We are all impacted, as adults, by events that occurred during our childhood years. We watch, we listen, and we learn. Some messaging is clear and direct, don’t take things that don’t belong to you. Some messages are more subtle, if we share our toys everyone can get along. Then, there are those messages that are unintended consequences of well-meaning behaviour. This story, is my story. It explains the unintended consequences of a parenting moment. A moment, that my parents believed, that my parents believed, would make me a better person…
“Maybe this time he won’t find me,” I said to my 9-year-old self, knowing darn well that wouldn’t be the case. I positioned the coats in front of me, after quietly closing the closet door. The scent of cigarette smoke and perfume hung in the air as I waited for the final count…
“Ready or not, here I come,” my brother shouted out loud. I stood quietly, but he came right for me, as he always did… “No fair!” I yelled for the hundredth time.
I’m sure just about every one of you has played Hide-N-Go Seek at some point in your life. I loved playing with the neighbourhood kids, my brother, not so much. When I played with the kids on my street, I got to home base half of the time. When I played with my brother, I never won. It was so frustrating. He was two years older than me, so he did have that advantage, but that was never the issue. It was the other thing, the other advantage…he was blind.
My brother was adopted. He had a rare genetic disorder called Bardet-Biedl Syndrome, resulting in him completely losing his eyesight by age nine. I imagine you are wondering how being blind could be an advantage. It was. Because with every bit of vision he lost, his sense of hearing increased. What he couldn’t see, he could hear, and that was everything. My movement and my breathing. No matter where I hid, he found me.
That was, until I came up with a brilliant idea. I remember it so clearly. I was nine years old and my brother was eleven. I realized that if I could hold my breath, I could win… finally! It was mid-afternoon when I asked my brother if he wanted to play. I think he was suspicious because I rarely asked him. He was always the one initiating the play. We lived in a small, three bedroom bungalow. The “counter” would count in the family room and the “hider” would slip away. I still remember my brother counting “Eight, nine, ten.” With those last three numbers I tiptoed behind the living-room curtain, waited until he was a little closer, and took a deep breath. It worked. He walked right by me. I was thrilled… that was, until my lungs started burning and I realized I needed to breathe. I told myself just a little bit more, but couldn’t hold on. I gasped. Not a quiet, gentle gasp but rather a gasp that reflects someone drowning, trying desperately to find more air.
That was it… game over. My brother turned around, walked directly back to me, and yelled “It’s not fair, she held her breath!” Knowing my parents would hear him, I yelled “It’s not fair, he’s blind and can hear me.”
I shuddered as I heard my parents footsteps heading in our direction. I knew this would be a battle I wouldn’t win. The expressions on my parent’s faces told me I was right. “What were you thinking? How could you do that to your brother? Don’t you understand how hard life is for him?” The questions were fired at me like an automatic weapon waging war on a target. One after another they came. I stood and stared at them, tears welling up in my little eyes, my heart breaking with each attack.
It was decided I needed to learn a lesson. Something harsh, something that would stay with me for a long time. I still remember the knot forming in my stomach when I heard my mother say, “Let’s blindfold her. Let her “see” what it’s like to be blind. One hour should do it.” I turned to my father, hoping to see a sign he was in my court. There was none. Once again, I stood alone.
I stood in front of my mother as she told me to stand still, tying the blindfold behind my head. It was itchy, and smelly and so very black. As the light disappeared and I entered this dark, scary world, I had no idea the impact it would have on the rest of my life. I stood in the centre of the living room not wanting to move. In my mind, I could see the layout of the furniture and I could feel my parents watching me. Feeling defiant, I decided to stand right where I was until the hour was up. Of course, that was not to be. My mother ordered me to walk around, so I could really feel what it was like. As I moved toward the couch, I forgot about the coffee table sitting in front of it and banged my shin harshly on it’s corner. The pain took my breath away. My tears, like my emotions, were absorbed by the scarf. Gone. Pushed aside, like they were never there in the first place.
My parents believed they were doing the right thing. Teaching a young child a lesson in empathy. They meant well, but their methods were harsh. They also never considered, what my world may have been like, having a disabled brother. They focused so much attention on him, that they missed a whole section of the story. Me. They couldn’t have been more wrong about things. I watched him struggle. I watched people make fun of him. I fought with kids who picked on him and I heard his frustrations when he couldn’t see something. My heart broke for him all the time. It was a heavy burden for a child to carry.
That day… all I wanted, all I needed, was a moment to feel like I really mattered. It wasn’t what they said to me, but rather what they didn’t say. They didn’t say it must be lonely and tough when your brother gets all the attention. They didn’t say it must be difficult when people stare at him. They didn’t say you must feel sad when you see him struggling. Unintended consequence. I learned that day, that my feelings didn’t matter. I learned other people’s feelings were more important than mine. At nine years old, I learned to tuck my feelings away, put them on a shelf, and never revisit them again. I continued to live my life that way until I couldn’t…
