The Girl in the Treehouse

by Jennifer Asbenson

  I took the whole situation worse than my sister, which would be apparent to you if you knew her. My sister took care of herself, whereas I felt like the needy one. I was only three; my sister was four, going on five.

  Gina was busy at play as if life was wonderful. I was very curious as to what was happening. If I asked her too many questions, she would eventually get upset with me. I became the whiny, needy little sister she was too young to comfort. She just wanted to be left alone. She didn’t even want to play with me anymore.

  My dad was an auto-body man, and my mom took care of my brother all day. If my brother had a seizure while my dad was at work, my mom would drop us off at a babysitter’s house. After work, my dad would meet my mom at the hospital. The hospital was called Loma Linda. My dad said the drive was long, but it was the best hospital around.

  Sometimes we were with the babysitter for days. I often wished we could stay there forever because there were new toys and other children to play with. What I liked most was that somebody came to check on me if I cried, and if we were hungry, we were given food. We were allowed to roam freely, but I never felt like the other kids. I would usually just sit and stare at them. I liked to watch how they played, and I sometimes wished I was them, or that this was my house and my family. Eventually, my parents would come for us, we would go home, and the fantasy would end.

  As for Gina and me, we dressed ourselves and were helped by no one. My mom told us children were meant to be seen and not heard. I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. If I asked a question, she wouldn’t answer, so I usually just went away. I felt so sad and alone. I felt like she didn’t like me. I felt abandoned and confused. I knew I was a burden and an inconvenience.

  When I say abandoned, I do not mean in the harshest form of the word. My mom made some efforts to communicate with my sister and me. But she neglected to provide care, support, and supervision for us. This was unintentional. Unfortunately, I cannot come up with a diagnosis for this; I’m not a clinical psychologist. I will call it “accidental abandonment.” She forgot about us the way some people forget they left their children in a hot car because their minds were elsewhere. What she did was similar to this.

  My mom became instantly insane the night my brother had the first seizure; I am sure of this. She became a different person overnight. She exhibited what I now know to be extreme depression, anxiety, mood swings, insomnia, and detachment. She once cared about her looks, but after Jay Jay’s seizures, she wouldn’t even brush her hair or shower and would wear the same clothes again and again. She also became codependent. She began to sacrifice her own needs to take care of my brother.

  She also developed a martyr complex. My mom always blamed God for my brother’s disabilities. She told us that God cursed her and wanted her to suffer. She often complained about how her life was over because of my brother. Most days, she moped around the house and blamed others for everything that went wrong. Yet she was always there for Jay Jay.

  So far, I have diagnosed my mom with a few mental illnesses. Perhaps, in a way, I have done this to protect myself from thinking a perfectly sane person would ever treat her own children like this. The mental illnesses were real. If they weren’t, I would not have been able to understand any of this, and it would be a challenge to write this book.

  The impact of my thoughts hits me as I write; I now begin to wonder if this is a book or a public journal. Right now, I know a three-year-old girl, and I love her and cannot imagine her on her own asking unanswered questions with no adults to help her. No matter what the circumstances were, I would never be able to tell her to go away. I would have to be mental. I imagine her helpless face, and it breaks my heart.

  Did my mom suddenly snap or was she always like this? Unfortunately, I can’t remember anything before the age of three; I just see pictures. In the photographs, everything seemed impressive, but was it?

  Answers were needed. A couple of days ago, I spoke to my dad on the phone to make sure some facts were straight for my book. I felt nervous calling him. I usually only call him to wish him a happy birthday or to borrow money.

  It shattered my heart to hear that before the night of my brother’s seizures, my mom really was a different person. My dad told me she was happy and funny. She had dreams; she wanted to be a flight attendant. She was thin and took care of herself. She was nice.

  “Was Mom proud of us?” I asked. “Did she dress us in pretty clothes?”

  “She did,” he said.

  “Did she love us?”

  “Yes!”

  He is a man of few words, who rarely elaborates. I started to cry when I imagined this once-perfect family.

