“Therapy? PFFF. Gimme a break!”
The lot on the corner of Thomas and Sunrise was an enviable location, maples graceful, lawn well edged, our house stood tall as a three story giant betwixt a community of post-war bungalows. It hadn’t been Mum’s first choice but she liked the proximity to god, we were just across from the church, school, rectory, and convent. For Dad, it was three blocks from one hospital and one block from the other, so he could contract with both through his professional group. For me, it was a perch in the trees, and for other responsible adults, it was to see the splendid edifice and assume the kids inside were fine.
Mrs. McKernan knew. She’d borne seven children, one of them my only friend Bridget. They lived on the opposite side of the catholic campus. Everything in that house was always sticky and disheveled, and the bookshelves held no books. The activity and noise of Bridget’s big, sporty brothers was intimidating and the sisters were annoying but I preferred to be there over my house. Mrs. McKernan lounged around a lot of the day watching soaps, drinking diet soda and smoking cigarettes. Her voice was like a scratched record and she was obviously tired, but she did not treat her kids the way Mum treated us. Mrs. McKernan said, whenever I thanked her for having me, (which was nearly every day from third grade through seventh) that I was always welcome, any time, and she’d cup my face uncomfortably. “You’re so special. Tell your Mum I said thank you,” she would croak. Bridget, who was used to being bolstered, was never jealous. Sometimes she would even agree.
There had been family therapy. We attended when I was seven. The counselor worked at dad’s main hospital, and we went to her office there, and lined up on her sectional sofa while she settled her swishy skirt and big brass earrings. Dad, sad and tired as a balding old sheep, sat next to Mum who held my jolly baby brother on her lap, followed by Leena, age four, smiling but not to be trusted. Her little jaw was clenched and she was ready to strike. Then there was me, eager as a puppy for attention, and finally Lumi, even at age 8 excelling in snobbery, lounging, reading a James Herriot book, only deigning to participate if she was addressed directly. We were there for Leena’s fits of rage. Sometimes I provoked her scratches and bites because I was her older, bored sibling, and that is a relatively normal thing for an older, bored sibling of seven to do. However, she had pulled my baby brother from his cradle and dragged him down the stairs by the head, and left him on the floor in the front hall, completely covered with a coat.
Leena’s birthday is two days before mine. Flashing back to her arrival: I was turning four, and all the grandparents gathered round. I loved the attention and couldn’t wait to have my big pink birthday cake. I didn’t even notice Mum was gone to hospital, until that afternoon she came home with my new sister in a pink receiving blanket. Pink was my color. Baby Leena looked like a boiled prawn from the grocery. I hated prawns. I hated my birthday. I crayoned on the walls and wet my pants, and I was sent to bed early after cake; my dad, likely by Mum’s bidding, quietly and calmly attended my bath and tucked me in. He closed the door of the room all the way, which I didn’t like, and had forgotten to turn on the nightlight. I cried, I’m sure, and I must have got up and figured out how to flip the switch in the dark, and I likely went to sleep only hearing my pulse loud in my head.
Anyway, maybe I should have dragged baby Leena around the house by the head, perhaps I would have gotten the attention Leena did; but instead of being outwardly hostile, I internalised my stress and tried being good. Leena had been an intense baby, hard to console, a screamer that never seemed to tire, so of course she was an intense toddler. Nothing came out of friendly family therapy that I was aware of except “time out on the stairs” and it seemed like I was the only kid who ever had it, even when Leena was behaving like a demon.
At some point around that time I stayed home sick from school, and Mum yelled at me to leave Leena alone and stay in my room. They went out in the garden together. My baby brother was down for a nap. I was thirsty but I needed a cup so I snuck down the stairs, but before I could make it into the kitchen they came through the back door, so I ducked behind the TV and crouched in the corner.
I heard her drag my screaming little sister through the hall and up the stairs, faltering on the landing, Leena almost escaping, Mum gaining ground and yanking her up the remaining stairs; and I heard her put Leena in her crib and slam the door. Leena’s screams rose to a great and terrifying crescendo as Mum came back downstairs.
From my position behind the TV, I could see her. She sat in the corner by the toys and started putting them away. I hid my face and held my breath. I heard the lid of the toy box close, and then I heard her wail softly. She was crying! Oh, poor Mum! My little heart swelled with sympathy. But I was a nuisance, too. She’d said as much. Did she ever cry about me? Was I not worth crying about?
I tiptoed my way back to my room and shut the door, the sounds of Mum, Leena, and now my awakened baby brother for camouflage. I was tired and I needed more paracetamol; my fever was coming back. I didn’t dare bother; I didn’t want to be the reason she cried. I needed to behave at all costs.
“Oh, I got attention, it was all negative though.”
By the time I got to my second therapist, at fifteen, I was inextricably loyal to the dysfunction. I was playing house with the siblings, making their dinner and doing their baths and getting them ready so that Mum could put them to bed when she got up to go to work. Sometimes Dad would come over and do this, but I wanted Dad to be happy in his new life instead of sad and hollow. I wanted Lumi’s support. I wanted Mum’s love. I also knew I might never get these things. I wanted to run away forever.
There was no way I could be honest with a therapist, because I’d learned from Mum that I was dramatic, needy, reactionary, oversensitive, and kind of an asshole. I needed an ally in a counselor, and I wanted them to like me. By now, I also understood that my cognitive shortcomings were all in my head and I was just lazy. I knew I needed to try harder, and I didn’t need a counselor to harp on me for that.
I knew I had a problem. I knew it wasn’t me, but I shouldered it for everyone’s sake. I knew deeply, totally, and confidently above all— that the problem wasn’t me. Nobody had ever believed me when I told them how hard everything was, nobody, that is, except Mrs. McKernan, who I didn’t even need to tell.
This is beautifully written and really resonates with me. Thank you ❤️