The Sound of Silence

For a while, I felt secure and comforted nestled within the familiar four walls of our house, now quiet as a mausoleum. The shambles of my former life lay strewn around me, but at least now there was no more name-calling, backbiting, or seething, rage-laden tension.

But there was one thing I hadn’t anticipated: the silence made me aware of every creak and pop in my surroundings. Not a good thing with my Technicolor imagination.

As soon as dusk fell each night, I flipped on the outside lights that illuminated three sides of our house to discourage any would-be lurkers in our bushes. I made sure the doors were locked at least a hundred times every hour, and although I rarely used the gas stove, I checked and rechecked that the burners were off lest the house blow up. Only when Dad finally walked through the back door did I breathe a sigh of relief for having made it through one more night alone. If my instincts were accurate, Dad did too.

The silence also magnified the yammering inner fear that haunted me every waking second:  Dad leaving me too. I tried to drown it out with blasting the TV or stereo until the windows rattled and my obsessive focus on the door locks and stove burners and, in the winter, the thermostat. On top of that, I became the model daughter–agreeable, obedient, and sympathetic to Dad’s pain and problems (not a stretch since I had been Daddy’s girl from my first breath)–so as to not give him a reason to leave. Yet for all my efforts, my fear and anxiety deepened rather than waned.

Many nights I tossed and turned, terrorized by the thought of Dad leaving me and wondering, Who will take care of me if I can’t take care of myself? I racked my brain, but kept coming up empty. I certainly couldn’t get a job yet, as I was only twelve years old. I reasoned that even if Grandma and I managed to call a truce–as likely as hell freezing over–she was raising two daughters of her own and certainly didn’t need one more. Despite our animosity, I didn’t want to be a burden to Grandma. I didn’t want to be a burden to anyone.

And Mom wasn’t an option. I had never felt loved by Mom, and as a young child I often wondered why she hated me. Her leaving without a word to me convinced me that my perception was right. Dad had told me that he thought Mom left without saying goodbye to me because she couldn’t face me. My shattered heart told me that I didn’t matter to her and was easy to leave behind.

What will I do if Dad leaves too? Fear and panic were my constant companions.

I wasn’t yet aware that I was never alone, and that no matter what happened, I would always be loved and taken care of.

 

Scrambling

Turns out I wasn’t the only one who had begun running.

In what seemed like overnight, Dad took a second job, leaving at 6:30 a.m. and not getting home until 8:00 p.m. during the week. He explained that he had no choice, as he was buried under a mountain of debt from the addition to and complete renovation of our home the year before and now the legal bills from the divorce and child support payments. As Dad became more and more focused on work–ultimately becoming a principal in the business of his second job–I became more and more focused on Dad and Stevie. As a natural nurturer, I worried myself sick about them and hovered over them, trying to ensure their health, comfort, and safety, as well as trying to hold together what semblance of family I had left. What I didn’t realize until four decades later was that as long as I kept my focus on them I was able to run away from my own grief, confusion, terror, and panic over the implosion of my home and family and the resulting abandonment of both of my parents. We were all running away: Dad through his work, Mom through her new relationship, and I through obsessing over and mothering Dad and Stevie.

Dad and I had always been close. He was a constant physical and emotional presence to me, even, and especially, through the divorce. But after the divorce everything changed. Prior to the divorce, Dad was home by 5:15 p.m., Monday through Friday, and home all weekend, available and game for fun things like watching the silly movies of W. C. Fields, The Three Stooges, Abbott and Costello, and Laurel and Hardy, or to just hang out, cutting up and acting just as silly as the movies we watched. But after the divorce, in addition to getting home later in the evenings during the week, Dad worked at his second job every other Saturday, when we didn’t have Stevie. When he was home, he was often tired and preoccupied. Still he was far more available to me than Mom was, whom I hardly ever saw or talked to, and when I did, we were at each other’s throats. This was not a new development between Mom and me. We had been adversaries for as long as I have memory. The divorce only made it a million times worse, particularly because I blamed her for it and she targeted me when enraged at Dad. Now Dad was only home long enough to eat dinner, shower, shave, and sleep, and Sundays were for grocery shopping and other errands. With three-quarters of the furniture missing, leaving the newly renovated living room downright cavernous, our house was the only constant that remained of my former life.

For a while, I went to my grandma Rose’s when Dad was working, but I stopped when Grandma‚Äôs and my bitter fighting over Mom and Dad’s divorce escalated. She blamed Dad and I blamed Mom, and neither one of us could let it go or were willing to give an inch. Unable to stand any longer the incessant strife between Grandma and me, I refused to go back.

Being home alone was not as much of an adjustment as I had thought. After the daily, ongoing combat between Mom and Dad during their divorce–they lived together until the day it was finalized–and the hostility between Grandma and me in the months that followed, the silence and tranquility of our tiny house on West Fourth Street, now my refuge, was balm for my traumatized, battle-weary soul. At twelve years old, I had discovered the blessed peace of solitude.

“Focusing on others enabled me to run away from my own grief, confusion, terror, and panic.”