Green House: Based on a Life Ch. 01

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Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading this preliminary work. This is an autobiography. I appreciate your time and opinion. Please take a moment to give constructive comments? Thank you.

"Green House— Based on a Life"

CHAPTER 1

My birthday's today, and I'm a few years older than I was last year. My annual contemplations lead me to the same place as every other November, a different birthday for the person who is no longer me.

I am sitting on the couch in my younger self's living room. The carpet is bleak... avocado green. It's scratchy without socks but slidey during the wintertime with footie-pajamas on. The sofa is gruesomely upholstered in autumnal shapes and colors. Its mess of greens, oranges, browns and burnt yellows overload the screen inside my mind. An enormous box-of-a-T.V. sits on the floor against the far wall. Its wooden shell and thick, dull metal knobs add to the ominous tackiness of the room.

Or maybe it's stylish. There's no difference between the two in this décor that strikes my memory's senses and makes me wish I could forget. But forgetting just isn't possible. And whenever I remember, I am there.

My favorite dog and his meddling friends run back and forth across the T.V. screen. This afternoon, the witch and her zombie give chase through the swamp. In their flat-bottomed boat, they grab at the teenage gang of mystery solvers and almost catch them. Watching it makes me panicky, but I can't look away. I love that big dog.

The witch's purple dress makes me feel nervous, and her green skin doesn't match the same green as the zombie's skin. This somehow makes them even scarier than they should be. I'm haunted with worry for my friends on the T.V., so I don't hear the real-life danger that approaches me.

With no warning, she's near.

Mother is a dangerous tower over my head for a minute. Then she sits. She has my birthday present— a book. I feel a tiny something when I see it. Happiness?

Books are my favorite, but my younger self is afraid to accept the gift from Mother. I don't like tricks. I begin counting how many petals are on each orange flower of the couch.

She puts the book on my lap and a "no" forms in some dark place of my middle, although I don't say it out loud. I love the sound of no, but it's a long trip for that word to leave my mouth when it starts all the way down in the thick, yucky pit of my stomach.

Mother's voice steals my thoughts and safety. She tells me since I'm five years old today, it's time I read this book. She picks it up off my lap and waves the cover near my eyeballs. The title says You Were Chosen. I don't want to be chosen. I want to be invisible and see if my favorite, big dog uses his mouth to take the masks off that bad witch and her zombie. I look around Mother and take a peek at the television. I hope it's just masks today. I'm afraid it won't be masks and then the friends will have real live trouble, because real monsters can't be stopped.

I start to wiggle away and escape both Mother and my fears. I think it's time for me to run to my room and see if I still fit under my bed, but Mother makes me stay on the couch as she scoots closer to me. She wants to share the book and help me read it. I don't need her help. It's baby English, and I know how to read. She knows I know how to read.

But I think Mother doesn't really want to help me read. She just wants to make me prickly by sitting too close to me. She knows all of the ants in the world crawl on my skin and bite me when she's this close. Happy birthday to you, Debbie Jean. Here's your ouchy skin.

I want to leave, but I can't. So, I stay and read aloud together with Mother.

"You are special, because you were chosen. We picked you out of all the newborn babies. We knew you were ours when we saw you."

Reading with Mother hurts. She speaks slowly in a dumb way with her stupid acting voice. Her fake lisp mimics a little-girl tone. But no little girl really sounds like that, and tiny sprays of spit squirt from her mouth as she reads. Her orange-colored lips are wet with it. Then I notice the very ugly lipstick has smeared her front teeth again. Her spittle and waxy lip paint are super too close as she leans in with cigarette breath.

Mother looks down at me underneath her horn-rimmed glasses with their chain swaying and catching my eyes. That look tells me I'm going to be gross again. It's time to go. I squirm to get away, but she grabs my wrist to make me stop. I writhe my arm and try to slide off the couch.

Stupid couch. You're not slippery. I'm stuck.

Mother squeezes my tiny wrist again and this time twists my skin. I furrow my brow, purse my lips and strain my eyes in frustration. My normal Mother-face.

Still hanging onto me, she turns the page and continues reading in her sing-songy voice. When I don't join in, she wrings my arm again until my read-along sound matches hers.

