The Kitchen Table

After the afternoon meal on Sundays and holidays, everyone would linger around the kitchen table. Conversation could range from current events in the world to problems, to what was going on in each other’s life. It evoked feelings of warmth, safety, belonging – usually with the exception of my aunt’s occasional commentaries on our appearance or our behavior (which may have contributed to my anorexia). Those times sharing stories, ideas, and opinions, all around my parents’ kitchen table made Sunday and holiday meals special. The sun shining through the kitchen window bathed those sitting around it in cheery warmth.

But on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, the kitchen table became something sinister. When I was younger, I didn’t understand, I just knew when Daddy was drinking from that funny smelling glass and he started talking funny, that when he said “come sit down, I want to talk to you” that the kitchen table looked so dark, so forbidding, so cold. I would always choose a chair at the other end of the table, only to be told, “Sit right here, I said I want to talk to you.” I would sit on the edge of the seat, hoping to be able to make a quick escape, if the opportunity arose. It never did.

“You don’t love me.” “You don’t appreciate anything I do for you, none of you do.” The “talk” always began with one of those two sentences. Until Daddy decided it was time for him to eat and go to bed, I would be held prisoner under that dark cloud over the kitchen table. I always knew what was coming next, although the order of his checking off my mistakes and faults were sometimes rearranged, I knew he was going to tell me what a bad girl I was by giving me examples of ways I was unappreciative and how I should act, though for the life of me, as a little girl, it never made sense to me. Explanations were demanded, "Why did I do this or that? Was it to embarrass or hurt him? Tell me how you show me you appreciate me." And I would have to justify every "fault" every "misdeed." All I knew was that no matter what I did, or how hard I tried, it was never enough, I was never good enough. Although I never got into trouble with the police, I didn’t experiment with drugs, I only got into trouble twice in school (once for skipping school, once for a fight with a boy that had said something bad about my brother). I learned I could take criticism, as long as I felt it was something constructive or anything other than what I felt was a total condemnation of me as a person.

I went through two years of therapy, which helped, but still didn’t clear away all the self-doubt I had about my worth, my goodness. So I found things in which I could excel – my job at the radio station. I was good, but the pay wasn’t. After that, in college, I found if I studied and tried very hard, I could not only make good grades, but I could usually blow the average and make ranking the grades impossible for the professor – which didn’t contribute to a lot of friends in my college classes, unless they needed a tutor. At 38, I graduated second in the College of Liberal Arts, my three children cheered as I walked across the stage with the yellow sash indicating I was an Honor Student, but no one else from my family was there.

For years, I felt I had excelled at being a good mother. I know I’ve made mistakes with my kids, all parents do. But, my two oldest sons turned out well and since I was instrumental in raising them, setting what I felt was a good example for them and instilling high morals, I thought I had been a good parent. Maybe I was deceiving myself, for that too, has come into question lately.

I spent years making sure that I abided by most of the teachings about morals and standards I had received in school and church (yes, back then they could teach morals in school). At every opportunity, I did my best to help anyone whom I felt needed help. And maybe in some way, I did it to try and help myself feel better about me, but I don’t think that has ever been my main motivation. I’ve always held myself to a higher standard than those around me, I’ve always strived for near perfection in anything I attempt. I guess thinking that maybe if I did the best I could at anything I attempted; was honest in my dealings with others; and did all I could to be the best person, physically, emotionally, and morally that I could be, that maybe one day……………I don’t know, maybe I would “measure up” to others’ expectations of me, maybe they wouldn’t see all those faults I have that had been painfully pointed out to me for years.

Daddy quit drinking twenty-something years ago. And now, his criticism is a little more bearable, though recently I’ve been told several times in a round about way, that I’m going to hell for living in sin. Thankfully, I have a really good friend, probably my best friend, who sees only the best in people. He’s known me for thirty-something years, and he knows all my deep, dark, secrets, and yes, all my faults. I don’t get to talk with him as often as I would like, because he travels with his job. But at times he’s been my salvation, at the least, I know he’s helped me maintain some grasp on my sanity at those times I feel like I’m back at the kitchen table. Last night I dreamt again and again that I was back at that kitchen table. It was dark outside, I don’t remember who was taking an inventory of my faults and shortcomings, but I was overcome with the same feelings of inadequacy, but this time it was more than that. I can’t put a name to it, but the only way I could describe it is swirling black, oppression, a feeling of total hopelessness.

I seldom eat at my kitchen table, although experts suggest that families sit down to eat at least one meal a day together at the kitchen table. I never understood why I had such an aversion to eating at the table; until last night, and my dream.