Lights Out

“Being afraid of the dark at your age!” my mother said churlishly, “I won't have it.”

“At least I'm not afraid of a mouse!” I shot back with a defiance I didn't feel. I was eight.

She paled, her face twisting first into an ugly sneer and then a bitter smile, snapped off the lightswitch and slammed the bedroom door. I instantly pulled back the frayed curtains to let the light from the streetlamp in. Later, my daddy would come with a small cartoon figure nightlight, kiss me goodnight and remind me to be sure to unplug and tuck it under my pillow come morning.

“Just don't tell your mother,” he warned me.

“I hate her!” I whispered fiercely, not caring if the words hurt or made him angry, but he just stood at my bedroom door looking haggard, sad and defeated.

“Don't say that,” he told me quietly, “Your mother is terribly unhappy.”

“I don't care!” I muttered and turned on my side so I didn't have to see his face, “It's not my fault and I hate her!”

He sighed audibly but chose to say nothing more. The door closed with a soft click of the latch and I heard his footsteps on the stairs. It wasn't long before the familiar sounds of another one sided fight drifted up through the heat register. She screeched and wailed and threw things and eventually launched into one of her standard You don't love me and you ruined my life crying jags. I knew it all by heart and it ended just as it always did. The more he retreated into silence, the louder and more abusive she became until finally the front door slammed and the old station wagon pulled away. I retrieved the latch key from its hiding place, taped to the underside of the window sill, and quickly locked my door. It wasn't likely she'd be sober enough to bother with me again but unlike my daddy, I had no place to run and there wasn't any sense in taking chances. If she'd discovered the nightlight, there was no telling what fresh hell would follow so I kept myself awake until I heard her drunkenly navigate the stairs, turn out the lights and close her bedroom door. I'd had eight years to fine tune my hate and I never completely gave up the hope that one of those ugly nights she might trip and tumble down the stairs, maybe spend the night out cold in her own vomit, maybe even break her neck and die. Harsh thinking for an eight year old, I expect, but I'm not sure I completely understood the concept of death. I just wanted her gone and didn't much care about the details.

Looking back, I see this was one of my earliest lessons in how to provoke someone past their breaking point for no other reason than to force a reaction, any reaction. During my second marriage, the frustration and rage of dealing with an alcoholic with zero affect drove me right where my mother had gone so often. I screamed and howled and threatened and threw things with the same ferocity and utter lack of control and got precisely nowhere. Every. Single. Time.

A part of me became exactly what I despised. I also strongly suspect it explains the lack of compassion I've developed for victims since it's easier to blame them and conveniently bury the fact that it took me 13 years to get out of an abusive marriage.

I am frequently in awe of my own hypocrisy.