Work-Around (Chapter 1)
This is the house of my first through fourth Christmases, shark-jumping Fonzie, corn-eating contests, black vinyl swivel chair spinning, lipstick wall drawings, measles and melee. This is the house where I ironed my fingers, melting the baby flesh from my tiny knuckles, forever scarring my left hand. This is the house that leaves many wounds and scars. This is the house where I came into being, came to my conscious mind, came to the realization that I was in danger from the people who loved me.
I like to hide. I hide in an accordion trunk. I hide in the dryer. I hide in a closet. I hide in a hole in the yard by the basement window, dug by my mother. Because it’s there. I hide inside a plate of food and I eat all my peas because it makes their voices stop.
If I eat enough, deep down inside, I can’t hear their voices anymore. I feel peaceful. It’s quiet. I’m happy. The pathway to perceived happiness gets laid by the chemicals in my brain and I am helpless to stop it. I’m not even aware of the biological processes that are creating a life-long addiction. It has formed and that path will be worn over and over and over again. Food equals love. To survive this chaos, I have found my work-around. I will survive this. But just barely.
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