The Weight of the World

When my mother would describe me to other people, she would always say I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. After thinking about it, I've realized how true of a statement that is, although it was not the weight of the world, but the weight of my family.

My sister was born when I was 4 going on 5 years old. Shortly thereafter, my mother encountered a bad case of postpartum depression, which was not the kind where she took things out on the new baby, but some very strange occurrences took place. She began having panic attacks and severe migrane headaches. I remember riding on the beltway (for those of you who are not familiar, the beltway  is 495 and a trecherous road that circles D.C.), and my mother pulling the car over to the side because she could not bring herself to get us home. I also remember my father calling 911 to come to the house because of a panic attack. From my earliest memories, this is when the house began to fall into significant disarray.

I don't remember exactly what age I started to do my own laundry, but I remember being picked on for wearing dirty clothes to school. The "laundry pile", as we so aptly named it, was born in the work room of our basement. When clothes were dirty, we would take them down and throw them in the dirty pile. When clothes came out of the dryer, we placed them in the clean pile. Eventually, the piles became so large, they melted together and it was nearly impossible to tell clean from dirty. After the clean clothes had been there long enough to grow moldy, not even the "smell test" would work.

I started to "play" with the washing machine when I could stand on the dirty pile and see down into the tub. Eventually, I started to work the knobs and was able to turn the water on. Mom saw me one day and decided to show me how, and ta-da! her laundry Oompa Loompa was trained and eager to work! If I had known all of the grief that curiosity would cause me, I would NEVER have touched that damn machine.

This new task brought about other responsibilities which included lining up the clothes for everyone the night before a school day. Since all of our clothing was hand-me-downs, there really wasn't the latest in fashion to choose from. My sister, being the little sister that she is, would often cringe at my selections, which resulted in arguments and tantrums. If this caused us to be late, and it often did, I would be in trouble. I was also responsible for my mother's work uniform, including socks, underwear, undershirt, and other accessories. If one or more of those pieces was missing, I was seriously in trouble.

This is when I remember most of the physical abuse happening, however I know there were other times. If an issue with the clothing could not swiftly and peacefully be resolved, my hair was pulled or I was spanked. On the worst days, I remember being held down in the laundry pile and choked. Once my mother had vented her frustration, I had to pull myself together, get dressed, and go to school like nothing had happened.

There was only one time I ever said anything to an adult at school (or anybody at all for that matter), and after I did, I felt foolish for complaining about it. Of course, I never told them about the physical abuse, only about my sister and her hissy fit about wearing a pink dress. They probably assumed it was a normal squabble between sisters and I never went back.

Until I left for college in the fall of 1999, I was in charge of the laundry and eventually, the dishes, bathrooms, some cooking, etc. I think I was the only one who cared after a certain point. When we had to be somewhere as a family, I made sure everyone was dressed, ready, and out the door on time. My parents always struggled with money so I got my first job at 14 as a busser at a restaurant. I saved money for school trips, my prom dresses, and anything else I needed. I would also give my parents money when my mother overdrew the account and we needed groceries or electricity.

Needless to say, when I went away to college (three hours away), I became a totally different person. It was the first time I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders and the first time I ever felt normal. I am having trouble deciding if my childhood was damaging or if it is the reason I am where I am today...or perhaps both?