Sometimes my husband and I will have conversations that will jar a memory from my past and I’ll inadvertantly have to relive an unpleasant moment in my past that makes me wonder, how the hell am I still sane?
So this one memory has to do with my childhood home catching on fire, my bedroom to be exact. As a teenager I wrote tons of short stories and poetry and when I wrote something I didn’t like I’d tear the pages out of my journal and discard them on to the floor. I have three brothers, one older and two younger, when I would leave for work my brothers would enter my bedroom without my permission to steal money and change from my dresser. Well this one evening my little brother decided he was going to enter my room and try to make a flame thrower with my hairspray and a lighter. Now my room is covered in discarded papers from my writings flamable nail polishes and remover nearby where he decided to experiment with his instrument of destruction (mind you my mom is home doing nothing while this ish is happening), so that bad boy when up in flames extremely quickly.
The fire was contained to my bedroom (thank goodness for the firewall) and I basically lost everything, clothing, shoes, photographs, poetry, short stories, a teddy bear I had since I was around five years old. I was left with what I had on my back that day and my work uniform. (I flipped burgers at Checkers and I’m not ashamed to admit it)
This is the part where I question my sanity, so days later after the fire the insurance adjuster comes out and cuts my parents (my mother and step-father) a check, one that included living expenses because we couldn’t inhabit the house due to smoke and water damage, food and clothing (for me). This is the kicker, I didn’t see nan dime of that money to replace any of my clothing, so I walked around for close to a week with the same bra, panties (I’d hand wash them when I washed), socks, top and jeans until one of my co-workers questioned me about why my parents hadn’t replace my belongings or at least brought me new clothing. I didn’t have an answer because I saw the money being spent on things that had nothing to do with rehabilitating the house after the fire. I guess she felt bad for me and offered to let me use her credit card to buy some clothes until my next payday.
Basically, my parents ain’t shit! How are you gonna let a 16-year-old girl walk around for a week with the same shit she had on the night of the fire. I’m sitting thinking about this shit, while I’m talking to my husband and I’m like damn that’s fucked up, it really made me sad, because my mom and my step-father are always on some I’m the only daughter type shit but where was that line of thinking back in 1997 when I needed new clothes?
I just have to shake my head and believe that it’s not for me to understand how family can do some crazy shit to you and act like they don’t remember or just not give to shits about how you feel about it.
There are plenty of instances where I feel like my parents weren’t shit, and it leads me back to the question in the title of this post, how am I still sane?