You, with the Eyes. Chapter II

Chapter II - "We were fine."

Post #3

While standing at the Walmart self-check-out line, I realize, this is about to get ugly. My mom, Chula, had insisted I go to Walmart with her to get the household-daily-essentials. Today was her only day to go shopping for this stuff so I obliged; shampoo, conditioner, soap, razors. When we entered the store, everything was fine... we were fine. We hadn't fought all day which is always a win because we don't usually get along, but today was going decently well. Sure, we might have started storing and suppressing some tension when we tried to enroll me at my new school earlier today, but I brushed that off like normal jitters. I turned fifteen a couple of months ago and going to a new school at this age should be stressful, right? But the stress wasn't from my soon-to-be new hell-hole for the next 3 years, per se’, it was more because my mom doesn't know how to register new information regarding that kind of stuff, so she made me do all the work. She's primarily a Spanish speaker, therefore, she feels "inferior to interacting in situations like this", at least, that's what my therapist always tries to make me understand. I felt her annoyance at the school's front office as if she had rather been somewhere, anywhere else, but there. She nudges me to move forward as if enrolling at this new school was my punishment for something i had done. I guess it kind of was, if you consider that I am moving to this new school because I was bullied at my last school. My way of expressing myself was not liked or admired by my fellow peers and I guess that that was more than enough reason for them to pull me down from a five-foot-high flower planter and punch me until they were pulled off from the security guards. It was my fault, I should have been more likeable. I struggle with that. I struggle with not saying the right words at the right time, trying to feel courageous at the wrong time, standing up for something at the wrong time, breathing... at the wrong time. Mom got frustrated because I didn’t understand the questions from the receptionist and I guess I might have answered with an attitude. She also didn’t like that I was slouching. My oversized clothing was apparently too oversized and I looked homeless, according to her. “A used, old cloth” she described. When we left the school, though, she seemed fine. We were fine. I don’t think the receptionist noticed my moms’ anger or even my annoyance. I've always thought that being invisible was the goal in life and just now I am realizing why I agree with that.

It is our turn to go through the self-check-out and I already feel my palms sweating. Mom is also feeling tensed because I see her face start to wrinkle in frustration. The huge line behind me doesn't help the tension either. All these people have somewhere to go, somewhere to be, somewhere, anywhere, but here. "Drina, you're going to do it, so pay attention because your next”, she scornfully tells me. As if my anxiety wasn't obvious enough, she is now making me do this alone. I pause for a second as I see the next register open. "Here we go...", I think to myself, right before she nudges me aggressively to start walking. I make it to the register and before I could take a deep breath she begins to yell at me that I am scanning everything wrong. "Put the shampoos correctly in the bag, they will spill!" she yells. I feel the irritation in her voice. The hatred in her voice. The disgust by my existence in her voice. The "why did i get myself into this mess by raising children that aren't mine" kind of anger in her voice. By now, we have gotten the attention of the hundreds of people impatiently waiting for us to finish. There are four other registers in use, but I know they aren't focused on those to be open soon, they are watching the show. They are watching my embarrassment turn my face red. My anxiety gets the best of me and I start to move with an attitude. "Mom, help me." I whisper. "No, your gonna do it, so do it right", she quickly responds. "Mom, please, if you don't help me, I'm going to leave, I need to go outside, I need to breathe." I feel myself become the loose thread of my oversized sweater, becoming undone. I have reached my exploding point and as I take a step back, she grabs the bottom of my sweatshirt and rim of my pants and begins to scream at the security guard, "Close the doors! My daughter is in therapy and she runs away! Close the doors!" Everyone around me starts to whisper and point at us like we are some wild animals. The walls somehow move closer to me and my breathing becomes faster. The tile on the floor begins to warp as if I am in a circus fun house. "Mom, please, let me go, I need to go outside, I need to breathe." My body stiffens and I swear I am going to die right here in the center of Walmart's' self-check-out line.

