In my parents' apartment I had to walk down a long hall, turn right, then turn right again to reach my room. Hanging in a recessed panel above the door was a sign that my father had painted, with the name Adam in letters the color of ripe oranges. That name was, and usually remains, as foreign to me then as now. My sister had a sign too, just a little ways from mine across a short hall; hers had purple I believe. It said "Emily" on it. That was her name.
The front door to the apartment, which would make a large clang when it shut due to all of those locks and heavy frame, would deposit me at one end of that long front hall. Sometimes, when I had been inside for a while, I would run alone, or with my sister down that expansive space, and would end up with a splinter in a foot. Sliding with socks on, in the wood went. It was strange to have to remove a tube sock to find it, and it could be very difficult to locate. Layered calluses. I might still have some slivers down there. Sometimes, my emotions seem inundated with slivers from that time.
The overwhelming sensation I had as a child was that I was completely alone, and my room, although usually messy and chaotic, still seemed safer than anywhere else. Of course, this kind of security was relational. I imagine that I would feel more safe with a bulletproof vest on knowing that I'm about to be shot in the chest with a bullet. I'd prefer not to have to make that choice.
I do not recall caring about much of anything then, but a new Elton John record or KISS' "Alive" album, which I would beg my father to buy for me, provided comfort. The records had booklets sometimes and notes on the back that I would read with the music playing in headphones, totally immersed. I cared about those things. I also cared about the AM radio that kept me company in that apartment. Harry Harrison, 77WABC. AM was music back then.
Luckily, and perhaps as a form of self-protection, I was only able to vaguely sense the desperation I experienced during those years. The nightly panic attacks during a couple of them came with such regularity that they produced a kind of rhythm.
Although I still feel some forty five years later many of the feelings that I must have had then, I do now know that they are feelings. As a child, my anger and despair, like those splinters I could feel but not find, did not seem to even near the surface. Little daggers in the feet of a neglected boy. The floors which produced them, rough and uncaring.
The front door to the apartment, which would make a large clang when it shut due to all of those locks and heavy frame, would deposit me at one end of that long front hall. Sometimes, when I had been inside for a while, I would run alone, or with my sister down that expansive space, and would end up with a splinter in a foot. Sliding with socks on, in the wood went. It was strange to have to remove a tube sock to find it, and it could be very difficult to locate. Layered calluses. I might still have some slivers down there. Sometimes, my emotions seem inundated with slivers from that time.
The overwhelming sensation I had as a child was that I was completely alone, and my room, although usually messy and chaotic, still seemed safer than anywhere else. Of course, this kind of security was relational. I imagine that I would feel more safe with a bulletproof vest on knowing that I'm about to be shot in the chest with a bullet. I'd prefer not to have to make that choice.
I do not recall caring about much of anything then, but a new Elton John record or KISS' "Alive" album, which I would beg my father to buy for me, provided comfort. The records had booklets sometimes and notes on the back that I would read with the music playing in headphones, totally immersed. I cared about those things. I also cared about the AM radio that kept me company in that apartment. Harry Harrison, 77WABC. AM was music back then.
Luckily, and perhaps as a form of self-protection, I was only able to vaguely sense the desperation I experienced during those years. The nightly panic attacks during a couple of them came with such regularity that they produced a kind of rhythm.
Although I still feel some forty five years later many of the feelings that I must have had then, I do now know that they are feelings. As a child, my anger and despair, like those splinters I could feel but not find, did not seem to even near the surface. Little daggers in the feet of a neglected boy. The floors which produced them, rough and uncaring.
