It's weird how we remember things, and the feelings we attribute to certain items or places, weather and clothes, and whatever other random shit our brain attaches itself to.
What got me thinking about it today was soup. Those old Campbell's "In Hand" ones. I saw a picture online. When I was a preteen in 2008 they had changed the name to something else, but it was still the same soup.
For much of my life I attributed those soups to wealth and safety, comfort and love. I didn't remember ever seeing an ad for these soups, but I figured that's what it had to be; remnants in my head of strategic marketing.
But then a memory resurfaced. It was hazy, as most memories after living with CPTSD and PTSD are, but it was clear enough:
A winter morning in 2008. I was 13, probably. Maybe 12. I had gone to live with my father that winter after a bad fight with my stepfather, who was always abusive, and my mother, who didn't know how to stop him. I was 12 or maybe 13, and my mother was 31. The same age I am now.
I remember the fight before the calm winter mornings. I begged my parents for violin lessons; my dad paid. Rented the violin. Took me to lessons on occasion along with my mom. I was happy.
Unfortunately for child me, my adult stepfather was always jealous and resentful of my real father; I won't pretend to understand why. But, this resulted in him trying to prevent me from bringing my violin to my dad's house; I wanted to practice and show him my hard work when he picked us up for the weekend custody agreement.
And damn it, I was going to do it. I remember running from my mom's house in the projects, clutching my violin close to my body. I was so excited when I got to my dad's silver truck, I hardly noticed when my brother said "he's going to kill you". Meaning our stepfather. But I did notice when my dad said "I'll kill him if he tries".
And he did try, in a way. For many years. On that particular weekend, when my mom, two 5&6 year old sisters, and my stepfather came to get us, he threatened to beat me when we got home. I said I forgot something inside and told my dad.
It's important to note my father lived with his mother and stepfather, who were in their 50s at the time, as well as his sister and her daughter, who were around 29 and 11, respectively.
It is also important to note that my aunt and grandmother didn't take kindly to their niece/grandchild being threatened. I didn't know this before then. Before that day, I was too afraid to speak up about what my stepfather had been doing to us. My mom didn't seem to have a problem with it. But still, I knew it was wrong. I knew because the sound of crying and mens voices scared me to the point of vomiting when it never did before. The sound of belts made me cry. I had to pee on a towel in my room to avoid him, and none of my other friends did that to avoid their parents.
But that day I realized how wrong it was. When I was defended, I knew. Nobody had ever defended me before. I had never felt safe in front of that man before.
After the screaming and panic attack, with my grandmother comforting me as I kneeled at her bedside, it was decided I would live with them. My dad and I shared a mattress on the floor of their indoor patio for a few months. I went to a new school with my little cousin. I did not see my mother or that man for eight months.
What I did see was my cousin and her mother. The way they acted was very unlike how my mother acted around me; distant, despite my repeated attempts at affection.
Every morning when we were getting ready for school in the Appalachian cold, my aunt would hand her daughter one of those Campbell's soups before we went out to wait for the bus. So she wouldn't be cold. Every morning without fail, even if one morning my cousin didn't want it for some reason. Her mom never gave up on it. Every day for lunch she would pack her a fluffernutter sandwich with a package of Oreo cakesters and those awful orange goldfish in a paper bag. Every day she did this.
My brain didn't understand at the time; why I was suddenly begging for the same lunch every day. My teenage brain didn't get why the sight of those soups on store shelves caused such a feeling of calm, after I was guilt tripped into moving back in with mom, after the abuse turned into rape and my memories turned to mud. My adult mind didn't get it, when I saw the picture and could feel the cold, quiet morning in my grandmother's indoor patio in 2008. I could smell her cigarette smoke. The house that got torn down in 2015, the one my grandparents built after winning the lottery in the 80s, was still there. Right under my feet.
