Fractured

My kids were yelling around the pool yesterday, playing a game they call the “Weiner man.”

With a long, Styrofoam noodle, they slapped the water, attacked each other and laugh in delight.

My stomach turned.

I remember being a small child and eating around a hot dog, at the top to make it look like a circumcised penis. I held it to my crotch and said to my mother, look!

She yelled at me to stop playing with my food.

Big, red flag waving. She saw me playing with my food.

Anyone read the plays written by the shooter?

Many people saw the red flags waving. I immediately assumed he had been sexually abused.

I am reminded of what a friend said to me as I recovered my memories. I wanted to hunt down a family friend who said my father had abused her. I wanted her to verify my truth.

She has multiple personalities. Something fractured inside.

My friend said, trust what you know. And remember, so many people don’t make it to the other side. So many people end up broken, in mental hospitals forever. You made it. Be grateful.

I am. My own angry impulses are turned inward. I want to hurt myself, never others. Even so, I have managed a fairly normal life.

Fairly normal.

My boys are playing a game and I cannot bear to listen to one more word. I can’t bear the images it brings up for me. I am a small child uncertain as to why my behavior is wrong to my mother, but encouraged by my father. My world is small and my parents define it.

The definitions are completely out of whack. I am permanently off balance.

Let’s go get some ice cream, I finally say to my kids. It’s eleven AM. I never say that at eleven AM.

At lunch, post ice cream cones, they eat hot dogs. My kids are laughing. They are eating lunch outdoors, had an impossible morning snack. Life is good.

I find it hard to sit in my seat. The chewed middles make me ill. I can’t stand looking at them.

Some of us make it, some of us don’t, my friend said. She added, Most of us don’t.

Cho Seung-Hui, in my opinion? Did not.