This is just part of a long story I found on-line, but it rings true in many ways about my childhood. This is much longer than what I usually post, but since it is Thanksgiving and a difficult time for many of us codependents I felt it was appropriate. As far as I have come to now have mostly healed wounds, the scars remain. They are my reminders to keep my recovery strong.
In our house meal time was a huge production, even everyday meals. Holiday dinners were especially dramatic. We had purchased everything on the list and didn’t dare sneak any treats for ourselves because once my brother had stolen a candy bar from the drugstore and my mother made him return it and apologize to the druggist. I, too, had taken some colored cotton balls from a friend’s bathroom and was reprimanded severely. Neither one of us wanted to face my mother’s wrath so we made sure we only brought back what she requested. By the time we returned home, the final trip, it was cocktail hour. She and my stepfather “Cee” had just begun to warm up from the bitter cold outside.
John and I unpacked the groceries eye’ing everything that was needed for the Thanksgiving dinner. We were starving. Actually we were hungry most of the time. The reason being; there were NO snacks allowed in our house and by the time we would finally eat dinner each evening it would be around 8:00 – 9:00 pm. As we were putting away all the items in the refrigerator we spotted a box of Mavrakos Chocolate Turtles on the second shelf halfway to the back. It was new, for we hadn’t seen it earlier.
What was distressing for two hungry kids was the sign that read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY, DO NOT TOUCH.” Wow, this fueled our anger and we began plotting how we could get some of those turtles. We knew Cee had planned to offer chocolate to his guests and that it was hands off for us. We were never allowed the same delicacies as he. Cee had a lot more money than we did and he didn’t like to share. My brother and I were called “It” and “Ut” and were in the way of his codependent relationship with our mother. The food for the Thanksgiving meal was a different story. Because it was a holiday and my dear Aunt Letha and Uncle Wally were invited, we knew we would be fed. But that wasn’t until the next day.
The next morning everyone in the household was up early. Cee was already perched on his throne, the heavy metal chair at the end of the kitchen table. There was an empty shot glass next to his coffee cup. These days he spent most of his time grunting and grumbling under his breath about the two “Things,” (my brother and I) he was forced to have in his life. From “Thanksgiving Tradition: Highlights Of An Alcoholic Home” by Kay http://www.selfgrowth.com/articles/Thanksgiving_Tradition_Highlights_Of_An_Alcoholic_Home.html
A torn jacket is soon mended;
but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
Henry Wadsworth
