Eight
I went home. I know I never spoke much about my roots, but they were pretty much humble ones. My parents were ashamed by the tragedy of having me. I am not sure whether it was because of their parents and their families. There was some blame on genetics though neither admitted fault. There was some blame on the diet. In the end, for some odd reason, there was very little blame on the doctor and the hospital that made the mistake. I wore a mask as I walked through it. It was one of those construction masks to help ward off breathing in dust or mold spores. Only one part of the house was livable with plastic sectioning it off. The rest of the house was damaged by that storm that happened so long ago. Yet, its destruction felt recent. I looked at the bare floors that I tore up in a fit as a teenager. There was so much angry and bitterness in this house. I didn't know how to describe it. It was an old, small farm house. The floor boards creaked as I crept upon them. I always felt in the coldness of the house that there was something else here. I didn't know what it was. With the winter, it wasn't uncommon for me to wear a thick coat in the house. It was cold. The water was turned off. We had some in jugs that we would drink from, but it couldn't be turned on till the spring or a warm day. We didn't want the pipes to burst and repeat everything that happened again.
My mom wasn't home yet. She was a prominent advocate in her own right. She was never home really when she was working. I guess we all needed a break. I learned at the age of twelve how to start cooking for myself. I looked outside the window to see the basketball hoop that I would shoot at to pass time. It felt empty. I sat down looking at the bowl of pasta that I made in front of me. I understood at this moment why the COATS program made me happy. I had somewhere to go to. I had somewhere to call home. I had someone calling my name. No one was calling my name in this place.
I know I really should not be bitter. The cost of having a child with disabilities is astronomically high. To get that child help, it takes a ton of resources. I don't mean to rant here, but the federal government only pays a certain percentage towards services with children of disabilities. In a state that is so against abortion, it is hypocrisy that they don't want to help the children who are already alive. An unborn child has done no wrong, but I start to wonder if the world would be better off if I was aborted. If my parents had just gotten rid of me, they probably would still be together. It might have hurt them to give up a child. It seemed with everything around me. I didn't know why I was here. Everyone has a purpose. This is what I heard in church, but I didn't really have a purpose. I was burnt out on fighting. I was burnt out on studying. Some people say, "but you are only nineteen, this cannot be that bad. This is a minor road bump."
I have been trying to fix this place. I have been trying to fix my family. I have been trying to fix myself. I was tired. The problem is the road has been rocky since I was a child. My car is finally fed up with the bumpiness. I have blown the transmission or whatever. I never done maintenance because I have been running all the time. I could feel the engine in me wanting to groan to a stop. My brain was warning me that I was going to get sick again. I wanted to rest, but I couldn't sleep. I didn't notice that I was getting less sleep till I looked into the mirror and saw my reflection. I was tired. I could see the realness that this life caused me. My eyes were no longer bright. It was defeated. I wasn’t winning.
Yet, I was too angry to be tired. I guess those chemicals called cortisol or something was fuming in my system. I was already thinking of my next steps as an advocate. They might be taking my future, but they won't take my voice. I won't permit it.
"You have to understand," said the lawmaker to me, "those kind of people are not as ready to succeed as the regular kind of people. Don't get me wrong, I believe that they deserve a chance to education, but the services we are giving them are too inefficient." We were talking over the phone. He was someone from the elephant team which was favored in my state.
"The cost of raising a disabled child is astronomical," I said to him, "not only this, helping a person of disability transition to adulthood is a very important service. Cutting these services are going to have a drastic effect on the economy. We have a whole institution built around servicing people with disabilities such as in education and medicine. The special needs population is a huge part of your state, and there is an advantage to servicing."
"Everyone struggles to succeed as an adult," he said to me, "everyone struggles to get a job. That is just the nature of things. A special needs adult is not struggling as much as the adult next to him. Everyone is having it hard. I am telling you that these services are too inefficient."
"That is not what the Rehabilitation act says or IDEA," I said to him, "those acts were formed on formal research by colleagues and former colleagues of yours. The rate of discrimination against a disabled adult is much higher."
I could tell he was getting flustered. "Well, I think the system is highly abused," he said, "I believe cutting the funding will help weed out the abusers from the people who need it. I think it needs to be reformed, and this is the start of it."
