There is a snapshot in time of my going outside to play with other kids for the first time since being told about my parents impending divorce. Kim from down the street had come over and we were walking on the curb in front of my house, balancing so as to not step off into the water in the gutter. I can see my sun-browned feet and feel the quiet between us, yet hear the roaring in my ears. No one told me not to say anything, but speaking it aloud was somehow scary, shameful, and would make it real. So I was silent, and felt alone even with a friend by my side.
Life went on, scar tissue formed, and I turned inward. It wasn't like today where people are hyper-aware of how hard divorce is on kids, and it's certainly not unusual anymore. But back then, in 1970, I was 11 years old and the only kid out of my group of friends whose parents were divorced. For some reason this one snapshot in time is stamped in my mind, representative of a broken, sensitive, child who didn't know there was anywhere to turn.
It was all so unspoken back then. Or was that just my family? I honestly have no idea.
No comments:
Post a Comment