Page 7 of Dignity

Chapter Three

The incident that formed one of the sharpest, clearest memories from my childhood occurred when I was ten. Mom was alive and healthy back then, but the cancer that eventually killed her would soon take root in her body.

Didn’t know that at the time, obviously.

My dad was running for office for the first time, some local office. School board, I think. I had noclue what the hell that meant. All I knew was Dad’s already limited free time, and even more limited patience, were now stretched to critical levels. I learned to tiptoe around him, to go to Mom if I needed something, and basically make myself a silent, invisible ninja when he was home.

Unfortunately, we had to attend a campaign event. Mom dressed me up in my Sunday best clothes and we headedto a barbecue, while Dad lectured me during the entire drive about how he expected me to behave.

Needless to say, by the time we arrived, something akin to terror gripped me. Idesperatelywanted tonotfuck this up for him.

Worse? Apparently, people were there to actuallymeethim, because he wanted them to vote for him and tell their friends and family to vote for him, too.

I should add thiswas taking place outside, but it was hotter than balls. Late October in Florida can be hit or miss with the weather, and it was at least eighty-five and very muggy, without a hint of a breeze to take the edge off.

My head started to hurt, and my stomach felt upset. I was too terrified to eat, afraid I’d upset Dad, or do something to embarrass him, like throw up on someone. Mom tried to keep mecalm, but even back then Dad was an asshole.

Of course I didn’tknowthat back then. Ten-year-old me wanted tofinallyearn some word of praise from him.

Mom? She loved me. I had no doubts about that.

Didn’t stop me from wanting to capture my father’s attention, though. Hopefully in a good way.

This wasn’t any old backyard barbecue, either. It was held at a fairly large Baptist church outsideof Tallahassee, and everyone else was dressed up, too. It was mostly adults, the only kids I noticed young babies. No one my age for me to even talk to.

In the haze of time, I honestly don’t remember what happened to trigger my tears. But I slipped away from Mom’s side to go stand behind a giant oak tree, where I remember I had a hard time catching my breath. Adult me looks back and knows I basicallyhad a panic attack.

It was also the first time in my life I had what I would later learn are migraines.

I stood there, quietly crying, my head thumping, thinking that I had hidden myself well enough to escape notice.

I should have known better.

Growing up, I always felt like my father was a few steps ahead of me, but that it wasn’t usually a good thing. I don’t even mean like I was tryingto get away with sketchy shit and he caught me. I mean like he alwaysassumedthere was sketchy shit afoot, regardless of the evidence, and treated me accordingly. Maybe it was because he was used to representing criminals, maybe it was because he was a shitty human being, I don’t know.

It had an effect on me, though.

Therefore, I always felt vaguely guilty abouteverything, even when I wasn’tdoing anything wrong or had anything to feel guilty about.

That only piled more stress on me as I struggled to achieve something over which he’d express pride for me.

I was trying so damn hard not to make any noise while I was crying that I never heard my father walk up. He scared the shit out of me by grabbing my arm and practically dragging me around the back of the main church building.

“What thehellis your problem, Kevin? Why are you crying? What iswrongwith you?”

I remember staring up at him, terrified, unable to vocalize it.

Him. I was terrified ofhim.

Except that’s not how it translated in my brain, at that time. I was horrified to realize I felt terrified of him, and immediately shifted it to feeling terrified to let him down, an emotion I could live with.

But Icouldn’tverbalizeit. Any of it.

Panic attack, yo.

Which made his voice downshift into an even scarier tone. Dark lines appeared on his brow, which further terrified me because when he wore that expression it usually meant he was about to start yelling.

“I’m sorry,” I finally managed. “My head hurts really bad.”