I’ve only ran away once. I didn’t even really run away, considering that my Aunt Ruth found me soon after I left. My aunt always seems to find me when I am literally screaming for help. I don’t dare to run away from her. But I was so mad at my mom. She really pissed me off that day. At that time, I occasionally would smoke out of a vape-pen that I had gotten from a school friend. I am not sure if the juice in the pen gave me courage to leave but I did. Do I regret it? Sometimes I regret being slow. Other times, I regret doing it because, now, even taking a step back and wanting to get outside air is threatening to her.

I am overwhelmed by scenarios in my head of what to do next. Do I pull away from her and run? She’s much stronger than me. If she feels like I am trying to challenge her, she will be forced to slap me or hit me or something. Then what would happen? The store will file a report, contact CPS and take me away? Perhaps take her to jail? I don’t want that. All I want to do is just go outside.

The security guard comes over and starts to tell us that we cannot be doing this in the store and we need to step outside. Finally. My mom has gotten the attention she was seeking and now I seriously feel like I have died. The security guard pulls us towards the door and separates us. He starts to ask my mom what is going on and of course, she is the only one who speaks. What am I to say, anyway? “My anxiety is the worst and my mom is a bitch”? No. I stay quiet. I pull out my phone and call my Aunt Ruth but she is already on her way. Of course, she is. I guess somewhere in between the chaos, my mom called her to the rescue. My Aunt Ruth is Mom Chula’s daughter. She is also Des’s, my real fathers’, half-sister. Mom Chula is actually Papa Ed’s, my grandfathers’, wife. My actual grandmother, Dora, may she rest in peace, was Papa Ed’s first wife. Legally, I’m my aunt’s adopted sister. We have a weird family but whether my Aunt Ruth is my sister or my Aunt, she’s my savior at times like this.

“Drina, call down. Take a deep breath, everything is ok. I am on my way now, I am only seven minutes away. No, don’t tell me anything. Just relax, and take a deep breath. I will see you both soon”, she hangs up and I put my phone back into my pocket. Seven minutes can feel like an eternity. But I know Aunt Ruth, she will be here in five.

After the security finishes with getting my moms’ side of the story, he heads towards me. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Drina…” I respond. “How old are you? You’re very pretty”, he says. My Aunt warned me about nasty men like this. They take advantage of small girls and try to befriend them and take advantage of their vulnerability. I think to myself, “I watch Danelle Hallan, you can’t get me”. “I’m fifteen and in high school. My mom is just upset, we are waiting on my aunt. She will be here in seven minutes”, I respond. As if he understood that he just made me uncomfortable, he shy’s away and waits for Aunt Ruth next to Mom Chula. Aunt Ruth must have passed a few red lights because just as he walks away, I see her bright red truck pull up. The security guard waves her down and signals her that it is o.k. to park in front of the loading zone. I can breathe again.

I know it’s not the end of this just yet and I know that we now have to explain ourselves to Aunt Ruth, but I am still shaking and I feel like I might have wet myself a bit. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I sometimes get too overwhelmed that my body acts alone. Mom Chula, used to scold me when I would pee on myself as a kid. It has become my trade mark with my family that I can’t hold it in. No person wants to ever be seen as the “peepee” girl but that is I. The “peepee” girl. How stupid and embarrassing. I hate myself for not being able to control it. According to Mom Chula, my real mom, Dahlia, used to pee on the bed all the time. She wouldn’t feel shame about it. According to Aunt Ruth, Dahlia dealt with her own demons and she eventually got to a point where she realized that hating herself for not being able to control her body in stressful situations was a waste of time.

I wish I knew more about her. I wish I knew what advise she would give me in this situation. I can’t even assume of what she could have told me. I have not got an ounce of an idea what she was truly like. Dahlia left my baby sister, my baby brother and me, to Mom Chula and Papa Ed, a long time ago. Thirteen years to be exact. I was only two years old. I didn’t have enough time with her. She must have had a good reason, right? To leave and not turn back? To give into stress and go away and never ask how it would affect us. She must have, right? As the years pass me, I realize that I wonder this more and more. Aunt Ruth says that I have to toughen up a little because as I get older, I will start to realize things that “don’t make sense won’t make sense”, and I need to accept those realities. Like this situation. None of this makes sense. I don’t even know what really happened anymore. Why did it have to get to this point? I was fine. She was fine. We were… fine.