Ramblings of a Survivor

The lavender colored paper annoyed me. “BreakFree” blazed across the headline.

Edited by Stan and Liz and Dad.

Mom and Dad had spent many hours pouring through these articles, editing, poking holes, arguing at home.

I flipped to the back where I knew there’d be some sort of cartoon graphic. I couldn’t get through the philosophical justifications of what my life looked like. I didn’t have the words at the time, but now I realize these articles written were right-wing justifications of patriarchal society heavily influenced by a narcissistic cult leader.

Underneath the BreakFree publication was a single-sheet newsletter outlining the schedule for the week.

It was the usual….

Wednesday, 7 pm: small group meeting.
Friday, 7 pm: Main street witnessing – meet at the brother’s house next to Salinas High. Bring your instruments.
Saturday:
OLDER GIRLS (high school age and older): SCYR [Salinas Community Youth Ranch]: 8 am, community outreach. Lunch Beans: Cynthia

BOYS: SVM (Salinas Valley Mountaineering): 6 am, meet in church parking lot

My stomach knotted. I missed SVM. Deeply. I loved being in the mountains, wandering through the state park of the Pinnacles. I missed being with my Daddy. I missed seeing him happy. I missed seeing his love of nature, of challenge, of the rocks.

You see, from before I can remember, my daddy loved the rocks, the mountains, the free air. I don’t remember a time where I didn’t know how to pitch a tent. It just was what we did. We loaded up our blue VW van, piled in, and played cowboys and indians from the loft that he and mom had built in good ol’ betsy (or at least I think they built it…maybe they bought it that way).

The bus rocked too and fro. Jake, my oldest brother steadied me….

“Get your eye down there! Dad! Weave across the lines!”

Hannah started hollering and Colin started jumping up and down: “Do you see the line, MIssy? See it???”

I strained my eye closer to the hole in the floor. A tiny, half inch drain hole that Dad had put there for the fridge that no longer resided in the living space of the Van. Jake’s hands were on each side of my torso. The van lurched.

“Sorry, guys, Car coming.”

Mom giggled.

“Again!” I screeched.

Jake took my torso in his steady hands, bracing his feet. My eye focused on the asphalt speeding under the car.

White.

Black.

White.

Black.

“I SEE IT! I SEE IT.”

Colin stood with his legs spread like his older brother’s, balancing precariously as Dad weaved between the lines.

Hannah spread across the back bench, grinning form ear to ear.

“Ok. Can’t do this forever. Missy, time to settle down.”

I crawled behind my mother, who sat next to dad in the passenger seat, and I stood pressed between her back and the upright part of the seat. My head skimming the roof of the van – a “Melissa” grin spreading across my face. My body felt safe; loved; a-part-of.

“One hour to YOSEMITE!!!!” Dad announced. I wiggled my kneecaps against Mom’s back:

“Eeeew. I hate it when you do that….Missy! What are you doing?”

I turned quiet. Content and happy, listening to my siblings in the back telling me about how rocks were grown and cultivated in the multiple rock gardens on the road into my happy place of Yosemite National Park…

You know the Rock farms — the places where they cultivate rocks and grow them for landscaping? Yep. Those.