The Girl Who Drank the Slurpee

I was just thinking, today, about posting a Facebook status update that read: "I wonder if judgment comes with age." Then I realized that everyone who read it would think I was talking about my babies. And I should have been.

Then, I thought back to when and if my judgment was worse than it is today. As I kept going further and further back in the memory bank, I was embarrassed. I honestly think I've actually regressed to less judgment than I ever remember having, and I was able to attach specific moments to the thought, as if creating a virtual time line. Like the kind of time line you find at the beginning of each chapter in any given history book. Only, instead of the year the American flag was sewn, or that great day in Eli Whitney's cotton career, my time line reminds me of times I've been brutally let down, even abused.

I remember spending hours in the garage telling my drunk father how much he means to me, to everyone in our family. And he just sobbed because he knew his word meant nothing to any of his kids or his wife. He was full of broken promises and drowned his sorrows. As if he was only hurting himself. He would tell me how much all he ever wanted in his life was his first son, my oldest brother. He never wanted the rest of us. But, I excused him. He didn't know what he was saying. He just promised to quit drinking tomorrow. When that happens, for the first time in 40 years, then he'll realize what he said, take it back, and say what he really means. This scenario happened to the upwards of 5 nights a week. The other two I spent in my room crying because I thought for sure that would be the day.

Even before that, I remember keeping busy in my room with my nieces, playing school and barbies. We were able, that way, to avoid at least half of the fighting and drunkenness that every day was littered with. But when they had to go home, or the days they couldn't come over and play, I remember the insecure verbal attacks on my mom, as if a mother of 6 had time to take care of us all, grocery shop, cook and clean, AND have an affair. I wasn't even completely sure what an affair was, but I knew my dad was just crazy. But, I excused him. He didn't know what he was saying. He would come into a completely dark house, hours later, and stumble to the couch where my mom was sitting, and mumble words that could have possibly sounded like, "I'm sorry. I love you." And I only heard them then. When he had buried his abuse in the bottle so hard, that, I think, he forgot that he was even sad. Forgot why he'd yelled at my mom. Forgot THAT he yelled at my mom.

And before that, even. Before I even remember my dad, because he wouldn't come inside. He drank at work. He drank on the road from work to the bar. He drank at the bar. He drank on the road to home. And he would park in the driveway and drink until he fell asleep. He would play his music so loud in the truck, I could hear it in the house with his windows up. I remember thinking that he should become a country singer. My mom made the mistake of telling me, excitedly, to go out and look at the blimp. I'm sure she'd thought my dad was already passed out. Unfortunately for me, he wasn't. And he was in a bad mood. I remember only one detail of the rest of the night. He spanked me for going to look at the blimp. Very hard. That was the one and only time he ever spanked me, mostly, I assume, because I was walloped so hard, it scared HIM. I knew he was wrong. But, I excused him. He bought me a slurpee the next day. And a candy bar. And that was a secret surprise that I couldn't even tell my mom. So, I excused him.

So, while formulating this virtual time line, I realize an apparent pattern. And I wasn't extremely surprised thinking forward from that point either. Except for the fact that I think somewhere around the point I realized my dad wasn't going to stop drinking every day, and when I started having way more important things to do with my nights instead of spending them speaking Greek to a drunk, my judgment was the best of my life. I stood up for myself based on my morals. I did what I wanted to do, despite what anybody thought of it. My judgment has faltered, slowly but surely, from then, until now, and I can understand half of it. Points of low self esteem; friends move away, family starts building their own families. It was lack of practice, mostly. I didn't have those strongholds in my life the way I did back then. And today, I saw me. A scared little girl with a slurpee. And I realized so much about my mom. How she's even stronger than I ever gave her credit for, and I thought she was made of steel.

So, by this time next year, I'm setting a goal to be in a different place in my life. A place where I stop excusing because I know better. A place where I smile because I don't have to worry about psychopathic behaviors. A place where my children smile because I'm raising them in a secure environment, learning to be happy and confident. I will never again be the girl with the slurpee.