"We picked you up and looked into your eyes. We cooed at your tiny hands and little toes. We smiled at your rosy cheeks and baby nose."

Mother finally takes her hand off me but still clenches the book, and when she speaks, she touches parts of my body with each of her words. By the time she pokes my nose with her red-orange talon, my entire face is on fire, and the beast in my stomach has woken up.

As I read out loud, scary thoughts fly all over my mind looking for a place to land. Get away. Get away. Get away. My brain tells me that I am trapped in a very bad box and must find a way to get out.

"I can read it by myself," I announce. I grab each side of the book roughly pulling it to me and holding tight onto the plastic cover that makes crinkly noises. Mother's hands are like a crawdad, so she doesn't let go even though the book is in my lap now. She doesn't want me to read it alone. It's a together book, and I won't understand it by myself.

I don't want to understand it. I don't care what it says! This isn't how birthdays are supposed to be.

Now that I've started the yelling inside my head, the beast begins his usual running and pushing. So many years I've lived with him— since the very beginning of forever— I sometimes think he's my friend.

"I'll finish it later. My stomach hurts. I feel sick," I tell Mother. I might be doing the bad whining thing, but I don't know how to make my voice into the lying-happiness right now.

Mother says I can't be sick, because it's my birthday. Birthday girls are never sick. My brain tells me that being sick is because it's my birthday.

On my lap, I stare at the crinkly-covered storybook. I didn't want this gift. I wanted some Hotwheels. And I asked for a super big red firetruck. The kind with a real white ladder that moves up and down. They were on my birthday list. How did I end up with a sharing book that makes me wish I were invisible?

I now think there are no Hotwheels or firetrucks in my other presents on the kitchen table. Inside them, I imagine there are a jillion books waiting for Mother to read with me. Will she make me sit on her lap and turn the pages as she gets near my face? That's too, too close. I'll have spit and orangey lipstick on my ear when she's done.

The beast claws his way toward my throat.

"I don't feel well. My stomach hurts. I have to go!" This time, I yell out loud and pull away using all the power the beast can give me.

The book is on the floor, and I have yucky-red burn marks on the back of my thighs from scooting off the ugly sofa. I ignore the painful splotches and run down the short hallway toward the bathroom. My legs throb from burn-pain as I slam the door closed behind me. I hear the lock click as I push my very favorite button.

I feel how cool and smooth the toilet is as I vomit. The beast often tries to escape this way, but he never succeeds. He must forever live inside my stomach. And I have to for-always try and get rid of him, so I can be free.

Poor beast. It's probably sad to know you're not wanted.

I am sick many times. Over and over I lose my lunch, my snack, my breakfast. Then I begin crying and making a mess of myself from my eyes and nose. I vomit some more and hug the toilet bowl resting my face against it. My beautiful toilet bowl protects me and lets me cry out all my sad and scared words to the monster inside me.

Mother has followed me down the hallway, and now she wants in. I hear her calling to me and insisting I open the door. Her voice makes my fears shake. I cower next to the toilet like I've just seen a ghost. Or a witch and her zombie.

I imagine Mother just on the other side of the door in the narrow hallway of our little green house. Where the paint is bare, yellow cigarette smoke stains ruin what used to be white. On the TV screen in my mind, I can see Mother surrounded by too many gold-framed family portraits as she stands outside the bathroom. Mother's horn-rimmed glasses and teeth gleam in every picture as she snarls for the camera.

She won't stop turning the doorknob. Back and forth, over and over. Its clicking sounds fling themselves toward my face and enter my safe spot. I try to curl up next to the toilet, but there isn't room. And now I have to share the already tiny bathroom with the noises of Mother's strength getting in.

The beast starts moving through the deep inside parts of me again, so I slowly pet the side of the toilet.

"I'm sick. I can't come open the door. I threw up." I whisper this into the air just in front of me, knowing Mother can't hear.

I get some toilet paper from the roll and sit on the floor with my back against the wall. My head hangs down just a bit toward my chin. I have a very heavy head sometimes. I try to clean up my face a little.

