But Not At Me (Patreon)

8.13.22 / 8.15.22

But Not At Me

I do my best not to move an inch. There is a beast that prowls inside the home, that stalks the hallway and bares its fangs. Some speak its name and call it anger. Some call it misdirected. I call it mother.

I do not know what sparked her rage this time. She has entered the house, arms laden with groceries, and she is exhausted, and she is pissed. Father trails after, saying something, but Mother isn’t listening. She is muttering words adjacent to curses, and drops all the bags on the counter. If I do not hardly breathe, perhaps she will not see me. Perhaps she will not find fault with something I have or have not done.

My brother is in the other room, safe for now. But then again--he often is. Because I always make the foolish mistake of wanting to help, hoping that might ease mother’s anger. Because I always feel responsible. Because, as mother turns to storm back out to the car for another load of groceries, she hisses out: No one ever helps me with anything!

It’s not true, of course. I spend much of my time helping her. But the passive-aggressive guilt-trip never makes it feel good to do. I swallow thickly, feeling obligated. My brother doesn’t rise. Father lets out an exasperated exhale and rolls his eyes as Mother passes him. I follow after her and wordlessly aid in bringing bags in. I help unpack them, put them away. She turns on me.

Why isn’t the kitchen cleaned?

I ran it a little bit ago, I explain. The dishes are still hot.

They aren’t that hot, she spits. You just have to go fast.

She grabs the dishwasher door and tears it open, piling steaming-hot dishes into her hands and carrying them to their proper places.

I have to do everything around here, she growls.

I hesitate. I grab dishes and feel the skin begin to burn. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to leave my hands stinging. I help put everything away. Then I flee, escape into my room. I close the door and curl up on the bed, hoping she will need nothing more from me. I can hear her storming around more. She sheds her anger onto Father, who makes the mistake of trying to talk to her when he already has his own foot stuck firmly in his mouth. She will storm a sustained hour. Shout about how no one helps. She will seek me out on occasion, yell at me for not having my room clean enough, hiss that I must truly not care about her or anyone living in the house because I forgot to sweep like she asked. Why must I ask you for help? Why don’t you just do it? Don’t you see it needs to be done? None of this must be that important to you. You must not care about helping me. Otherwise I wouldn’t have to ask every time.

I wish I could stop making the mistake to move. To help. It only brings me torment.

At least when she yells at me, the anger seems to move through her system a little faster. The house would be at peace sooner. Perhaps it was worth enduring her animosity towards the world - her circumstances. But that doesn’t make it any easier. I still feel my body tense when she enters the house. Can still feel my breath hitch in my throat when her footsteps fall heavy against the hardwood, laden with wrath. She is not always angry - but that does not mean I cannot recognize the change in her gait whenever she strode towards my room.

-

I sit beside my girlfriend on the couch. She grips the controller in her hands, watches with growing frustration as the game unfolds on screen. There is little she can do in the face of the enemy she is fighting, and the coming defeat is beginning to wear on her nerves. She cries out, and as she gestures at the screen, her phone falls, clatters loudly on the floor, emphasizes her shout with a noise I momentarily interpret with her throwing the controller.

And I cannot help it.

My body recoils, shrinks me back into a corner of the couch, launches my heart into overdrive. Each nerve stands alert, ready. Instinct tells me I shouldn’t move, shouldn’t dare shift, or adjust, or breathe too loudly to provoke her attention. I debate leaving. I run through ways in which I could excuse myself to lay down in the bedroom. I know she won’t inflict her rage on me like I suffered as a child, I know she won’t redirect fury from a video game against my psyche in a way that taught my body to shrink at a raised voice. I know she won’t. I repeat that truth over and over again in my head, trying to calm my terrified self down.

It isn’t working. I need to step out, to release these emotions somehow. To shake, to shiver, to curl into a ball and bury myself beneath a blanket. I need to hide. My body is telling me we have to hide.

She leans back and kisses my forehead.

See? I say to myself. She’s not mad at us. She’s not going to be mean because she’s angry at a game. She’s not like that. She’s not like our blood.

My body refuses to listen. Each muscle remains tight. I curl up in a tight ball on the far end of the couch.

You’re safe with her, and you know that. Please calm down. Please just relax.

She says something to us - a joke of some sort. I can’t hear her, but offer a soft smile in response. My head is too full of me telling myself to relax.

It’s okay. It’s okay. Relax. You’re okay. You’re fine.

I wish my words were effective. But my body does not respond. It stays coiled. I need to find words to tell her what’s going on. But it isn’t her fault - how do I say that displays of anger make me feel unsafe, without her feeling like she’s at fault? Guilt does not rest upon her shoulders. It rests upon my mother’s.

I am grappling with how to speak. Still, instinct bids me not to, and finding words and the courage to break that silence is difficult. It’s not her fault. It’s not my fault. The blame is on those who raised me, but how do I convey that? It’s normal to be frustrated at difficult video games. I get frustrated, too. I get annoyed, and angry. It’s normal. It’s normal, and it’s okay, and it isn’t her fault. How do I speak without making her feel like it’s her fault?

She touches my leg, her caress tender and concerned. I meet her gaze. She looks upon me with worry, offers a questioning sound. I swallow thickly and smile.

“You startled me when you got mad,” I manage. These are not the words I want. They are ‘you’ language. She will feel guilty. But no other words are coming to me.

“I know,” she says softly.

After a moment of hesitation, I relent, and lay down, wrapping my arms around her arm. It seems like an age before I can form another sentence.

“But you’re not mad at me, right?” I ask.

“No, of course not,” she breathes. “I was mad at that guy!”

“I know.” I do know. I feel silly for worrying she was mad at me. But I know myself. Hearing those words help the muscles relax in my body. It helps me calm down. Finally, I can calm down. I can breathe. It’s okay to breathe again.

“Do you want me to stop playing?” she asks.

My brows knit together, just for a moment. She’d offer to stop playing for me? To make me more comfortable? I want to grab this beautiful, sweet woman and hold her to my chest for an eternity. I kiss my girlfriend’s arm.

“No, no,” I murmur. “You can keep playing.” I trust you. I feel safe with you. I know you’re not going to hurt me. These are the unspoken things I say as I relax in the cushions next to her. You are not the ones who raised me, I will into the air, you are better, and you are warmer, and you are home. A true home. A home that does not seek to vent your angers on me and damage my mind for your temporary solace. No, you are the woman I love, and you are the woman who truly, affectionately, loves me back.

“I’m okay,” I say. “You can keep playing.”