A Child Of Darkness
My childhood was beautifully dark and mysterious. It was filled with great love and sweet sorrow. My mother raised me with authority, conviction, and an unorthodox approach to the world around me. She had her own demons that she battled ferociously, and those demons shaped my childhood experience in many ways. I am Melanie, a child of darkness who grew up in suburban America in the 1970s. I came into this world equipped with a somewhat absent father, a lost soul for a mother, and a sister who tried her best to protect me.
I don’t remember much about my early childhood, but I was told that my sister Kellie dropped me on my head when I was just a baby. I imagine that I was crying and my mom was fast asleep from depression and too many valiums and did not hear my cries for affection. My 3-year-old sister used all her might to lift me up and carry me to my mom for help. As I said, she really tried to protect me. These episodes of sleeping, crying and dissociation were frequent, combined with intermittent screaming episodes, general emotional explosivity, and a tall shot of religious fanaticism. Don’t get me wrong, my mother is beautiful and wonderful when I remember that we cannot be defined by our worst behaviors, especially when those behaviors are deeply entwined with trauma, mental illness, and poverty.
I do remember my mom taking high doses of valium and sleeping a lot as a child. Valium was my mom’s drug of choice, and alcohol was my dad’s favorite. I was told at a young age that she had schizophrenia, was hospitalized for a few months shortly after I was born, and received electric shock therapy and a slew of medications upon her release from the hospital. Valium was all the rage at the time, and she sometimes kept them locked in a box with the key on a chain around her neck, but that is a different part of the story.
Like most Gen X kids, my sister and I played outside a lot, ran the streets until curfew, and checked in with our parents if we were hurt, scared, or wanted something to eat. We ran around Mentor Headlands like we owned the place. We rode our bikes, played on the playground and swam nearly every day at the Mentor Headlands pool. It was our community, a working-class part of town with small homes that looked just like the little green houses placed on the Monopoly board.
My parents divorced when I was five and I barely remember my dad living with us. Well except for the times he wrecked the cars or took us to Scotty’s bar. I think he wrecked 3 cars in total, but who’s counting? I know that he ran into a tree with one car, then smashed a van into the exit sign on the highway and broke his leg for sure. He told me later that he was supposed to be watching us kids because my mom was in the hospital that night and he left us both home to get some barbiturates, some weed, and more alcohol. He wrecked on his way home, broke his leg, totaled the van, and left the hospital AMA because he wanted to get the drugs from the van before he came back home.
The third accident happened much later after my parents separated.He was having an affair with Darlene and moved in with her when my parents separated. My dad was consumed in self-sabotage at the time, and was so fucked up that he ended up wrecking another car and getting his jaw wired shut. This is when he finally got sober. Thank God. I remember seeing him for the first time with his jaw wired shut. He was thin, pale, and could barely hold it together. He lived with his mom in Willowick and I think he finally hit his rock bottom. I am so grateful for that. I have compassion for him, a Vietnam veteran from the Navy who to this day doesn’t discuss much of the war with anyone. I suppose the strong and silent type was considered the best approach back then.
It took a long time for me to realize that although we had less money than everyone else, I did not grow up in poverty. I can hardly believe that I am typing those words because it was my belief for so long. But I am not the same person as I used to be. I did not grow up in poverty because my childhood was filled with joy. The Joy of imagination while pretending the couch was a bus, and I was a schoolteacher; the joy of dancing and music while my mom blared music through 3-foot-tall speakers in the living room; the joy of adventure when I played in the woods or at the beach with friends. Poverty is a state of mind more than the amount of money in your pocket. So, although I was “poor,” I was also rich in experiences. These experiences have led me through a beautiful life, and I now feel lucky to be alive. Yet, it did not always feel this way.
What do you remember from your childhood that was painful and difficult?
What do you remember from your childhood that allows you to remember joy and beauty?
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