The full story I’m not ready to tell and may never be. I’m not sure how much of it is even my story. But it helps to let go, of all the surroundings, to let myself feel what I could not then.
photo from a different time, I have no photos from this time of my life.
The smell of wet asphalt and gasoline on a cold November day. My body is still pulsing with anxiety that does not seem to leave my chest. I’m not sure if I have slept in the past few weeks; I’m not sure if I have been home more than a few hours a night. I don’t think I have been in my body for some time; everything is still a soft blur. As if I’m watching myself from a place lightly above and not in this world.
Everett Washington not far off the Puget Sound is known for never-ending depressing drizzles and low covering clouds. My home not far from here, the light blue house, originally so small on its 3/4 acres. My dad had expanded the garage into what we called the wreck room, at one point a Polygon structure was attached to the house, tall cathedral-like windows housed mother’s indoor plants, and a hot tub that made my skin ich from too much chlorine. The yard is beautifully manicured, an artist’s color pallet set off against the green lawn in the summer. Roses of all kinds were planted out front. These beautiful monarchical flowers stand superior to the rest. China Rose Damask Roses, but Mr. Lincons always draw my attention with their classic structure. As if it stands with more dignity and prestige, I always wondered if the other flowers were jealous of its grandeur.
Small bushes of white and purple Heather make some low ground coverage. I was always proud of the strange tiny bell-shaped flowers, my name shake. Overshadowed by tulips and daffodils. My flower, Heather, somehow pulled me into something older, something with lineage, it had a place in the world, and I took comfort in that. I never paid the flower much attention, always drawing and collecting the others. Heather, left alone to live, not a flower picked for a bouquet its soft hanging flowers were not for a vase, and too difficult to draw, with its tiny tiny leaves. A small shrub, just ground coverage, settled with that identity.
I come back to the smell of rain and asphalt; my dad is with me, the low buzz of small planes overhead. I’m not sure if this is a punishment, I want it to be. I’ve lost the ability to assess the ongoing of my life. Numb, with the tightness of anxiety, stomach clenched in shame, or maybe guilt.
Is this a punishment, scared and wanting a penalty, deserving a sentence. I’m not sure what it should be; I can’t even think of the punishment I deserve, I can’t think of much. “It should have been me.” That thought is the only clear thing in my head. Gonging loud, bringing me back to reality as if set on a timer, in a grandfather clock, that will live forever in my mind.
My thoughts bring me back as my dad talks to a lovely Ms. Fox. She is a beautiful lady, her blond hair seems big to me, I feel like I’m wasting her time, does she know I am in trouble, does she know why I am here?
I am not sure if my dad seems scared or excited. Excited I get the opportunity to follow one of his dreams. A passion he has that life never gave him the allowance to pursue. He is scared for me, my life, my numbness, my choices. The desperate act of a desperate man scared for his daughter.
17, I had not been home for a few weeks, school and work yes, home no. I could not face the emptiness of it, the silence of no one having anything to say. The cold, how are you, knowing full well no one wants the honest answer. With a quiet, “I’m fine,” whispered before I shut myself in my room. Just the knowledge of them in the same house weighed on me. I can feel it, the confusion, the fear, the shame, and concern, the anger also. Like a weighted blanket thrust on me when I enter the house, crushing my chest, making it hard to breathe. I wish they would punish me and get it over. I don’t even know what punishment looks like for what I had caused; it should have been me, I hear the gong.
Ms. Fox and I walk over to a little Cessna 152, and I climb into the right side as she goes through pre-check. The putt putt purr of the engine before we taxi to the runway. Paine Field, the mini airport used mainly by Boeing and local pilots, was about 10 miles from my house; my dad and I watched the stunt pilots in the back yard, sometimes we would play with small styrofoam gliders. I’m not sure I liked the air shows we went to, or I liked seeing my dad happy and excited. He would tell sorties of how he learned to fly in Vietnam. So proud of those flights, as the memories gleaned in his eyes, a younger time, with less responsibility, in a war with no oversite.
I try my first “touch and go” this day, unsure how to handle what is happening inside of me; flying a plane brings me to some focus, my senses alert to new experiences. Ms. Fox is astute in her processes, following the list, she must see the glaze in my eyes, the look of one whose soul is trying to lave. She would spend hours with me hoping I did not kill us both I’m sure. I was rarely scared or nervous. Except when speaking to the men in the towers, speaking always made me nervous, I never liked to talk.
I enjoyed the solo flights the most, no one watching, no one judging, Stall outs where I play with my mortality, it was then that I would feel. Pushing the plane straight into the air until there was not enough speed to keep the oxygen in the engine. You hear it putter out, and watch the blades slow down, as the plane turns into a nosedive. I could feel here, something, excitement, fear, anything over numb, as you pull the choke and throttle into the dive to restart the engine as the oxygen floods back in. Like my soul, flooding back for a quick moment. I always did this out in the cow pastures a little too low to the ground for regulation, I wondered if I was scaring the cows.
When we landed, my dad asked if I had fun, with a pleading look on his face. Please let this help fix you; I don’t know what to do. I smiled, and yes, it was fun. The shame for causing his hurt finding new ways to burry deep into my soul, the soul running from me. Gong, it should have been me.
If the cheerful candy-coded exterior cracks, I don’t know what would spill out of me. So I keep smiling. Is this my punishment, flight school? With the sinking feeling that punishment would never come from an outside source. I had not yet realized that the need for punishment would slowly sink into my subconscious. It would become part of my shadow, that would subtly control my life, a puppet to my pain, shame, and guilt.
Gong!
The Mountains Inside 