or uncomfortable. It was only later in life, when I did the math and discovered that my mom was 36 at the time, that I realized how predatory her behavior was.

At the time, my opinion of him consisted of: he was nice and brought gifts. At night, though, the room that had been thoughtfully located next to my parents' for my safety was filled with the sounds of very vocal, performative sex. These sounds seeped through the walls into the viscous darkness of my room. The hollow grunts, shrill screams, and loud thuds turned into the soundtrack to my new and constant nightmares—terrors that I was absolutely forbidden from disturbing my mother’s activities or sleep with my tiny sobs and screams.

Yesterday's Drunkenness Will Not Quench Today's Thirst

Despite her newfound relationship, my mother was still enthralled with the lifestyle she had found at the clubs and bars. She went out often with Peggy and Melinda and often found time to go to the real estate mixers. Occasionally, I would be dragged in tow to the mixers with her when my sister did not feel like watching both my brother and me. Even as a child, I knew that children were forbidden at these places. Regardless, I would be there, the unwanted interloper, sitting in a chair in the corner and watching as my mother got increasingly intoxicated and threw herself at men who were neither my father nor the young man with whom she had very vocal sex every night. She drove us home drunk.

She came home drunk often. Usually, it was my sister's job on those nights to help her up the stairs, get her to the bathroom, hold her hair while she vomited, and get her to bed. My mother had become yet another child that my teenage sister had to put to bed at night.

I never minded Dave much, and he stayed around for a while, seemingly without issue, until one night when, like my parents' marriage, everything came to a halt—loudly, with screaming and unexplained fury. What always shocked me the most was that they remained friends, or at least friendly, for years afterward. The incident of their parting was never mentioned, even though what stopped it from becoming truly horrific was mentioned freely, mostly as a joke at my expense.

Like Ripples From a Pebble in Water, Individual Actions Can Have Far-Reaching Effects

Sometimes, when trouble is on the horizon, you can feel it, like electricity in the air, or things go quiet, making you realize that the room has picked up on something you yourself have yet to notice. This was not the case; it was as normal as this new life could be considered normal. Dinner was ramen that night, a thankfully easy microwave dish that even someone who did not take a full microwave cookery course could make. Perhaps that is why I liked it so much. We had all sat down to our bowls when there was a knock at the door. Mom answered it, as we all snuck peeks from the kitchen. It was Dave. As soon as the door opened, we were made aware of the trouble that had entered our home. Not in anything that had immediately happened, but in an energy that had permeated the house. A change in tone. Perhaps it was her. Even though her back was to us, perhaps we could still sense the creature within her stirring.

From the beginning, he looked sheepish and somewhat like a kicked dog. Dave had his college textbooks clutched to his chest like a shield, as if preparing for the moments to come. He had good intuition, as she snapped, not as a housewife does, but like a lion, mouth open wide and fangs bared.

“What are YOU doing here!?”

“I thought I could study over here,” he countered pleadingly, already looking defeated. “Get the fuck out!” she was screaming at the top of her lungs, eyes wild. The beast I had seen before was back. The guttural roar, paired with the mocking laugh. His voice stayed low and calm. How many times had he seen this? “Hey, I love you.” Slowly reaching a hand out, like you would to a crazed rescue animal; not to grab, but just in a calculated reassurance.

I am sure Dave would have a magic touch with starved, beaten dogs baring their teeth at him in fields. They would lower their heads for him and fall into his lap at his patience and soothing tones. This time, in this instance, he had underestimated the situation. She was not the product of abuse. She was the abuse.

On this night, in this doorway, steady love and patience had failed spectacularly. “I'm calling the police!" she cried maniacally. "Get out or I'm calling the police! Now! NOW! NOW!” Her voice echoed in the hall, filling our kitchen table. It wasn’t a desperate cry but a vicious threat.

Now here is where I, the youngest member of the household, inadvertently begin a chain reaction of events to de-escalate the situation. I, who had, before this affair began, greedily shoveled an entire mouthful of ramen into my tiny mouth, the ends of the noodles hanging all the way back down into the bowl, began to sob. I was scared of my mom, the thing she was becoming.

I was scared for Dave, but did not have the courage or strength to protect him. I had seen her become meaner and more erratic, but I had never seen Dave be mean or volatile. I knew the police shouldn’t take him away, but my mom had become an omniscient monster. She could make things happen. She could control the police, I was sure of it.

My sobs made chewing, swallowing, or spitting out the ridiculous amount of microwave ramen in my mouth an impossibility. I was frozen in place, tethered by noodles, sobbing through the soggy, macerated mess.

My sister, seeing this, assumed that I was not crying from fear or sadness but was simply choking on the vast amounts of ramen hanging from my mouth. A fair assessment, I'm sure, and she began to scream, “Mom! Sara's choking! Help!”

At my sister's pleas, I imagine my mother's ears turning in the direction of her children like a coyote's. I often imagine her with animalistic attributes, beginning during this time. The switch clicked as she slammed the door in Dave's face, which apparently was always an option rather than confrontation. She ran to the kitchen table in a panic, pulling all of the ramen from my mouth in one fast, determined fist and smacked me hard on the back to dislodge whatever was left. The clear wail of me crying, now that my mouth was clear of ramen, convinced her that I was no longer choking.

A rant followed (thankfully, tame compared to what Dave had been through) about taking smaller bites. I was calmed by her yelling at me in what seemed like a motherly way. I tried to explain that I was never choking, only frightened by the yelling and threats of police, only to be told it was an excuse for my poor eating habits. To the end of days, the story told in my family was always “The night Sarah choked on ramen” and never involved Dave, screaming, or threats of the police.

What People Believes Prevails Over the Truth

Thinking back, I wonder if that was the first time the family came together as one to hide a dark secret at my expense. To twist my truth, in what became a chronic undermining of my reality. Throughout my childhood, this was to become so consistent and so unified against me that even when I outgrew my abuse at home, I was left doubting my perception of the world around me.

In my adulthood, if I was hit, I would spend a week staring at the bruise as it faded, wondering if it really had happened. If I was lying. If I was crazy and just made it up. If I was insulted, I would look for witnesses and ask again and again for verification of what I had heard with my own ears. My senses were deceitful and useless. I had no faith in my eyes, ears, or even my own memory.

It became the shackles that bound the secrets of so many wrongdoings to me. I was left to drown in waves of betrayal, abuse, and suffering. The dam could never break because...

Who would believe me?

I didn’t even believe myself.