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Terror

Alexandra Geiger Morgan

    I can tell you, Daddio, about that. Though you’re the last to know. How it is growing up with you as a father. What it is like growing up in your aura, as well as in mom’s. Every morning I wake to the sound of mom’s voice screaming—at all of us—Get up! And then to hurry up and dress for school. What are you doing up there? And to eat. And to Get in the car! Mom screeches, We’re going to be late for the bus.
    Dad, don’t you remember her herding us into the car so we can get you to the L.A. bus stop on time because you are afraid to drive? Every morning: rush, rush, rush, scream, scream, scream. Do you remember how mom was so angry every morning? I feel so afraid. It’s hard on all of us. But for me, as for you, the terror is physical. It invades my body. And takes over. One time mom drops me off on the curb at school, slams the door, and drives off, even though I am still vomiting. You wouldn’t remember that because we always dropped you off first.
    Vomiting from the terror. All of this terror designed to protect, support, coddle you, Daddio, so that you can get to the showroom in downtown L.A. where you can attempt to be the breadwinner, to make a way in the world for us and mom. But mom is the one with the balls behind the scenes, and all us kids are enlisted as her personal servants to keep you functioning. Keep you from falling apart. We live in terror trying to alleviate yours. He is my oldest child, Mom confides when I am much older. Dad, you are so fragile. Your stomach is so sensitive, unable to digest properly because of your anxiety. You vomit some mornings because you are so afraid of facing the world, the day. It is scary to hear and watch you. Your nerves have made your appetite disappear, and you can’t get your breakfast down. Neither can I. You eat only the special foods that mom prepares for you alone. You call our mom Your Mommy. You are insecure like a little boy. You have no confidence or courage.
    Mom is overwhelmed from having to hold you up as well as manage the household by herself. This translates into rage. We suffer all the rage that erupts from mom. We walk on eggshells to avoid unearthing whatever feelings Mom is struggling to keep at bay. By day, while you are at work, mom chronically releases her own acute anxiety by using a wire coat hanger on us. We have no idea what we have done. All I know is that I feel an increasingly deep shame and dread.
    All of this, nevertheless, Daddio, is what drives me straight into your arms. They are the only arms that hold me, the arms that help me cut out the paper doll clothes you bring home for me, the arms that twirl me in impromptu ballet duets in the living room, the arms that do not beat me. And then there is the rest of your body. The other parts you share with me. I am the closest to you because my need is maybe even bigger than yours. I am willing to let you feed off my energy as you try out your confused sexuality on me. French kiss with me. Let me admire your naked body and take showers with you, too. I am special. So special that I take on your terror—terror that brings me closer to you.
    When you are feeling better, usually after work or on weekends, you are the fun one. You tease us constantly, calling us the funny nicknames you have made up. I am The Mean One. Did you take your mean pill this morning? you taunt me. And Clare is The Poor One and The Orphanage Lady. You point out dilapidated or abandoned houses from the car while teasing Clare: There’s the perfect house for your orphanage. Susan is The Lazy One. How’s my Lazy Susan today? you jeer. And Tony, your youngest, your prize boy? Tony is spared the teasing. His benign nickname is Tony the Tiger.
    We also face the looming threat of your plan to move the family to a nudist colony. This makes Clare, my older sister by two years, break into tears, her cheeks burning rose red at the thought of it. She wants only to become a nun and find refuge in a convent, along with her best friend, Cathy Melvin. When you talk about the nudist colony, how people just go about their daily lives like normal, except with no clothes on, I visualize our neighbors sitting naked on their living room couch and watching TV. I just can’t wrap my mind around it. Why would people want to live in the nude, Daddy?
    Well, nudity is a natural thing. We were born without clothes on, so why should we hide our nakedness? It’s healthy and natural, he explains. Oh, I respond, trying on the idea while fighting with the shame I already feel about my body.
    We love it when you tell us stories, Daddio, reading books to us, playing Chinese checkers, Candyland, and Monopoly, and playing dress-up in clothes you make for us. And our favorite is the game in which you run through the backyard stripping off your clothes and dive into the pool. We squeal and clap. You thrill and exhilarate. Daddy, Daddy, can you do that again? We run and hastily put on our suits and jump into the watery abyss to join you, naked, under water. I feel but don’t 1The truth is, I simply adore you. You can do no wrong.
    At the dinner table, once the work day or week is behind you, you like to hold court. By then your appetite is back, your stomach has relaxed. You have survived the challenges at work and proved your worth, if just temporarily. You like to be the center of attention. You tell us a story about yourself before you married mom. I was in the Catholic Seminary studying to become a priest. I used to fantasize about having sex with boys while I was masturbating and I felt so guilty and ashamed. I thought becoming a priest would make it all go away. We were mesmerized. Then your mother, who was my best friend, said to me, “Bert, you can’t become a priest because I love you. I want to marry you.” What happened then? we all chime in unison, having heard this story several times before. Well, Daddio continues, It took me totally off guard, and I told her I needed some time to think about it. So, I went to my advisor in seminary, Father Mahoney, and told him, “Father, Lorraine has asked me to marry her. What should I do?” Father said to me, “Albert, you should marry her.” We all clap and cheer as my mother begins clearing the table and starting the dishes to get things back on track.
    At night when I can’t sleep from my sense of floating, disconnected and alone in the universe, I come into your room, and you and mom nestle me between you under the covers. But after I make too many trips to the bathroom, vomiting and retching, you move me over to the chaise lounge by the French window so I can retch without disturbing you till dawn. Relief comes then, as I drop into an exhausted sleep.
    Sometimes I stay home from school on the mornings after those nights. It is such a sweet feeling of comfort to lie between the covers in your spot on the now-empty bed. I can relax listening to the sound of mom’s voice downstairs in the frantic routine I do not have to participate in for a day. Nor will I have to face the nuns and hide the secrets. You and mom never ask me why I am so afraid, or why I am vomiting and retching, even though it goes on for years. I have a sense of the reason, but I cannot control it. That is the scariest part. It is like my body has a life of its own, separate from the rest of me.
    You and Mom don’t take me to a child psychologist or other professional for help. It simply isn’t discussed. I care only about surviving and being close to you. You are the source both of my solace and my anxiety. It isn’t until I am in my mid-twenties that I am able to conclude that something is seriously wrong with this picture.
    And now? Is it any wonder? For over 35 years I have been a psychotherapist, attempting to help others move on from their traumas and terrors.

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