An early memory, taken aback at the tenderness in my mother’s voice. Not the tone, really, just that it was meant for me.
i was looking up at a grey sky, the sun barely visible, flapping my hands. My mother said, “Oh, how cute, she thinks’ she is a little bird.”
She had moments of mother feelings for me, before the rest. i didn’t remember a time when she loved her awkward bird, the one that always wanted to fly.
Later, she would hiss, “People are staring at you. They think you are retarded, like the doctors said you would be.”
When my mother would tell people about me being “a miracle,” she would try and make her voice sound like honey. Later, she’d say, “You are a fighter, girl. You fought your way out of that incubator and fought every day since.”
Flapping hands are bad.
Hands “playing in water” is bad.
Hands that mess up anything are very bad. My hands messed up a lot of things. i was learning, at four, to channel anger inward, to hurt myself. To bring blood and anger to the surface and not have fear. Hurting myself was shorthand to get from fear to anything else, quickly.
My hands got bit a lot. My arms would be covered in bruises, blood, and his teeth marks. My mother would hold him, just stop everything for once, and hold him. He’d stare at nothing after his rages on me, stare at nothing and suck his thumb. It was like looking into a shark’s eyes.
Hands don’t get moved when it hurts. Hands go behind your back. Protecting your face is cause to get it smashed.
No one would leave their hand under an iron long enough to produce two second degree burns.
How do i explain that hands should not be moved? That i was trying to grab the ironing board and iron as it all fell and hit her carpet and there was something else to punish me for. And so i saved the carpet before my hand.
It was my left hand, and it still carries the scars. Painful months of deep burning. Shame. My dominant hand. i remember thinking that i’d have a wedding band there some day and it would have to live alongside the scar.
My mother said time heals everything.
She is a liar and the original Magnificent Cunt.
i know every line i should say, exactly how she wanted everything done, my hands always in my mouth-biting. Quiet hands.
Now my hands are busy again. My hands are my eyes. They examine the world, starving, eager, wanting more. Energy is my eyes. Blind sight. i do not know when i’m flapping. Or rocking. Or playing in the water in the tub for an hour.
i am back in that mode. There isn’t much else to say on it. Failure to thrive people who thrive desptie a less than one percent chance of survival should not have to justify how they move through the world, even if they say, “i’m sorry.” We stim. Oh well. i already think i’m the most awkward person, ever. lol. i realize how often i’m stimming in some manner, though i’ve learned to hide it very well. i think. ?
i’m just a little bird, flapping under a grey sky.