Too Much Wind
Colorado has Crazy Ass Wind. Normal people like 'weather' like this. But fierce invasive wind like this makes me nervous.
I moved here from Atlanta, and when it's crazy windy in Atlanta, watch for tornadoes. I grew up in Ohio, and when it's crazy windy, watch for tornadoes. Aside from the weather aspect, there's something more emotionally damaging that comes from the wind.
You know that pounding, beating sound the wind makes when it's rampant and erratic? That's what gets me. I can handle rain. Oh how I wish it would rain. And thunder? There's no love made like the love under a thunderstorm. There aren't a lot of thunderstorms to be had here...at least none worthy of a good session of love makin'. But that 'noise' of heavy wind, especially in the night, makes my hands numb, my heart race, and my mind recede into dark corners, under the covers, until morning light.
I grew up in homes with a lot of yelling. Someone was always angry with something. And you could count on taking a good bit of the punishment if you were a child in one of those homes. I know I'm grown and these things should be over with now, but they're not. They're very alive and still just as disturbing as ever.
I remember when I was little, maybe 4 or 5, my sister and I were told never to wake our dad up except by shaking his feet. He is a Vietnam veteran and suffers terribly from PTSD, but back then in the early '80s, they didn't diagnose that kind of thing. He was violent when he wasn't completely aware of what was going on. We often made a game of it. It was normal for people to be angry and swing at you when you wake them...at least, that's what I thought.
Then there were his general bad days. Days where nothing in particular happened, he was just angry. Maybe the truck ran out of gas, or he couldn't find a part he wanted, or maybe he stubbed his toe. Those days, tools were thrown, doors were slammed, shit got broken. I played outside a lot, and a lot by myself. I would usually disappear in the tall field behind our house. I never really understood who owned the field, but in the 9 years I lived at that house, I think the field only got plowed 3 times. The grass was as tall as I was and it lead back to an old man's house, Old Man Fritz, who had 2 ponies but was too old to take care of them. My sister and I would tie dandelion stems together to make a chain and hit the electric fence with it to see if it was on and how long it would take the current to reach us. It was usually on. Then we'd slip through the wires and hop on the ponies bareback and ride around. If he ever knew we did it, he didn't mind. Or he was too old to bother yelling at us. Sometimes we would go up the road to Mr. Carrey's house. He had horses...not tiny ponies, but real horses, and a lovely farm. My mom didn't like us going there because she wasn't too sure of Mr. Carrey, but he was always good to us. I remember riding horses quite a bit there, helping in the barn and just being free. In the evenings, my sister and I usually sat on the roof of the barn in our back yard. It was a lower eve that we got on by climbing the wood pile. We'd watch the sunset listening to some cool cassette tape one of us brought out. Music was always playing with us. Racing Hotwheels, riding ponies, doing the dishes, laying out in the sun...always a battery operated cassette player/AM/FM radio. Sometimes I think music is what gave us a little bit of peace.
When my parents divorced, a new wind blew in in the form of step-parents. I suppose we're lucky our parents didn't really date a bunch of people that we would get to know and then have disappear when the relationship failed...but maybe if they had I could have been a little more calm. Maybe. My step-dad was not a kind man. My step-mom wasn't much better...and though her upbringing was more kind, she too had issues, mostly of abandonment and self-entitlement. I understand that they didn't come from a good home, but there's only so long you can lean on that crutch and make it your excuse for being shitty to everyone around you as well. If that were the case, I could be as mean as I want to my own son and blame it on the 4 "adults" who raised me, but I'd rather not.
Sometimes I forget. I snap at little things because they send emotional triggers into me that shoots off a defensive shout. It's not an excuse. I am aware I'm doing the wrong thing when this happens. I'm trying. Slamming doors makes me terrified someone is going to get hurt, I'm going to be yelled at for something I didn't do, or something I did wasn't done to someone else's standards. When the wind beats on the house, it brings all that up. And I sit. And I wait. I wait for my punishment. And I hate it. I can't breathe, I can't sleep, and I even get nervous that I'm doing the wrong thing by being awake.
