I continue to learn about writing and how writing can be part of a healing journey. Healing starts with naming the wound. Writing can be a journey to awareness, a way to identify what needs to be called out.
Sharing our stories helps us heal and can inspire others to reflect on their own experiences.
The posts have shifted to vignettes from my childhood.
I pray, my reader friend, that God takes my words, illuminates truth and compels you to step courageously forward. Each step is trusting in His goodness that nourishes your soul and, on the journey, back to a place of shalom.
Nearly all my time as a high schooler, I was planning to move out of my parents’ house as soon as I turned 18.
As early as age 13, I started working so I could have my own money, buy my own clothes, records, books, and household items for when I was on my own. I had a giant box where I kept all those future items that my mom called my hopeless chest. Not very encouraging, huh?
My parents taught us four kids to work hard, graduate High School and find our way in life. They did not talk about college; neither of them went to college and mom did not finish high school. Our family lived paycheck to paycheck. Dad worked as a truck mechanic after getting out of the army and mom worked in a factory second or third shift.
One reason behind my goal to move out was because my home environment was unpredictable. I never knew what I would encounter every time I walked through the front door. Mom could be at home, either drowning her sorrows in beer and cigarettes at the kitchen table, or getting drunk with a friend. She might also be on the couch, smoking and watching TV.
Walking into the unknown caused fear and anxiety. I did not know where or what my younger brothers were doing or if it would be best to shut myself up in my bedroom. Depending on my schedule, I would need to enter the kitchen to find something to eat, inciting some type of engagement with her.
If she was alone, she would be angry or sad and yell at us kids. I don’t even remember what she was angry or sad about; only that her constant screaming caused me to be angry. The anger, energy, anxiety and tension would build inside my body, pushing its way to erupt like a volcano of rage directed at her.
My goal to move out was to escape.
Her behavior embarrassed me, so I did not invite many friends over or I worked a lot, so I was not home. Babysitting, paper girl, various retail, restaurant hostess, and movie theater. Challenges surrounding working so young included getting rides from my older brother or, if it was babysitting, the family might pick me up. I did well enough in school, so getting homework done at some jobs worked well.
As soon as I was 16, I obtained my license and bought my own car from my older brother. Bob was four years older than me, and it was our plan to get our own apartment after my 18th birthday.
I graduated high school midterm at age 16, then began working full time as a preschool teacher aide and taking college classes at night. After I turned 17, I switched jobs to work at JC Penney auto center at the mall since it paid better than teaching.
By that point, I had a brand new bedroom set, stereo system, TV and all kinds of kitchen and bathroom items.
It was exciting when Bob and I signed the one-year lease for a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor at a nearby complex in the Spring of 1980, shortly after my 18th birthday. We did not have much, but we made it a home. Bob’s now wife Barb was his girlfriend, so she was over a-lot. When she turned 18, they married and the three of us shared the apartment.
There was a guy who lived on the third floor in our building that I knew when I worked at a specialty store called The Crystal Palace when I was 15. It was in a mall called Old Chicago, which had an amusement park in the center and specialty stores or entertainment in a circle above and around the park. You could not see the park from the store level like you can at the Minneapolis Mall of America.
Old Chicago theme was just that Old Chicago; Chicago in the earlier years with paper boys walking around selling papers and a mayor. The mayor was like a mascot where a person dressed up as mayor and wore a giant head. The concept of Old Chicago did not catch on, so customer traffic continued to decline to the point hardly anyone came during the weekdays. This created an opportunity for employees from specialty stores and mall attractions to socialize in the hallways. The mascot mayor walked all over the mall and that’s how I met him when he would take the character’s head off and socialize.
He was a couple of years older than me and acted like he was the Sylvester Stallone Rocky character. At that time, Rocky was a new movie. Rocky wannabe ended up being my third-floor apartment building neighbor. When we worked in Old Chicago, we went out on a couple dates, but nothing really came of it, so when we realized we were neighbors it was a pleasant surprise.
One Saturday evening in August, just before dusk of my 18th year, I planned to pick up my friend Pam and go out. Pam was a year younger than me, so she still lived with her parents. I was feeling good because I just started a new job working in downtown Chicago as an insurance company secretary. This was so exciting to me for so many reasons.
I headed down the stairs to the apartment building parking lot where I saw Rocky wannabe, so we exchanged hellos. I hopped into my gold Montego, rolled down the windows, and drove out of the complex to Pam’s family townhome. It was just a 10-minute drive.
As I drove down one of our town’s two-lane streets, I realized in the car behind me were Rocky’s girlfriend and her friend. Let’s call her RG for Rocky’s girlfriend. It was still light outside, and the speed limit was 25, so it was clear they were following me. Suddenly it was like a car chase from a TV show or the movies. I was rushing down the side streets towards Pam’s subdivision when RG’s car abruptly cut in front of me just before I could turn onto Pam’s Street. RG jumped out of the car and before I knew it, she punched me in the face as I sat in my car with the window down. I opened my door to get out and fight back.
Apparently, RG was also into boxing, and I felt like her punching bag. Everything was happening so fast and in my mind all I could think of was “do not let her knock you down”. When it became clear to her that she would not be knocking me down or knock me out, she stopped hitting me, went back to her car and they sped off.
Somehow, I was able to get into my car, drive around the corner and crawl up the steps to Pam’s house, where her mom received me with great concern and kindness. She urged me to call my parents, but I refused. Just thinking about that caused more anxiety. Eventually, I agreed to let Pam’s parents take me to the ER, where they treated my swollen face and helped me file a police report. Despite my swollen eyes, bruised cheeks, and cut lips, I was fortunate to have avoided any broken bones.
After Pam’s parents took me back to their house, I called my brother and he with his wife picked me and my car up to bring me back to our apartment. There were instructions to monitor me for a concussion. The Rocky wannabe came to the apartment to apologize for his jealous girlfriend, and he was simply told to stay away.
Contacting my new employer was interesting since I was only there one week and now calling in sick after being assaulted. They extended grace and understanding while I recovered.
When my mom and younger high school brother found out what happened, they were upset. I imagine Mom feeling awful about the fact that her own daughter didn’t reach out when she was hurt. My parents encouraged me to move back home.
At that point, I felt it was right to give my newlywed brother space, so I did.
Did my mom still incite rage in me? Yes, but something changed between us, which made it bearable.
Laura's Lines 