Little Me Growing up in Chaos

   I don’t remember much of my childhood during my elementary years when my parents were still married, that my daddy wasn’t coaching little league baseball. We grew up around baseball our whole lives. In the little town we lived in, there were nothing but dirt roads, ball fields, woods, creeks, and the river. Summertime meant baseball and fishing, and winter meant football. Life felt simple in those moments, filled with the rhythm of practices, games, and the quiet beauty of small-town living.

  Some of my favorite memories with my Daddy were going to those baseball practices and the ballgames after school. Daddy would go around to the players houses in the old blue luv truck and pick up all of the players that didn't have rides. They'd climb into the back of the truck and off we would go to the next house until everyone was picked up. After practice daddy would take everyone home one by one. The players loved my daddy and he loved them.

My daddy was my hero back then. Anywhere he was, I felt safe and secure. If we were with him, and not at home, we weren’t being yelled at by our mother. I worshipped my daddy, though nobody ever saw just how much. He was my protector, my guide, and my constant source of comfort.

  My momma and daddy married when she was only fifteen years old. She grew up fast and, looking back, I believe she struggled with depression. I think she may have also had anxiety disorder, and possibly bipolar tendencies. I can’t know for sure, but her mood swings and sudden personality shifts made life unpredictable. You never knew when she would flip from loving and sweet to angry and harsh.

 Some of my favorite memories with my momma were gentler moments, like when she taught me to color, insisting I stay inside the lines. Even that was stressful sometimes. I remember not even being in kindergarten yet, and she would scream at me as if I had broken the law for coloring outside the lines. But by the time I started school, I was the best colorer in the class. I remember being so excited to enter coloring contests at McDonalds because I had confidence in my coloring.

I also learned to tie my shoes at four years old, something my aunts and uncles still laugh about to this day. They say I was the first four-year-old they’d ever seen who could tie their shoes. I learned early to perfect the things I tried, often out of fear of punishment. Though it wasn’t an ideal way to grow up, it shaped a part of me that strives for things to be done right, a trait that has followed me into adulthood. I do think it made me OCD to this day. 

   I loved my momma deeply as a child. When she was in a good mood, her hugs and sweetness felt like the warmest, most comforting thing in the world. Those moments were rare, but they made me love her all the more. But even with those moments, my heart truly belonged to my Daddy.

  People often assumed that since I looked so much like my mother, and because my sister got to go everywhere with my daddy (she was a tomboy and loved sports, while I was more of a girly girl), that I was a “momma’s baby.” They didn’t see that I was also my daddy’s baby, quietly worshipping him from the sidelines. Being left at home with my momma, a woman struggling with depression and anger, made me feel overlooked. Hours would stretch with her screaming and cursing, throwing things, tearing the house apart, and threatening to leave. I would wander around, crying, sometimes begging her not to go, trying to hug her or comfort her, even though she told me my daddy didn’t love me. I knew better, he was my hero. I lived in fear of my momma leaving all of my early childhood years because that was what she would always threaten.

  Sometimes she would eventually settle into her recliner and crochet. Other times, she would continue for hours until Daddy came home, or she would finally go to her room and talk endlessly on the phone about him. I would try to clean up, pile her things, and restore a sense of order, walking carefully through the tension that hung in the air.

   Looking back, I realize she probably never learned how to be a wife or a mother since her own mother passed away when she was only five years old, and maybe she wasn’t mentally prepared for that life. I heard from my aunts that they had step mothers that were abusive. I don’t know a lot about them though. My daddy once said that when he married her, my Pawpaw, my momma’s father, pulled him aside and asked if he was certain he wanted to go through with the marriage. Pawpaw told him that in the past, doctors had said she might never mature beyond a teenager’s level of emotional development and that she was very hard to live

with. She was a mentally troubled teen with behavioral struggles. Back then, they didn’t know much about mental health, so she was never diagnosed with anything in particular, just labeled as “troubled,” with the assumption that she might never fully grow into adulthood mentally. Still, my daddy loved her and chose to marry her anyway. My daddy has always been an all in, dedicated type of man when it comes to loving a woman. 

