Dr. Dragonfly, as always, asked me if there was anything that popped up during the week about our last session. I told her that nothing had changed. The resentment, anger and hate hadn’t come back. The pity, ‘desgracia’ and constant disappointment were still there. It was almost to the point where I was starting to feel nothing towards my father.
Dr. Dragonfly then suggested that we go back to that 5-6 year old self and work on another memory from that time period. (There are many.) She asked me to choose one that was particularly traumatic. This particular memory not only affected me at home, but it also had grave consequences for me at school. So, here we go.
It was 4/July/1973. We were headed into town to see the parade and later go to see the fireworks. We took dad’s truck. My brother, cousin, two other kids and I were in the bed of the truck. It was parked all the way back by the machine shed. We were all sitting down. I was sitting over one of the tires. Dad and mom got into the truck and off we went. Our driveway, well, we’ll just say it was like any road in Chicago during the winter and dad was driving way too fast. He hit one of the big potholes and I, weighing nothing soaking wet, went flying out of the bed of the truck. I hit a large branch of the maple tree and it knocked me out, more or less. I fell back down because gravity works and hit the rusty 3-point hitch on the back of the truck. My memories fail me here because I was going in and out of consciousness.
I remember the truck stopping very quickly. I remember my mom being beyond worried and my dad saying that this wouldn’t have happened had I not been standing up. (I wasn’t. He was driving too fast. Again, everything is my fault.) He didn’t think the situation was as serious as it was and though a trip to Doc Thomas would be fine. Doc Thomas was the town quack. Mom insisted that we go to the ER. I remember having towels or shirts around my head to try to stop the bleeding. I remember getting to the ER and mom speaking frantically with the doctor. I remember getting a tetanus shot because of the rusty 3-point hitch. I’m still going in and out of consciousness and remember my dad saying, “See Susie. It wasn’t that bad.” Mom said, “Jim, he could’ve lost an eye had he hit just a little over.” Then they were gone. I saw the guy in the white coat for only a second.
Once I came to, I was in a hospital bed and I didn’t know what had happened or what was going on. My mom and dad were there with me. There were machines and whatever hooked up to me and I was afraid. My mom tried to comfort me as best she could. The doc came in and said, “Well, young man. I believe you’ve set a new record. You have 276 stitches in your little head, but you’ll be fine. We’re going to keep you here for a couple of day because you have a concussion/contusion (Of course the 5-6 y/o me didn’t know that language yet.) He checked me over and left.
“We wouldn’t be here if you had been sitting down. I don’t know why you can’t do what I tell you to.” Dad growled.
“Jim, he was sitting down. You were driving too fast.”
“You’re always making excuses for him, aren’t you.”
“This whole thing is his fault.”
I was probably crying at this point. It probably didn’t help my head at all and probably sent at least one of the monitors sky high bc a nurse showed up quickly as dad was still yapping and escorted him to the waiting room until he calmed down.
Again, everything’s your fault. You cause all of the problems. You’re not wanted. You’re not needed. You’re not loved.
Then why did you adopt me?
cazandoconejos 