I sighed. I realized he was clinging to a talking point. I often read on books in politics that our politicians have prepared statements and cookie cutter letter templates. If you can't reach the person, you cannot go beyond the machine. He was clearly a part of the machine. He made some excuse about not having time and wished me a happy holiday. I wished him back, but when he hung up, I was angry. I was angry that my country was being run by a bunch of talking points. I tried to let it go. I was an angry teenager at this time. I own up to this fact.
I heard a knock on my door. I knew my mom was home. I opened it to greet her.
"Welcome home," I said to her. I saw that she had dinner. We both sat down in relative silence. The food was spread before us.
"How are your grades?" she asked me, breaking the silence.
"Most of them are good," I said to her, "I made one C." I saw her lips pursed when I said this. I knew she didn't like hearing it.
"There is no excuse for you making that grade," she said to me. I looked at her tiredly feeling defeated.
"I know," I said silently continuing to eat my food. I didn't want to talk to her. I told her about my roommates and changing rooms. I told her about D.
"Maybe, you are the problem," she said to me, "you need to see a behavioral therapist to help you fit in. You are too rigid. You need to learn to laugh and go along with them."
"Mom-" I said angrily. Someone once told me that when I stopped permitting my mother to have a say in my decisions in life. It lead to this strain because she lost control over it. She didn't have control over me. It caused her anxiety, but it was also toxic to both of us. We were toxic at this moment. What we were becoming was toxic, I knew that. I needed to work on being independent from her. People have told me that that they never saw me independent of her till I wrote this story.
"I am just saying," she said to me as if she said nothing wrong. I was mad at her. I continued to eat food in silence. There was so much anger in this place.
Then, I found out Grandfather was sick. It made my mother's commentary slightly more understandable. Yet, it bothered me. She tended to have a two face nature with things. One moment, she would be telling me something is a good idea. The next moment became a bad idea. I wasn't sure how to walk around her anymore. I sighed looking at the broken house. I knew the family was broken. I couldn't fix it.
I just took the keys off the key ring to my car. It started up with a groaning engine. I knew it was probably going to be gone by time next year, but I didn't care. I wanted to see Grandfather. So, I left without saying another word. I didn't want to be in the toxicity of that house.
Grandfather was in bed when I got to his house. The light in his room gave it away. I knew it was late, but I wanted to stay over there anyway. He was my retreat. I guess he was my father who technically raised me in my dad's place, but he was still granddad. I crept through his house trying not to wake him. He had given me keys to it when I was
in high school.
"What's wrong?" I heard his voice ask me as I tried to creep to the guest bedroom. I looked into his room to see him in bed. He had a quilt covering him. He was sitting up reading an old book. He beckoned me to come into the room. I sat down in the chair feeling like ashamed two year old. I didn't want to talk to him exactly right now.
"Did your mother and you fight again?" he asked me. I nodded not wanting to talk about it.
I looked at the lamp light to distract my eyes from Grandfather. He was peering at me through glasses.
"Ally," he said to me, "look at me."
I didn't want to.
"Look at me, Ally," he said again. I looked at him feeling my eyes water. He had crystal blue eyes that were kind. They didn't look at me the way that my father did. They looked at me with love, a grandfatherly love.
"She doesn't love me," I said to Grandfather wanting to cry, "all I have done is caused her burdens."
"She does love-" started Grandfather to me.
"My father didn't love me," I said to Grandfather. These were heavy words. They were true words. I felt bad for cutting him off, but the emotions just surged. They came out of me.
"Your father didn't have the love that you have from me," said Grandfather to me sadly. I looked at him not understanding what he meant. He let a silence linger between both of us. "I was a bad man," said Grandfather to me quietly as he laid his back against the bed frame looking at me, "an alcoholic. Your father grew up with the demons that made me. I was abusive, physical and with words. I wasn't a good man. I wasn't a father to your father."
I was hurting. I looked at him sadly. I didn't say anything because I knew he wanted to say more.
"So, when you were born," he said to me, "when I saw how broken you were, it broke me. God spoke me. I knew I had to stand up. I knew I had to help you. That was the moment that I decided to never drink again. It wasn't with your father. It was with you." He paused for a moment. "Been alive for more than sixty years, I struggled to change. Yet, with you, I changed. I stayed over and watched you as a child. I learned about physical therapy and speech therapy to help you. I gave to you things that I never could give your father," he said to me gently.
There was silence as the emotion hit both of us.
"That is why he left, Ally," he said to me, "not because you were born retarded, but because you given what I couldn't give to him. It made him a bitter man."
