Monday Prompt

When I Wanted and Needed Hugs, all I Got was Drugs —

“Here, Sweetie, have a drink, a story, a cookie!”

Growing up in the Air Force during the cold war, Daddy was gone a lot. He worked on munitions — i.e., the bomb parts of missiles and rockets with names like Atlas and Minute Men.

They would be tested every so often, and the earth shook, and we all ran out of houses or classrooms and watched them shoot skyward. I could be proud. That’s my dad’s handiwork.

But when we had those duck and cover drills, it never occurred to me that some girls or boys over in Russia might be saying or thinking the same thing about their dad.

By the time I hit middle school, and we were in Japan, he was around all the time. In the dining room, three fancy crystal decanters lived on a special wooden tray.

A is for Alcohol

One held scotch, one held whiskey, and one held gin. The freezer had a pitcher of martinis ready and waiting for the sun to go over the yardarm, proclaiming cocktail hour.

But as the years passed, that sun hit the yard arm earlier and earlier. Liquor was the social and emotional lubricant for my parents and life itself.

They were in a hurry to have us learn how to drink. I believe I was eleven so my sister was nine when they spiked our 7-Up as we played cards — the rite de passage for joining their clubs. Their bridge club and their booze club.

Dad’s coping and comforting elixir tasted bitter and nasty. It didn’t take. Neither of us followed our parents down that road and perhaps rebelled in reaction to the damage we witnessed growing up.

B is for Books

Estranged from our absent or intoxicated dad, we went to Mommy for comfort and consultation. Mommy had her own escape rackets going on.

One was reading. An avid reader, I picture her on the couch, curled up with a book when she wasn’t out volunteering or in the kitchen cooking or baking.

When we were little, she read to us. Storybooks. Winnie the Pooh was a favorite. So when we came in hurt or frightened by the big bad world, we got to curl up and have a story read to us.

To this day, the very presence of books brings a big sigh of comfort. Libraries and bookstores are havens. Safe zones. Sanctuaries to hide out, get lost, escape and take comfort in. Books take me away from the pain and stress of my life, as nothing else can.

I look forward to the end of the day, when all my writing, calls, emails, etc., are done. I close the door, climb into bed with my current companion. The longer and more epic the read, the better.

Because when a good read comes to an end, I’m cast adrift till I find the next one that transports me to its out-of-this-world world. Sometimes I have it lined up, but sometimes I have to test out a few before finding the right and perfect next one.

Currently, I’m engrossed in John Nichols’ The Magic Journey. This is book two of his New Mexico trilogy. I’m on page 329 of 516. It’s a nice, long, juicy ride spanning forty years of economic and social shenanigans in Northern New Mexico — some comical, some tragic.

When I finish, the first book, The Milagro Beanfield War, which is lighter and more magical, is next up.

C is for Cookies

Now in a crisis, by which I mean out and out tears, or screams of terror when a story won’t do the trick, there was the magical cookie. In fact, if Mommy was engrossed in her book and didn’t want to stop and read one of ours, there was the magical cookie.

No matter the affront, how hurtful or how scary, she entertained the same refrain: Here, have a cookie.

I learned to stuff down my pain with sweet treats. Cookies by day and homemade desserts at night. Cakes, puddings, pies. I was a chubby child. Got teased as a fatso. Learned to comfort myself with sugar, putting on even more weight in a vicious bitter cycle.

One summer, my grandmother, who lived with us for a time, put me on a cottage cheese and Metrical diet. No comfort food allowed. I lost fifteen pounds and became a real b*tch to live with — sullen, angry, mean. It didn’t help that I was going into puberty, and hormones were popping.

At age sixteen, a boyfriend dropped me precipitously because I wouldn’t have sex with him. He was getting ready to go to Isreal for the summer and wanted to be available for romance there.

V is for Valium

I cried every night for weeks. My mom’s idea of comfort was to get me some Valium. I didn’t want to take it. I’d rather cry and pace in circles around my bedroom.

By then, I’d long learned that going to my parents for soothing didn’t really work. Going to them for drugs did. No wonder I have issues. To this day. But taking this backward glance assures me, there’s a rational explanation as to why.

Thanks, Diana C., for a chance to go deep with this week’s prompts!

Marilyn Flower writes political humor and satire to delight socially and spiritually conscious folks. She’s a regular columnist for the prison newsletter, Freedom Anywhere, where she writes about faith and prayer. Five of her short plays have been produced in San Francisco. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her resolve during these crazy times. Stay in touch!