Demon 1: Words Do Hurt

 Even so the tongue is a little member and boasts great things. See how great a forest a little fire kindles! And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity. The tongue is to set among our members that it defiles the whole body, and sets on the fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire by hell. 

—James 3:5–6, NKJ 

 

 

While in elementary school, my mother and I had an outrageous argument. It isn’t one of those arguments where I scream and shout until my lungs burn from anger and my eyes are swollen from stinging tears. It’s one those verbal fights that leave me scarred for a lifetime. It’s one of those fights that lingered in the back of my mind years after I proclaimed forgiveness of such a hateful phrase. It’s a defining moment in testing my absolute inner self, in knowing that nothing in this world is more important than believing in myself.  

My mother told me, “You’re not smart enough to go to college.” In that moment my world changed. At a whopping six-years-old my self-esteem shattered so hard and so fast that I screamed with all my might and said, “I am too smart enough. You wait and see!”  

Wait one moment.  

Before you start holding a grudge against my mother for her lack of better judgement, her verbal demise stemmed from my kindergarten years. I was in Ms. Anderson’s kindergarten class when it was discovered that my social skills were below average. In fact, I’d classify myself as a socially inept child. By inept, I mean, I’m the only child Mom and Dad had together, and I didn’t go to pre-kindergarten or daycare; my social skills were –minimal.  

At six- years-old, I learned quickly how to manipulate, lie, and skip school. It’s fairly easy when mom worked the graveyard shift. The dreaded zombie shift is hell. Literally. The body becomes so beat down from the constant exhaustion of not sleeping well during the day to pulling oneself out of bed in the middle of the night to walk onto a floor full of patients who should be sleeping.  

Instead, she found herself entertaining the insomniacs who like to cause ruckus for the sheer fact that they are either very disoriented and don’t have an inkling as to what time it is or they just like to give the graveyard-shifters a run for their money. Heaven forbid there’s a full moon. The night escalates from bad to worse.  

When 7:00am rolls around, she musters all the strength that is left in weary body to run and punch the time clock. With heavy eyelids, she drags herself upstairs to her bedroom to sleep. The longevity of working third shift has its risk factors. Sleep deprivation takes a toll on the human mind. For instance, it could be the Friday I am court ordered to stay with Mom, but I’d be sure to take advantage of the sleep deprivation stupor she is in.  

The voice of a trailing six-year-old asking a small question, “Hey, Mom, I go to Dad’s today, don’t I?” Mom rolls over with one eye slightly opened, and her face plastered on the pillow, muffling a soft yes. When in fact, I know the opposite is true. She doesn’t realize I’ve pulled a trick on her until she has enough caffeine in her system to wake her brain up from the fog it has been in for so long.

 

“Brooke!” Mom called with vigor in her raspy I-just-crawled-out-of-bed voice. “Brooke, answer me now!” she demanded. Still no answer. The television is off. The pitter-patter of small feet escapes the apartment at the end of the lane one cold, dreary Friday night in Alaska, New York. The coffee pot automatically spits out the aroma of mashed coffee beans. The adrenaline of looking for Brooklyn trumps the need for a caffeine-pick-me-up. Instead, Mom frantically calls her ex-mother-in-law, Grammy.  

“Hello,” Grammy answers.  

“Is Brooklyn there?” Mom asks.  

“Yes, she is finishing her supper.”  

“I will be there in a few minutes to get her.”  

Click.  

My pupils double in size much like a deer frozen in headlights. My I-can't-run-fast-enough radar propels a panic from within that screamed, You. Are. In. So. Much. Trouble. Missy. as Mom’s black Oldsmobile pined with red stripes sped up the graveled driveway. She slammed the car in park, and I timidly walked to the passenger car door. I slipped into the maroon seat and get the glare of death stare me down. “Don’t you ever do that again!” Mom demanded with a fury so piercing I shriveled into a limp ball of nothingness. 

In the heat of the moment, the only thing that rolls off my tongue is, “I hate you!” Silence permeated the car in the whole five minutes it took to get home. I hate you. I hate myself; I wish I were never born! And I stomped up the stairs to hide in my pink bed tent until the next morning.  

As I reflect on my childhood years in my mid-30s, I can only imagine how others, well, my family, might gauge my future. A sneaky manipulative six-year-old grows into a sneaky, manipulative teenager. Peering into this looking glass, I can see how my life might have turned out worse. In contemporary society, the wild teenager can be defined as someone who is selfish and careless with spontaneous impulses who gets herself into a world of trouble before she even graduates from high school. Drug abuse. Pregnancy. Prostitution. Homelessness. The consistency of a struggling working girl.  

And the list goes on and on, implying so many different scenarios. The parents of this girl, Brooklyn Gilmore, are left confused and dumbfounded, questioning their parenting and placing themselves in the what-if category. You know...What if I did this? What if we did that? And what if...what if...what if...the wandering mind is never ending.  

I never want my parents to question their ability to watch me, guide me, and help mold into the woman I have become. Certainly, we all make our fair share of mistakes, and the timing of everything seems to be off. Today, I look back and say, “Wow! We’ve made it through some incredulous situations.” I am not perfect by any means, and I have disappointed Mom more times than not, I am sure, and the disappointments keep on coming. The screaming match is infused with anger, a hatred so deep that it only ignites a blazing fire to deafening soul.  

Dear readers, you’re probably questioning how a child feels all these things at six years old? Hates life. Holds grudges. It is a defining moment that will haunt me forever. It seems almost impossible, but it is not. The assessment Mom is using to gauge my future is my grades. I failed kindergarten, or was it just held back? Either way, I repeated kindergarten only to struggle in the first grade.  

My math skills were below average; my reading was not up to par; my spelling mediocre; my social interactions with my peers were less than satisfactory. Looking and assessing my current grades, yes, it appears that I’d be too slow for a learning curve in a fast-paced learning environment. However, can a person be judged based on a couple of years of elementary school when there are years of math equations to suffer through that lay ahead of me?     

Nonetheless, Mom and I have this wicked argument, and the words that escape my mother’s mouth hurt me. Ironically, those same words motivate me. Mom learns that I am stubborn and that neither she nor anyone should ever underestimate my ability to be successful. A mule can carry a load and go as far as it wants at its own pace. As do I.