Someone medicate me please.
I moved here from Atlanta, and when it's crazy windy in Atlanta, watch for tornadoes. I grew up in Ohio, and when it's crazy windy, watch for tornadoes. Aside from the weather aspect, there's something more emotionally damaging that comes from the wind.
You know that pounding, beating sound the wind makes when it's rampant and erratic? That's what gets me. I can handle rain. Oh how I wish it would rain. And thunder? There's no love made like the love under a thunderstorm. There aren't a lot of thunderstorms to be had here...at least none worthy of a good session of love makin'. But that 'noise' of heavy wind, especially in the night, makes my hands numb, my heart race, and my mind recede into dark corners, under the covers, until morning light.
I grew up in homes with a lot of yelling. Someone was always angry with something. And you could count on taking a good bit of the punishment if you were a child in one of those homes. I know I'm grown and these things should be over with now, but they're not. They're very alive and still just as disturbing as ever.
I remember when I was little, maybe 4 or 5, my sister and I were told never to wake our dad up except by shaking his feet. He is a Vietnam veteran and suffers terribly from PTSD, but back then in the early '80s, they didn't diagnose that kind of thing. He was violent when he wasn't completely aware of what was going on. We often made a game of it. It was normal for people to be angry and swing at you when you wake them...at least, that's what I thought.
Then there were his general bad days. Days where nothing in particular happened, he was just angry. Maybe the truck ran out of gas, or he couldn't find a part he wanted, or maybe he stubbed his toe. Those days, tools were thrown, doors were slammed, shit got broken. I played outside a lot, and a lot by myself. I would usually disappear in the tall field behind our house. I never really understood who owned the field, but in the 9 years I lived at that house, I think the field only got plowed 3 times. The grass was as tall as I was and it lead back to an old man's house, Old Man Fritz, who had 2 ponies but was too old to take care of them. My sister and I would tie dandelion stems together to make a chain and hit the electric fence with it to see if it was on and how long it would take the current to reach us. It was usually on. Then we'd slip through the wires and hop on the ponies bareback and ride around. If he ever knew we did it, he didn't mind. Or he was too old to bother yelling at us. Sometimes we would go up the road to Mr. Carrey's house. He had horses...not tiny ponies, but real horses, and a lovely farm. My mom didn't like us going there because she wasn't too sure of Mr. Carrey, but he was always good to us. I remember riding horses quite a bit there, helping in the barn and just being free. In the evenings, my sister and I usually sat on the roof of the barn in our back yard. It was a lower eve that we got on by climbing the wood pile. We'd watch the sunset listening to some cool cassette tape one of us brought out. Music was always playing with us. Racing Hotwheels, riding ponies, doing the dishes, laying out in the sun...always a battery operated cassette player/AM/FM radio. Sometimes I think music is what gave us a little bit of peace.
When my parents divorced, a new wind blew in in the form of step-parents. I suppose we're lucky our parents didn't really date a bunch of people that we would get to know and then have disappear when the relationship failed...but maybe if they had I could have been a little more calm. Maybe. My step-dad was not a kind man. My step-mom wasn't much better...and though her upbringing was more kind, she too had issues, mostly of abandonment and self-entitlement. I understand that they didn't come from a good home, but there's only so long you can lean on that crutch and make it your excuse for being shitty to everyone around you as well. If that were the case, I could be as mean as I want to my own son and blame it on the 4 "adults" who raised me, but I'd rather not.
Sometimes I forget. I snap at little things because they send emotional triggers into me that shoots off a defensive shout. It's not an excuse. I am aware I'm doing the wrong thing when this happens. I'm trying. Slamming doors makes me terrified someone is going to get hurt, I'm going to be yelled at for something I didn't do, or something I did wasn't done to someone else's standards. When the wind beats on the house, it brings all that up. And I sit. And I wait. I wait for my punishment. And I hate it. I can't breathe, I can't sleep, and I even get nervous that I'm doing the wrong thing by being awake.
Someone medicate me please.
I have so little and so much to say all at the same time. Just know you weren't alone in that field, listening to those cassettes. (((hugs)))
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