   It doesn’t excuse her behavior, but understanding it now, after much research on mental health disorders and witnessing similar struggles in my own family, I can see the complexity behind the chaos I lived through. If it were today, the signs would have been obvious. That awareness doesn’t erase the hurt, but it gives perspective, and a deeper understanding of the challenges my parents faced.

   Looking back, I can see now that I witnessed my mother having frequent mental breakdowns. I believe it was because she wasn’t mentally mature enough for the life expected of her as a wife and mother. I also suspect she was bipolar and unmedicated, struggling with a mind and emotions she didn’t fully understand, or have help for. Her anger and sadness would erupt suddenly, like a storm rolling through our home. She would scream, cry, and lash out, sometimes telling my sister and me she hated us and wished we had never been born. She would tell my daddy she hated his guts, and at times, she told us we were ugly and she wanted  us out of her sight. My sister might have felt that wrath more often than I did, but I experienced it too.

  She would throw herself to the floor, crying and stomping like a toddler having a tantrum. As children, we couldn’t make sense of the chaos. My daddy would quietly sit in his recliner, holding me in his lap, letting her vent until the storm passed. Sometimes she would come and get right in his face so close I could feel the heat off of her breath, and my ears would vibrate because she was so loud, cursing and screaming at him how she hated him. When I asked him what was wrong with her, he would simply say, “I don’t know, baby. Just watch TV. It’s alright.”

   Sometimes, she would storm through the house, tearing things apart, and he would hold me close, shielding me from her outbursts. I don’t remember where my sister would be, if she was right there also, in her room, or with my cousins. She stayed with my cousins a lot.  In those moments, I felt both terrified and safe, terrified of what was happening, safe in my daddy’s arms.

   Then, almost like flipping a switch, she would calm down. She’d sit in her recliner, quietly crocheting, as if nothing had happened. Daddy would usually drift off to sleep in his own chair, and I’d sit at his head on the back of it, playing in his hair and watching the television. He was always exhausted. Who wouldn’t b e living that kind of life. That was our version of a normal, chaotic, unpredictable, yet strangely comforting life. We thought that was just how life was. We walked through our days like little nervous wrecks, hearts pounding, never knowing when the next storm would strike, always on edge, always waiting. When it was good, it was good, When it was bad, it was really really bad. 

   Living in that chaos, the screaming, the unpredictability, left its mark on me. Even now, as an adult, I find myself anxious in certain situations, avoiding confrontation, and craving calm wherever I can find it. I have chased peace my entire life. And even as hard as I chased it, I seemed to always end up back in chaos. At least until I met my husband in 2018. But that’s another story for another time.  Those early years planted the seeds for my nervous nature, though my teenage years added more layers, and later experiences only shaped it further. 

   All of it taught me what kind of mother I never wanted to be. I wanted to protect my children and make sure they never felt unloved by either parent. I was never perfect and there were times I didn’t do the best job as a mother, I did the best with the cards I was dealt at the time. I’m not perfect, and there were times I said things I wish I could take back. Or undo decisions I made. The one thing I always did was make sure they knew they were loved. At least I tried, not just by me, but by everyone in their lives, even if that love didn’t always look perfect.

    I remember sitting on the doorstep with my children when their dad was supposed to come and pick them up and didn’t show. I would make excuses, saying he had to work, even though I knew the truth. I would tell them how much he loved them, and I would then take them to McDonalds or the park to play and do something fun that they liked. I didn’t want them to feel forgotten or unloved. I spent years protecting their hearts from the kind of heartache I felt as a child. Eventually, children see the truth for themselves, but I can sleep at night knowing I did my job as a mother as long as I could. Eventually they grow up and see things for themselves and figure it out on their own. The truth always comes to light. It did for me in so many ways. 

  Looking back, those difficult experiences gave me perspective. They shaped my resilience, my ability to empathize, and my understanding of the importance of love, patience, and kindness. Life may not have been perfect, but it taught me lessons I carry every day. I’ve learned that love can exist even in imperfect circumstances, and that growth and happiness are always possible, no matter where you start. 

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