  “Do you think Mom lost her mind after the night of Jason’s first seizures? Did she become a different person?”

  There was a pause before he answered. “Yes.”

  It was the most awkward conversation I have ever had in my life with anyone. There were a lot of quiet moments. I was quiet; he was quiet.

  Then I blurted out the question I was dying to ask. “Did you become an alcoholic because of what happened or did you already drink that much?”

  Silence.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  He eventually replied, his voice barely audible, “Yes, I drank a lot more to relax.”

  After an awkward silence, I asked, “To relax or to escape the situation? I mean, you now had a mentally disabled son who might die at any moment, a crazy wife, and two young daughters to care for, and bills and debt and …”

  He was silent for a long time as we both thought about everything else I didn’t mention. He probably contemplated hanging up on me, but before he could, I said, “I believe you were an alcoholic because you would give me a penny for every beer I brought you at night, and sometimes I would have a handful of pennies at the end of the night.”

  He said nothing, but I heard his breath, so I continued, “I don’t judge you at all. I understand. I never saw you as an alcoholic because you were never mean. At the time, I thought alcoholics were mean.”

  I continued, “Did you ever know what went on when you were at work?”

  Silence.

  “Mom cried all day and listened to Kenny Rogers. When you came home, she would shut off the records, wipe her eyes, and tell us to get in the back room.”

  Still silence.

  “You would come in, and she would only focus on you and Jay Jay, and she never fed us dinner. Gina would sneak into the kitchen at night and get the A.1. Sauce, and we would share it. We tried the other condiments too, but they were nasty. A.1. Sauce was like a meal. Mom yelled at us once because it was all gone when she was giving you steak. So, from then on, Gina would fill the bottle back up with water, and you would tell Mom the sauce was watery. She would have no idea why, but that’s why.”

  There was silence for a long time, but I knew he was there. I didn’t want him to feel guilty for something he didn’t do, so I continued.

  “Now I’m addicted to A.1. Sauce. At fancy restaurants, I ask for it and they look at me like I’m crazy to ruin a perfect steak.”

  He laughed, and so did I.

  I DON’T BLAME MY DAD. I don’t think he ever even knew we were home, even though I was always sitting about twelve feet away, staying out of sight so my mom wouldn’t see me. We were not allowed to be seen when he came home, so I hid between the fireplace and the hall, with my back straight against the wall. If anyone had to go to the bathroom, I would close my eyes and become one with the wall, and no one would see me. I sat there all night, watching and wishing I could be a part of what was now one fucked-up little family. I didn’t know the f-word then, but it fits appropriately now. I didn’t care how messed up it was, I just wanted to be included. I was lonely. My mom made it clear that we were no longer a priority.

  They say it takes eight days to get used to change. My sister and I got used to this way of life fast. Interaction between anyone in our house was sparse. Gina was ever-elusive. She could have been living with
another family down the road and no one would have noticed. Perhaps she was playing house in the back room or digging underground tunnels. As for me, I watched my mom and dad with Jay Jay, like I was watching a strange play I’d seen a thousand times. If my brother didn’t spend the night at Loma Linda, my dad came home. When we saw him pull up to the house, we would holler, “He’s here! He’s here!”

  My mom would scurry toward us as fast as she could and tell us to stay in the back and not come into the living room. So, we ran. We couldn’t even say hello to him anymore. He couldn’t hear us if we did anyway. He had selective hearing, and us girls were not selected to be heard.

  We used to greet him all the time. Gina and I would run and sit on his feet. He had big, brown work boots. He would give us a ride on his feet as he walked. We would laugh; it was so much fun. I was sad we couldn’t do that anymore, and I wondered when we could do it again.

  Maybe this is why I occasionally run to the door yelling, “Daddy!” when some of the men I’ve dated come home. I jump on them and tell them how much I’ve missed them. I kiss them and make them feel as special as I can. Then I run and disappear because that is a bit strange for a grown woman to be doing, and I don’t want them to think I’m crazy. Yet they always seem to like it.

