I remember one time my mum was really mad at me over basically nothing, and she made me a sandwich so aggressively I cried at the kitchen table as she did it.
She slammed the plate down with so much force it cracked and made me jump backwards. I was sobbing at this point and wasn't really on a position where I could eat, but when I tried to tell her I didn't want it anymore she screamed. Not like, words. Just loud shrill screaming. And slammed her hands on the table.
I was about nine years old and far smaller than her, so of course, afraid of her. So I choked the thing down and I swear I could feel the bad vibes of the food entering my body as I ate it.
When I was done I stayed at the table. Too afraid to get up without asking but also too afraid to ask. I sat there crying until she told me that watching me stuff food into my face while I was crying made her feel sick, that I disgusted her, and that she just wanted me out of her sight.
"Go." she said "Now!" She shouted it inches from my face.
I scrambled up and started booking it away, hoping this meant it was almost over.
"Oh you're just going to leave your dirty plate for me to clean?" She said. "Mum's a skivvy. Mum will clean it. Mum will do fucking everything in this house will I?" She followed, banging a stainless steel pan off the granite countertop so she had to shout to be heard over it.
I stopped in my tracks and hesitated for a second to go back over, worried that it would mean closing the distance between us and put me at easy hair pulling/hitting range. I must have hesitated a second too long, because she lunged at me and shoved me sideways, bruising my elbow as it made sharp first contact with the wall.
I winced and resisted the urge to rub it. She smashed the plate over the tap and then raised her hand to backhand me across the mouth as I stood dumbly watching her, waiting for further instruction now the plate she'd just asked me to wash was in pieces in the sink.
She made a hands closing around my throat, strangling motion. My eyes darted between her and the plate, willing to wash up the shards if she wanted me to, but unsure if that would make things worse.
"I don't want to hear you. I don't want to see you. I don't want to smell you. All weekend. Got it?"
I nodded anxiously, barely believing my luck as I fled up the stairs and into my bedroom. I shut the door behind me and stood in the center of my room, watching it. I watched it till downstairs went quiet, waited for the sound of the TV coming on. Then I sat on my bed watching it, jumping up every time a creak from downstairs indicated someone had gotten off the couch. When my heart rate evened out and I felt the familiar wash of exhaustion, I assumed she was feeling the same. So I felt safe enough to crawl under the covers to cry silently. Muffling any stray sobs into my pillow.
I spent the weekend in my room. Napping. Drawing. Holding my pee until I was sure she wouldn't see me on the landing. Drinking from the bathroom sink. Reading. Watching my TV on mute. Eating whatever snacks I had to hand. Pretending I didn't exist.
And then, like magic, she appeared on Monday morning. All smiles and sunny disposition. Chatting while I got dressed for school. Acting like that whole weekend never happened. I took her cue and did the same.