"It still hurts," I said to him, "I am not doing anything wrong. I am trying. I am trying to do everything right."
"But, no one does everything right," said Grandfather, "not me, not you, and not even your mother."
I nodded feeling tears down my face.
"Ally," he said to me, "don't ever be afraid to be human. Allow yourself to be human sometimes." I nodded as we both said our "I love you" and goodnights.
"Where were you?" said my mom bitterly to me when I came home from Grandfather.
"I was helping Grandfather," I said to her. I knew I was lying. I just wanted to clear my head.
"You can help Grandfather," she said to me, "but not me?" I could feel the anger in her voice. I looked down at the burned mark hands of mine. I was always scolded for scarring myself. It scared me to work on the house. I didn't want to add to my scars.
"We can't always be talking to each other like this," I said to her, "there are things that I can't give to you. I have literally given all that I have. The money for my doctor appointments and therapy. I have given everything to try to fix this, but I can't. We can't. We need to let go of this place, Mom. We need to let go of dad."
She was a bitter woman at this point in my life. It hurt me to see this. I knew she gave a lot, but we both were toxic. We both were not doing things right. I knew my body was weak because I had a medical illness. I was constantly warned not to be pushing it by the doctors.
"You haven't done anything to help me," she said to me coldly, "that settlement money is my money for my suffering that I had to deal with you."
"Then, I don't know," I said to her shrugging.
"Be careful," she said to me, "I can always write a book at unhelpful you were."
I sighed. I heard this threat since high school. I looked at her. The words hurt, but I was so tired that they didn’t hurt. They just were.
"You know what?" I said to her, "do what you want." I walked out of the living room and walked out of her reach. I didn't want to be around my parents anymore. She was more tolerable than my father, but I still didn't like it.
I looked at the phone number that I had taped to a card on my notebook. It was Ravi's number. I sighed. I don't know why. I had a feeling to call. "I am not a therapist," said Ravi to me, "I do want to make that clear. So, the words that I say to you are as a friend."
"I know," I said, "it is just that I had no one really turn to that I felt was listening."
"Children should not have to pay a debt to their parents," he said simply, "I strongly feel that. When you talk of your parents, it seems you always are talking about how much you owe them for your childhood. You aren't a settlement. You are a person. You shouldn't owe them anything for what you couldn't control." He paused. I stayed silent. I knew I needed to listen.
"Your mom from what it sounds like did not help you for the sake of helping you but alleviating a lifetime burden that would be upon her if she would have left you alone and not gotten the services. In a way, that may have been part of her drive. No parent wants to be taking care of their children in old age. It is understandable, but when you reached the mark of what she considered okay, she stopped acknowledging that you needed help or helping you because you are no longer a burden to her life. When she had to take care of you, she did. When she was no longer required, she stopped. This is why some things are not quite resolved. You were serviced, but you never were parented. You grew up in a way without parents, and I can tell even from talking to you that a lot of your social development and personal development came from books. You speak and write like you read Ms. Manners book. I am not saying that is wrong, but I am saying that there is a lot preventing the real you from being here. You are seeing the problem and finding the solution like the books and education taught you, but sometimes, the solution does not come from the books. It comes from how you feel and what you are okay with. Do you understand this?"
I was heavily weighing his words. "I know," I said. It was true that I was practically bookish. I wouldn't deny this fact.
"It is just that I feel hopeless," I said to Ravi, "I can't change my past. I always feel like I have to feel guilty for me."
"Then stop," said Ravi to me, "You don't owe anything to anyone. You are an adult. The moment you became an adult. You are no longer your parents. You need to start detangling yourself from your family, and if they love you, they will get over it."
"Thank you, Ravi," I said to him, "and have a good holiday."
I sighed as I walked back into the house. This was not an easy time for me.
"Mom," I said to her, "I am taking my car to college."
"If you do, you are responsible-" she started.
"I am taking my car to college, and I can," I said to her firmly. I didn't have much from the stipends that I gained from the COATS program, but it was enough. I was going to take my car. I was going to start being independent. The rest of the holiday did not past peacefully, but I wanted to start not being a problem to the people around me.
Oddly enough, I spoke to the Lord about taking my car to college though I didn't have the money in these days of high gas prices to get here. I was compelled to go somewhere in a park, a strange place. I found forty dollars on the ground and no one around me. It was his message to me to take the car with me.