  My dad came home each night after a long day at work worn out and quiet. I would stare at him to see if he did something different, but his routine was always the same. He walked in with his head down, and if he didn’t go to the bathroom first, he would fall into his recliner and let out a sigh.

  Whenever my dad came home, my mom transformed. She stopped crying, shuddered away her tears, and turned off her melancholy Kenny Rogers record, which had been wearing the needle down from repeated plays. She moved faster. She would tap her fingers, looking like she wanted to speak while remaining silent. Dutifully, my mother would turn the television to the news, bring my father dinner on a tray, and stand there, waiting like a servant. If my father ever rose from his upholstered throne, my mother would observe him carefully, terrified that she had done something wrong.

  She would panic and ask what was wrong. She would follow him, trying not to trip over her own feet. He wouldn’t answer; he just walked to the kitchen, with her chasing behind him, and opened the fridge.

  He would return to his chair, crack his beer, take a drink, and take off his boots. She would stand there, staring at him like she was an assistant and he was a tyrant. I don’t know why she did this; he wasn’t mean. She was nervous; she was always shaky and didn’t finish sentences.

  When he took the first bite of his meal, she would ask, “Is it okay? Is it okay? Huh, Wes, huh? Is it okay?” He wouldn’t answer but instead would stare at the TV. My mom would repeat, “Is it okay? Wes? Wes?”

  When she spoke, I mouthed her words. It was the same every time. It was like watching a movie a million times; it became entertaining. My favorite part to mouth was when he finally had enough and yelled, “Goddammit, woman!”

  She would scurry off into the kitchen to feed my brother, and that scene would end. I would cover my mouth and try not to laugh. I would stare at my dad as he sat in his chair. He looked different. He didn’t talk a lot. He only yelled when my mom started panicking over my brother.

  One night, he saw that I was there, watching. After a few minutes, he said, “Jenny. Beer.” He began to do this every night. I would run and get a beer, so excited to be involved again. When I brought it to him, he would give me a penny. I became so excited that I would run to our room and hide the coin, and run right back to my post, hoping I’d get another opportunity to be involved.

  My mood became entirely dependent on my parents, even though I wasn’t allowed to be a part of their lives. I wanted to be involved so badly that I would watch my dad drink his current beer, and when he neared the end with his head tilted back, I would become like a runner, waiting to hear the starter pistol. After he said, “Jenny,” but before he said, “beer,” I was halfway to the refrigerator.

  Finally, I was needed—needed in a way that I felt like I was a part of the family. It gave me a pattern to follow. There was a sense of pride that came with the job, too, even though I was essentially a four-year-old cocktail waitress. Soon after, more jobs came. I would be responsible for unlacing my dad’s boots when he got home. Once the laces were undone, I had to pull back with all my strength to get the boots off, an effort that always resulted in me falling back, onto my butt. The socks were a less enjoyable task. They were usually wet and smelled rotten. I would pull them off as quickly as possible, throw them, and run away screaming. This nightly ritual formed a tiny world I loved, the world of “boots, beer, and A.1. Sauce.”

  THINGS WERE BEGINNING TO LOOK up. My brother started a medication that helped control his seizures, and he began intense physical therapy to gain muscle strength. My mom made friends with a Jehovah’s Witness black lady from down the road who had a couple of kids. My dad didn’t lose his mind, and he came home every night, like clockwork. I became his official boot taker-offer. The extended family started visiting and would sometimes take us on outings. And my sister and I were thrilled to find out we were now of age to leave the house and roam the streets alone. Yeah, life was good. But I would soon discover I was not prepared for what the outside world had in store for me.

  Gina and me on Halloween

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Munchausen, Miracles, and Me

  The role of patient was an intimate and soothing one, for I did not care to know what the role of child was any longer.

  “The Butterfly Sky Escape”

  Warm flowing air and a butterfly breeze,

  We spin as we point toward the hills in the mist.

  Sparks start to shoot from our pink fingertips.

  Butterflies fall into waves that freeze.

  Ice is now art, at the edge of our feet;

  We ice skate upon the breathtaking sight.

