"What's the matter with you?" she hissed.
I instinctively leaned away before realizing that even though it was dark in the movie theater, my mom wasn't likely to hit me in a public place. I told her I was just sad because Bambi's mother died.
"It's just a movie. Quit causing a scene."
I blinked a couple of times to press the tears out of my eyes and wiped my nose with the back of my sleeve.
My mother could never handle my crying. It infuriated her. She had more patience for my brother Ronnie. He was five years younger and couldn't help himself, but I should've known better.
Sometimes I would try to decide if seeking comfort from my mom was worth risking her wrath, my nine-year-old brain carefully weighing the pros and cons of asking for something she was often unable (or unwilling) to give.
Other times something would scare me, or I'd get hurt, and I couldn't control it. The sobs would flee my body before I could restain them, my stomach tightening as I braced myself for what was to come.
On Columbus Day, when I was ten, we all had the day off, and my mom told me we were going hiking with her friend Lois. This was one of the rare occasions my mother had a job, but we still couldn't afford a car, so we were at the mercy of my mother's driving friends and whether or not they were feeling generous enough to let us tag along.
I would've preferred swimming at Wallace's Grove on that unseasonably hot October day, but I was happy enough to get out of our apartment. We never went anywhere together as a family. Sometimes we would get invited to do things with friends or neighbors, but when we did, my mom usually left Ronnie and me at home because she needed a break from us.
When we reached the mountain, we hit the bathroom and checked to make sure our shoelaces were tied before leaving the lodge. Lois and Mom led the charge while Ronnie and I trailed behind, our hands glued together with sweat. I knew I was going to end up carrying him before too long.
A few minutes later, Lois pointed to a shady spot under a small stand of trees and ushered us over for a picture. My mother moved to the center and pulled my brother over to her right side. I went to her left and turned around to face the camera.
"Chris, can you scoot in a little?" Lois asked, waving me toward Mom. Not wanting to get too close to her, I took a short step in.
"A little more."
I stepped in again, and my foot sank into a spongy spot on the ground. Before I knew what was happening, a black swarm engulfed me, and the stingers of dozens of ground wasps were stabbing my arms, legs, face, and neck. I screamed and flailed around in an attempt to retreat, but it only made things worse.
I could barely hear my mother's shrieking over the thrumming in my ears. She got angry when I didn't respond. She reached over, grabbed my wrist, and yanked so hard that I fell onto my knees in front of her.
I was stunned into silence for a few seconds, but a second wave of pain was building, and I started wailing again, barely able to catch my breath.
Mom held my shoulders like a vice grip, pulled me up, and shook me.
"Stop it! STOP IT! You're acting crazy!" she yelled. "Stop crying!"
I was relieved and nervous when Lois spoke up. "Sue, I think we ought to take her back down to the nurse's station. She's got welts all over her body."
"She's FINE; she got a couple of bee stings. She just needs to calm down," my mom said, glaring at me.
Everything seemed quiet except for my sniffling as I tried to pull myself together. I looked past my mother at the people starting up the hill and noticed a few of them looking at us. It made me feel like crying all over again.
Mom bent over, her face an inch from mine, and told me I'd better calm down. "I'm not gonna let you ruin our one day out. Do you understand me?"
I felt the heat of her barely hidden rage. I was safe for now because we had an audience, but how I proceeded next would determine what happened when we got home.
There was no reasoning with my mother. There were no magic words I could say to gain her sympathy. The only way to make it through one of her rages was to disconnect from my emotions, say what she wanted me to say, and get quiet.
"Yes," I said, swallowing past the lump in my throat. I straightened up, started walking, and resisted the urge to look back.
Oof. I want to wrap my arms around your younger self. I know ‘getting quiet’ very well and how this reaction eats away at us from the inside. I’m looking forward to learning more about your C-PTSD journey,
I need a heartbreak reaction for this. What horrific neglect and abuse. What happened to you was wrong. Completely, utterly wrong. You never, ever, EVER deserved that. You deserved so much better. SO much better. I'm so angry on your behalf. I hope your inner child knows she always should have received love and tenderness and gentle care, and that she is worthy of it even now.