On Jan. 2, I rode with a friend to Fort Smith so she could get some enrollment stuff done at the college. I waited in the car while she was talking to them. I listened to a podcast and worked on this blog post. I like having the iTouch, although even before I did, I was still always very good at entertaining myself. I think this springs from a childhood spent waiting in the car by myself.
Of course these days it would be unheard of to leave your kid in the car. I get it, really. Our weather is more extreme than it used to be and it seems there are more crazy folk out there who would take an interest in hurting kids.
This really sucks though. When I was a kid, I loved being in the car by myself. I wasn't in the crappy house and I wasn't having to directly deal with my crazy family. Cars were a safe zone for me. Even if the car is hot or too cold or whatever, I still feel more content while I am alone in a car than just about anywhere else in the world.
This isn't to say I was always exactly safe when I was by myself in a car. In fact, one of my more scary moments happened during one of these instances. I was in middle school at the time, I think about 12 or 13. Like a lot of kids who lived in perpetual PTSD, I had certain rituals I would do to send myself into fugue states. Usually just being in a car was enough to zone me out, but sometimes, if I was stressed out too much, I would need a push to get my mind to disconnect.
One of the ways that I did this was to light stuff on fire and watch it burn. Both steps were always needed for me to really feel the level of contentment I needed to get me through whatever it was my mind was trying to process. And yes, I know how psycho that sounds. It was psycho but at the time, it was also something I very much needed. It was dangerous and destructive, but it honestly helped me to survive.
I was in my dad's car so it must have been a Sunday. Dad always came to get us on Sundays. We were in Fort Smith and he was in some store with my brother. It was dark and I'd been left in the car by myself. I don't remember the details of what made that day horrible, but something had because I decided I needed to burn things. Dad was a smoker and always had lighters around. More than likely, I would have had a lighter in my purse anyway.
There was some strips of plastic laying by the lighter. I picked one of them up and held it above the lighter's flame. They burned delightfully. Even all these years later I can remember being thrilled as a hole formed in the middle of the plastic and everything faded out of existence in little bubbles of black and pops. In that moment, it was so, so beautiful.
The rush of happiness filled me as it burned, my breathing slowed and I felt like everything was right with the world. For a few minutes after the plastic was gone, I sat in total contentment. It didn't last though. It never did. I picked up the next strip of plastic to repeat the process.
This time, it didn't go as planned. As the plastic heated, it flipped back on the fingers holding it. It was just melted enough to adhere to my skin. I dropped the lighter (which thankfully lost its flame) and screamed in pain as the hot plastic sealed to me. It was white hot stabbing pain, violent and angry and so deeply sudden. Gritting my teeth, I pulled the plastic away from my flesh, watching as a layer of said flesh came with it.
I didn't tell anyone about my injury because it would have involved admitting I was burning stuff. If my family knew that, they would have made a big deal out of it, in as so much as it related to or affected them. Thankfully, none of them really paid that much attention to me otherwise, so I was able to muddle through life as best I could with my injured fingers. They healed after a while, but if I think too much about it, I can still remember that pain in vivid detail.
These days, as I am armed with some small measure more of sanity, security, and judgement, I no longer sit in the car and set things on fire. These days, I knit or play games or read. I often listen to music and now that I have the iTouch, I'm pretty apt to write in the car.
I have to admit that all of these things are easier when I'm alone in the car. I enjoy my time there and I probably always will. I also think it sucks that climate and crazyfucks have made it almost impossible for any generations past me to truly have this joy as children.
Then again, most of them would probably just set stuff on fire too.
This isn't to say I was always exactly safe when I was by myself in a car. In fact, one of my more scary moments happened during one of these instances. I was in middle school at the time, I think about 12 or 13. Like a lot of kids who lived in perpetual PTSD, I had certain rituals I would do to send myself into fugue states. Usually just being in a car was enough to zone me out, but sometimes, if I was stressed out too much, I would need a push to get my mind to disconnect.
One of the ways that I did this was to light stuff on fire and watch it burn. Both steps were always needed for me to really feel the level of contentment I needed to get me through whatever it was my mind was trying to process. And yes, I know how psycho that sounds. It was psycho but at the time, it was also something I very much needed. It was dangerous and destructive, but it honestly helped me to survive.
I was in my dad's car so it must have been a Sunday. Dad always came to get us on Sundays. We were in Fort Smith and he was in some store with my brother. It was dark and I'd been left in the car by myself. I don't remember the details of what made that day horrible, but something had because I decided I needed to burn things. Dad was a smoker and always had lighters around. More than likely, I would have had a lighter in my purse anyway.
There was some strips of plastic laying by the lighter. I picked one of them up and held it above the lighter's flame. They burned delightfully. Even all these years later I can remember being thrilled as a hole formed in the middle of the plastic and everything faded out of existence in little bubbles of black and pops. In that moment, it was so, so beautiful.
The rush of happiness filled me as it burned, my breathing slowed and I felt like everything was right with the world. For a few minutes after the plastic was gone, I sat in total contentment. It didn't last though. It never did. I picked up the next strip of plastic to repeat the process.
This time, it didn't go as planned. As the plastic heated, it flipped back on the fingers holding it. It was just melted enough to adhere to my skin. I dropped the lighter (which thankfully lost its flame) and screamed in pain as the hot plastic sealed to me. It was white hot stabbing pain, violent and angry and so deeply sudden. Gritting my teeth, I pulled the plastic away from my flesh, watching as a layer of said flesh came with it.
I didn't tell anyone about my injury because it would have involved admitting I was burning stuff. If my family knew that, they would have made a big deal out of it, in as so much as it related to or affected them. Thankfully, none of them really paid that much attention to me otherwise, so I was able to muddle through life as best I could with my injured fingers. They healed after a while, but if I think too much about it, I can still remember that pain in vivid detail.
These days, as I am armed with some small measure more of sanity, security, and judgement, I no longer sit in the car and set things on fire. These days, I knit or play games or read. I often listen to music and now that I have the iTouch, I'm pretty apt to write in the car.
I have to admit that all of these things are easier when I'm alone in the car. I enjoy my time there and I probably always will. I also think it sucks that climate and crazyfucks have made it almost impossible for any generations past me to truly have this joy as children.
Then again, most of them would probably just set stuff on fire too.
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