  The ice starts to crackle, but we feel no fright.

  The wings set upon our small backs as we rise,

  Ice skating butterflies now fill the skies.

  –Jennifer Asbenson

  I’m upside down. We are spinning in circles; my arms are out. My face beams with euphoria. I’m like a bird, no worries on my mind. My feet are tightly held in hands a few years older than mine. I scream with joy, but I feel the hands slip, and I fly head-first into the cement. I’m dead in their eyes; then I come to. I am loved. Little bluebirds fly around my head in circles, chirping. I’m dazed and confused. They rush me home, and my mom calls the doctor. The doctor says I should be fine as long as I do not throw up. As she starts to speak, I begin to vomit. “Take her to the hospital immediately.” So, she does.

  As I sit here in my treehouse, I feel warm and cozy. Hot cocoa swirls in my cup while little marshmallows dance around on top. Why does telling the next part of the story make me feel so comfortable? Perhaps it is because this was the first time I felt love. In reality, what I felt was not love. My brain was deceived to believe it was, so I would feel like a worthy human being. I needed to feel cared for and nurtured.

  This may sound twisted, but I liked the attention. Even though those concerned eyes and caring hands were a result of my being physically hurt, I wanted more. People would actually look at me. They would hold me, talk to me. In those moments, I would pretend the doctors and nurses were my parents. They were kind to me. A definition for “hurt” formed in my mind. It made me feel special, happy, and warm. My ideas of love and pain had been swapped, blended. I enjoyed getting hurt; I wanted to get hurt all the time, even if I had to help the process along.

  AFTER I WAS RUSHED TO the hospital, tests were performed. The doctor decided to operate because I had a bad brain bleed. All eyes were on me. There were many mothers and fathers (a.k.a. nurses and doctors), all helpful and caring. It would break their hearts if I were to die. They didn’t want me to die, just like my mom didn’t want my brother to die. I wondered why there was no crying and screaming. They
were all calm.

  And they all loved me: the doctors, the nurses, everyone. Warm blankets were draped over me, and I was showered in love. They brought me food. They talked to me and asked me questions; my answers were important to them.

  Before surgery, a technician did one more scan to see if the crack in my brain had changed. It had. My brain stopped bleeding, just like that. I was discharged the next morning, and my lovefest ended. That was when I decided to try and get hurt or play sick as often as I could, so I could feel love.

  By age four, I had Munchausen syndrome. Thirty-nine years later, I would diagnose myself in my treehouse. Munchausen syndrome is associated with severe neglect and abuse. A person pretends to be sick or will hurt her body in order to visit the hospital to feel cared for and loved.

  I had a lighter form of Munchausen because I was not severely neglected. I was only pushed aside and left out. For me, this was enough to leave an impact at such a young age. Most children are afraid to get hurt. I began to hope I would become injured so that I could experience what I believed was love.

  ANY CHANCE I COULD, I wanted to get hurt. The hospital meant love. It made me feel special to go there. I adored the cleanliness, the smell, the food, and the affection. If any little thing happened to me, I would cry, overreact, and say I needed to go to the hospital, even if I didn’t feel pain. I would also become a daredevil in an attempt to get hurt. With my luck, I’d usually perfect the stunt before I’d get hurt.

  I was now four, and my sister was five. We were allowed to go outside and play on our own. My mom always told us to watch out for cars; we had no other rules. We would roam the neighborhood. We met some kids down the road who had a secret freezer in their garage full of the most delicious snacks: donuts, pink Sno Balls, ice cream, all the fantastic junk food imaginable. Sometimes they would let us have one. I would climb on a chair and lean into the gigantic, frosty deep freezer and feel the ice-cold air hit my skin. I would blow into the freezer and say “ahhhh” as the fog swept away to expose the surprises beneath. I’d suddenly feel awake and excited. The neighbor boy would tell me to hurry before everything melted. I would get anxious, bite my bottom lip, and wiggle my fingers in hopes they would grab a treat on their own so I wouldn’t have to choose. Still, I would always change my mind once the boy began to shut the lid.