Vomiting is a big job. Especially vomiting on your birthday. It's difficult to work on being birthday-happy when you have to be sick. When I'm bigger, I suppose I'll know how to do both at the same time. But I am still very little. Sometimes I am even littler than other times. Right now, I am the littlest of all, so trying to dry my eyes and nose and mouth isn't working very well.

Mother says she wants in. Her voice is twitchy. She wants the door unlocked. She wants to know what I'm doing in there. She sounds like evil trying to disguise itself as niceness. My marvelous big dog would take off her mask and then everyone would know the truth.

"I threw up!" I yell this at her from that same deep, yucky place where the "no" lives.

I rest my head against the wall for a moment and try to stretch. My neck and shoulders always hurt, but I notice it especially much when I'm fighting with the beast. I tap, tap, tap the back of my head against the grey wooden wall of the bathroom. Little dots of sweat come up on my forehead. I feel hot and cold and floaty and anxious all at the same time. I touch the toilet and spread my fingers wide. Holding my hand there makes me feel better. I like touching things that are hard. Tap, tap, tap goes my head. The wall is hard, too.

I open my eyes deep and see how bright white the porcelain is. That's how my staring begins. My neck relaxes, and my heavy head sways just a bit back and forth. My staring place is a calm place to live, but I should be thinking about Mother and opening the door for her, so she can invade. My brain knows I better give her what she wants, but I somehow can't think about that right now. My staring helps me feel the warmness of being alone in the teeny tiny space.

I jolt up when I hear the metal doorknob rattle again. My eyes gawk wide, and I watch it move around and back.

There's a new ouch and a pain in my stomach. I wish the beast would settle down. Or go away. Why can't he just find another place to live?

Tap, tap, tap.

I'm feeling how hard the wood is. I can't come open the door, because it is very far way. I want to go back to my staring place.

And I do. I find a small dot in front of my eyes. It's a little black spot on the sink. I look and look until my eyes are crossed and blurry.

The beast gets a teensy bit weaker. He starts to calm down and float around looking for the secret places in me. My brain swims over to the black spot and takes my eyes with it. They've found a good, safe, quiet place.

But then a thud explodes somewhere inside my ears. The silence gone, mother pounds on the door and scrapes her orangey-red talons against its wood. She yells that I shouldn't dare lock this door. It's dangerous. I am ordered to come open it. I must let her in now.

Her words push through the solidness of the cheap wood and enter my air. There's not enough room for the bathtub and sink and toilet and hot and cold and floaty and anxious and vomit all in this same space.

The doorknob continues to click as I tap, tap, tap the back of my head against the wall harder now. Enough to make the wood shake. Harder and harder and harder.

Hitting my head hard makes my stomach feel a little better which is disappointing. I get up on my knees and hover my face back and forth over the bowl hoping I'll be sick again. It could be a reason for me to stay far away from the bathroom door. At least if I'm vomiting, I have an excuse to be all alone.

Please God, make me throw up again. I'll be good, I promise. Please just let me throw up. Please? For my birthday present?

Mother tells me that she can't hear me throwing up. She says I don't sound sick. She says I'm fine, and I just want attention. She asks if I want a spanking on my birthday? She tells me to open the door and stop faking it.

I think about that. If the beast lives in my stomach, maybe it's him that is sick and not me. If he's the one throwing up, then I think maybe Mother is right. I'm just faking it. But I don't want attention. I want to be invisible-small and live in my room with my toys where no one will know where I am.

Knowing all these awful big thoughts is confusing. I squeeze my eyes tight to make some more tears come. I want them to roll down my face into my mouth, so I can taste the saltiness and feel better from such a very deep crying. But my eyes stay dry.

God must be mad at me again.

I press the rim of the porcelain bowl and stare into the clear water, then I run my hands toward the back until I'm giving it a hug. I like resting my right cheek on the rim. I roll my forehead across the coolest spots I can find.

Mother speaks in her angry voice. She tells me that if I'm that sick, I have to go to the doctor. He'll give me a shot. It will be an ouchy. She says I should just open the door, and she'll help me.

