thistlechaser
New member
- Joined
- May 12, 2014
- Messages
- 53
- MBTI Type
- INFP
- Enneagram
- 5w6
- Instinctual Variant
- sp/sx
Once, when I was 9, my mom decided we should move to Florida to live with her friend. She had a yard sale and sold all of our stuff except for what we could fit in a few duffel bags. One of the first days there, we went to the beach and I caught a mussel. I wanted to keep it as a pet, so I filled my bucket with seawater and a little sand before I dropped the mussel in.
When we got back to the house, I decided it would be best to leave it on the porch until I figured out what to do with it. That week, I learned the Macarena and also determined that I was pretty sure that I was going to marry JTT. I ate fried bologna sandwiches every night because great grandma had made them for me when she babysat me for the 3 months mom and I had stayed at the last house we tried staying at, where I got in trouble for burrowing in the neighbor's hay stacks and chasing his horses during games of hide and seek in his field behind my house with the boy down the street who had scratched his initials for me into a blank medical bracelet. JLF. His last name was Foxx with 2 x's and I thought that was ridiculous.
At the new place in Florida, my mom's friend's son was 4 and couldn't seem to figure out that his old room was my room and he kept banging on the door. Mom slept on an air mattress on the floor and I had my own bed. Usually, when we shared a room, we also had to share the same bed and she always told me I kicked in my sleep. But not this time.
That week, we had planned to see Independence Day July 3rd on the opening night in the theater. It was the first time my mom was going to let me watch a PG-13 movie, even though Granny had been showing me rated R movies since I was 4 as long as I covered my eyes during the sex parts. I was really excited because the preview said: "On July 2nd, They Arrive. On July 3rd, They Strike. On July 4th, We Fight Back."
On July 2nd, mom, her friend, and her friend's son went to the park and I ran around jumping on things until I got thirsty and mom got me a cherry Slurpee. My stomach hurt when we got back so I begged her for my usual fried bologna even though they were making supper already. I ate my sandwich and my stomach still hurt, so I went to the bedroom. I had been in trouble for something I'd done earlier in the day and mom figured I was trying to get out of it by pretending to be sick. When I didn't get out of bed for an hour, she realized I wasn't faking it because I was breathing very carefully and trying to swallow air to make little burps to make space so my stomach would stop being angry. She brought me a trash can and put it next to my bed. I fought for a few more hours to not throw up, but I couldn't stop it any longer and managed to make it into the trash can (this was a big accomplishment for me, given that the last 2 times I had thrown up, when I was 7 and 4, I had gotten scared and tried to run away from the inevitable and ended up leaving a trail).
On July 3, I was feeling better, but was very angry at bologna sandwiches. I had already sworn off corn and chicken patties after what they had done to me that time when I was 7. The only good that had come out of that incident was the new Lion King bedspread my mom bought for me to replace the blanket I'd ruined when I tried to seek solace from the impending vomit by running down the hallway, then into my room, then onto my bed. Hands don't stop that kind of propulsion and she never completely got all of the vomit out of the seams of the mattress. A few brown spots haunted and tormented me for years after, serving as a constant warning of what could happen if I wasn't careful enough. Luckily, I was very careful on July 3 to not eat any bologna and my stomach rewarded me by following the rules and not letting me get sick. We went to see Independence Day and it was my favorite movie ever. The theater was so big and completely full of people. It was at least three times as large as the theater I was used to going to in Kentucky.
