09/06/2024
Living in the Glass House with a Paranoid Schizophrenia and the Child that is Affected
Chapter 1: Somebody's KnockingThe walk home from school was always filled with a sense of dread. Even at six years old, I knew that the doors of our house held secrets too heavy for my small shoulders.
On that particular day, the sun shone brightly, betraying the darkness that awaited me inside.
My mom loved music. It was one of the few things that could bring a genuine smile to her face.
She had a particular fondness for the song, "Somebody's Knocking on the Door, Somebody's Ringing the Bell." As a kindergartner, my school day ended early, and I often returned home to find her listening to the radio.I walked in that day, my small feet dragging on the floor as I made my way to the living room.
The familiar tune began to play, and I saw a flicker of happiness in my mom's eyes. She pulled me into a dance, and for a fleeting moment, I felt like any other child with a loving mother. But as the song continued, I saw a change in her. Her eyes, once filled with a rare warmth, now held a manic intensity that I didn't understand."Mama, somebody's knocking on the door," I whispered, hoping to break the spell.
She didn't respond with words. Instead, she stared at me, her gaze growing more frightening by the second.
I felt a warm trickle down my leg as fear overtook me, and I knew I had wet myself.
She noticed too, and in a swift, terrifying motion, she grabbed a deodorant can and struck me on the head."Tell your daddy you fell down the steps," she hissed, her voice a mix of anger and paranoia.I clutched my head, feeling the blood mix with my tears. The pain was nothing compared to the fear that had settled in my heart. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that my mom's illness turned our home into a battlefield.
Chapter 2: The Ghost of ProtectionMy father was a ghost in our home. His presence was marked by an absence of action. He was a fearful man, paralyzed by the unpredictability of my mom's condition. When she told me to lie about my injuries, he never questioned the story. He lived in fear, just like I did, but his fear rendered him powerless.As I grew older, his absence became more pronounced. By the time I was eleven, he had all but disappeared from our lives.
One day, he left and never returned, leaving me alone with the woman who terrified us both.I learned to navigate the minefield of her moods, always watching for the signs of an impending storm.
I became adept at reading her eyes, knowing when to retreat and when to stay silent. But no matter how careful
I was, there was no escaping the reality of living in a glass house with a mother who saw the world through a fractured lens.
To be continued:
I'm writing this in hopes of helping someone else who may be or have lived in a house so traumatized 😪