I don't like Mother's help. Never-not-ever. And being sick is so complicated. I am, but I'm not. The difficult thoughts swirl around my mind and bounce against the walls of my brain with painful hits. I don't need a doctor, but I do need help. I don't want to go to the doctor, and I definitely don't want an ouchy. And now, I don't even really want to throw up again. I just want to stay behind the locked door. Alone.

Her claws have gone, and Mother's fist has come out to pound again. She bangs the beautiful, cheap wood that protects me. In my mind, I can see the hallway picture frames jump from each of her fist-thuds. Every photo with her snarled teeth is smiling at how fun this is. The nasty Mother-pictures love a good circus, and I think this awful birthday-show would be their most favorite.

Mother's new yelling outside the bathroom door makes the beast start to whack my insides... hard. His pain turns me into a big crumpled ball. Mother says I must open the door. She can't help me, if I don't open the door.

My brain finds the thought again that I don't want Mother's help. It feels like I'm gross when she helps me. I don't want to be gross anymore. I want to hug my toilet bowl and tap my head on its cool spots. I want to be a crushed heap of trash and pain.

But I'd also like to be free from the beast's punches in my stomach.

Mother's banging continues and time passes. The me on the floor by the toilet somehow becomes the me standing at the bathroom door turning the handle.

The lock makes its open-pop noise. I don't like that sound. When I hear it, I jump with my whole body, and somewhere inside my brain shudders. That is my scared thing. Loud noises always make my scared thing happen.

The Mother-tower looks down at me, and I look up and past her at the ceiling that has little bits of popcorn fluff on it. I start to count the pieces of fuzz that should be white but are actually dirty-cigarette-smoke yellow. I'm glad there's a lot. Counting them could take a very long time. While I count, I try not to notice the framed Mother-snarls staring at the top of my head.

Mother wants to know if I'm done faking it? She wants to know if I'm better? She wants to take me to the doctor for the very painful shot. She grabs my arm and pulls me down the hallway back toward the couch.

"I wasn't faking it. My stomach is sick." I yell this in my crying voice, but my eyes don't match because they are still dry. Mother gives me the mean tug that shows she is angry. She tells me to stop my crocodile tears, because I'm not a very good actress.

All the tired begins to pour over me like pancake syrup, and my brain tells me I need to do an acting trick that will take Mother's mood away. So, I reach for the together-book before I sit. I focus my eyeballs on the book. I will pretend I am happy to read it. Maybe then she'll want to read it, too. That would be good, and my arms wouldn't be twisted anymore for now. We could read the story about being chosen. I tell Mother I'm better.

I say I'd like to read my present, since it's my birthday.

Mother warns me again that locked doors are dangerous. I can never lock any door in this house. Mother comes near the couch, and I get that really icky feeling. This time it's something more than being scared of all the ants in the world. It's the feeling where I want to creep into myself and hide inside of me. I sometimes imagine I can hide far enough where no one will see me ever again.

The really bad feeling continues as Mother sits. Not too close and not too far. This is a little bit ok.

I open the book and turn each page very super slowly. I like to make things move slowly sometimes, so the whole world runs fast as a salty slug. Then I float high above myself and watch all the parts that might be scary, but I get to stay away from the worrying places.

I take the corner of a page and rub the shiny paper between my two fingers. It makes my favorite squeaky noise each time I do it. I squeak each page until I find the place where I got sick. I read.

"We picked you up and looked into your eyes. We cooed at your tiny hands and little toes. We smiled at your rosy cheeks and baby nose."

Don't touch me. Don't touch me. I make my loud thoughts to stop what I think is about to happen. They work. There is no touching from Mother this time.

She lets me read by myself as she looks at the book. When I finish each page, I hold it up and show her the pictures. I pretend to be a librarian just like the ones at the most wonderful library on Main Street of our town.

Mother doesn't read at all as I keep going through the birthday book. She doesn't even try to help with the big words that take me time to sound out. I wonder how I'm the storyteller now, but I just continue reading instead of asking. Never ask questions. Questions do not help.

I think I read for a million years. And then I finally stroke my fingers against the page that is last. Mother reads this one with me.

"And that is why you are special. Because you were adopted."