On July 4, mom threw up. I felt really bad because I was scared to go near her and she spent all day in the bedroom by herself. I jumped at the opportunity to leave to go watch fireworks and then go to mom's friend's friend's house. I talked to my mom on the phone and told her I was having a good time and asked her if she had thrown up any more times. She said that she had, and I was afraid to go back. I didn't want to get sick again, so when we got back, I avoided mom completely. I couldn't understand how she had spent all that time rubbing my belly until I fell asleep when I had been sick--look what had happened to her. I knew for sure that I would be punished with being sick again if I didn't rub her belly, but I just couldn't do it. That night, I started saying my Throw Up Prayer again. I hadn't said it since my previous babysitter's mom had thrown up when we were stuck in the back seat of the car and I thought I might jump out. Before that, I had been saying it most nights when we lived with mam-ma and pap-pa in Arkansas, and I hadn't thrown up at all when we were there, even though a boy in my kindergarten class kept drinking chocolate milk when he wasn't supposed to and threw up every day after lunch. I had to be extra careful during those times to stay very far away from him on the playground and to never poke at any unusual piles of sawdust in the hallway.
After mom started getting better, I still couldn't stop worrying that I was going to throw up again. There was a strange smell outside and I couldn't get it out of my mind, even when I was in my room. I smelled it everywhere. The house was suddenly not safe. I couldn't be there any longer, the smell followed me everywhere and I knew I was going to get sick again if we stayed. I begged mom for us to go back home to granny's, or Arkansas, or anywhere else. But not there, I couldn't be there any more. The smell was so bad, and it kept getting worse. When I couldn't stand it anymore, I tried finding the smell. I looked all over the yard and had finally tracked the smell to the far side of the porch.
Underneath one of the chairs, I saw a bucket.
The mussel.
My sea pet.
The smell got stronger as I ran to look in the bucket. The water was brown with bits of orange. I didn't want to get sick. I had forgotten my pet. I killed the mussel. I was going to be punished. I ran inside and told my mom. I had killed the mussel, it was my fault. The smell was so bad. The mussel was dead. Someone cleaned the bucket, but the smell wouldn't go away. I passed the clean bucket on my way up the stairs a few times, smelled the smell again, and saw the orange, and fought back retching. After enduring days of this, I knew that we couldn't stay there. My stomach hurt so bad every day and the mussel was dead.
Around 2 weeks from the day we arrived, Mom finally agreed that we could go stay in Arkansas again. My mom's friend and her friend's husband threw up a few days after we left. My mom's friend's son had diarrhea a few days later and I knew it was because of what I'd done. Any time I remembered the mussel, I said my Throw Up Prayer. I managed not to throw up again for 17 years.
When we got back to the house, I decided it would be best to leave it on the porch until I figured out what to do with it. That week, I learned the Macarena and also determined that I was pretty sure that I was going to marry JTT. I ate fried bologna sandwiches every night because great grandma had made them for me when she babysat me for the 3 months mom and I had stayed at the last house we tried staying at, where I got in trouble for burrowing in the neighbor's hay stacks and chasing his horses during games of hide and seek in his field behind my house with the boy down the street who had scratched his initials for me into a blank medical bracelet. JLF. His last name was Foxx with 2 x's and I thought that was ridiculous.
At the new place in Florida, my mom's friend's son was 4 and couldn't seem to figure out that his old room was my room and he kept banging on the door. Mom slept on an air mattress on the floor and I had my own bed. Usually, when we shared a room, we also had to share the same bed and she always told me I kicked in my sleep. But not this time.
That week, we had planned to see Independence Day July 3rd on the opening night in the theater. It was the first time my mom was going to let me watch a PG-13 movie, even though Granny had been showing me rated R movies since I was 4 as long as I covered my eyes during the sex parts. I was really excited because the preview said: "On July 2nd, They Arrive. On July 3rd, They Strike. On July 4th, We Fight Back."
On July 2nd, mom, her friend, and her friend's son went to the park and I ran around jumping on things until I got thirsty and mom got me a cherry Slurpee. My stomach hurt when we got back so I begged her for my usual fried bologna even though they were making supper already. I ate my sandwich and my stomach still hurt, so I went to the bedroom. I had been in trouble for something I'd done earlier in the day and mom figured I was trying to get out of it by pretending to be sick. When I didn't get out of bed for an hour, she realized I wasn't faking it because I was breathing very carefully and trying to swallow air to make little burps to make space so my stomach would stop being angry. She brought me a trash can and put it next to my bed. I fought for a few more hours to not throw up, but I couldn't stop it any longer and managed to make it into the trash can (this was a big accomplishment for me, given that the last 2 times I had thrown up, when I was 7 and 4, I had gotten scared and tried to run away from the inevitable and ended up leaving a trail).
On July 3, I was feeling better, but was very angry at bologna sandwiches. I had already sworn off corn and chicken patties after what they had done to me that time when I was 7. The only good that had come out of that incident was the new Lion King bedspread my mom bought for me to replace the blanket I'd ruined when I tried to seek solace from the impending vomit by running down the hallway, then into my room, then onto my bed. Hands don't stop that kind of propulsion and she never completely got all of the vomit out of the seams of the mattress. A few brown spots haunted and tormented me for years after, serving as a constant warning of what could happen if I wasn't careful enough. Luckily, I was very careful on July 3 to not eat any bologna and my stomach rewarded me by following the rules and not letting me get sick. We went to see Independence Day and it was my favorite movie ever. The theater was so big and completely full of people. It was at least three times as large as the theater I was used to going to in Kentucky.
On July 4, mom threw up. I felt really bad because I was scared to go near her and she spent all day in the bedroom by herself. I jumped at the opportunity to leave to go watch fireworks and then go to mom's friend's friend's house. I talked to my mom on the phone and told her I was having a good time and asked her if she had thrown up any more times. She said that she had, and I was afraid to go back. I didn't want to get sick again, so when we got back, I avoided mom completely. I couldn't understand how she had spent all that time rubbing my belly until I fell asleep when I had been sick--look what had happened to her. I knew for sure that I would be punished with being sick again if I didn't rub her belly, but I just couldn't do it. That night, I started saying my Throw Up Prayer again. I hadn't said it since my previous babysitter's mom had thrown up when we were stuck in the back seat of the car and I thought I might jump out. Before that, I had been saying it most nights when we lived with mam-ma and pap-pa in Arkansas, and I hadn't thrown up at all when we were there, even though a boy in my kindergarten class kept drinking chocolate milk when he wasn't supposed to and threw up every day after lunch. I had to be extra careful during those times to stay very far away from him on the playground and to never poke at any unusual piles of sawdust in the hallway.
After mom started getting better, I still couldn't stop worrying that I was going to throw up again. There was a strange smell outside and I couldn't get it out of my mind, even when I was in my room. I smelled it everywhere. The house was suddenly not safe. I couldn't be there any longer, the smell followed me everywhere and I knew I was going to get sick again if we stayed. I begged mom for us to go back home to granny's, or Arkansas, or anywhere else. But not there, I couldn't be there any more. The smell was so bad, and it kept getting worse. When I couldn't stand it anymore, I tried finding the smell. I looked all over the yard and had finally tracked the smell to the far side of the porch.
Underneath one of the chairs, I saw a bucket.
The mussel.
My sea pet.
The smell got stronger as I ran to look in the bucket. The water was brown with bits of orange. I didn't want to get sick. I had forgotten my pet. I killed the mussel. I was going to be punished. I ran inside and told my mom. I had killed the mussel, it was my fault. The smell was so bad. The mussel was dead. Someone cleaned the bucket, but the smell wouldn't go away. I passed the clean bucket on my way up the stairs a few times, smelled the smell again, and saw the orange, and fought back retching. After enduring days of this, I knew that we couldn't stay there. My stomach hurt so bad every day and the mussel was dead.
Around 2 weeks from the day we arrived, Mom finally agreed that we could go stay in Arkansas again. My mom's friend and her friend's husband threw up a few days after we left. My mom's friend's son had diarrhea a few days later and I knew it was because of what I'd done. Any time I remembered the mussel, I said my Throw Up Prayer. I managed not to throw up again for 17 years.
