On the tree top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks,
The cradle will fall,
And down will come baby
Cradle and all.”
The wind blew. It started blowing before I was born. A cold, harsh, unforgiving wind. Destructive. It blew. Relentlessly. Every day. Without ceasing. My parents were driven by it; directionless without it. And the first air to fill my lungs as I cried out after birth was that of the powerful wind that haunted me and cut a vicious path through my entire life.
The wind blew without ceasing.
My cradle rocked. Wildly. Brutally. And the bough broke. Time and time and time again.
The wind whipped up emotional storms. Violent fights between my parents. Hitting. Slapping. Throwing. Leaving. And when I tried to intervene as a tiny child, the hits and slaps landed on me. After the storm, when they had both walked out, I held my younger brother, told him everything would be okay and cleaned up the mess. Picked up the tossed dishes (melamine doesn’t break), the silverware that was strewn across the kitchen and small living room of the trailer where we lived. Gathered the scattered clothing. Did what I could to fix the unfix-able. Did what I could to survive the fall.
Sometimes, the storm hit me full force. There was nothing to hold on to but the ferocious wind that tossed me to the earth, broken and bloody. No shelter. No way to escape. Couldn’t put the pieces back together. The bough broke. I fell. Hard.
The wind blew in the abuse. Abuse of every kind, shape and color. It howled and danced in frenzied glee at the havoc it wreaked. This is what the wind does. It tears apart. It shakes everything that can be shaken. It destroys anything that can be destroyed.
I was vulnerable. A child. I was easy to take down and rip apart. Easy to destroy.
I lived in the wind, slammed down to the ground, tossed like a weightless feather. Watching the earth fall out from under me. Watching my world disintegrate as we smashed to the ground once again. Standing against the ferocious gale was impossible. Walking in it took every bit of strength I could muster. There was no keeping my balance. Up was down and down was sideways. The debris crashed into me as I crashed into it. The tempest never died down. Never grew tired or lessened in force. Never lost interest in breaking the bough I clung to with tenacity, even as it was ripped out of my hand.
When the bough breaks, you fall. You fall through empty air. And you know it’s going to hurt when you hit the ground. There is nothing to soften the blow.
When a child is born into the arms of the wind of chaos, even when you run, there is no escape. It’s within you. You can’t get away from yourself.
I tried. I ran when I was 17. The squall chased me. I thought getting out of the cradle my parents created, that cradle into which I was born, I oh-so-stupidly thought it would change everything. But I had been changed by the wind. I was powerless against it. When I ran, I took that sadistic wind with me. It had become a part of the very fabric of my being.
It has been with me every day since birth. Endlessly raging.
The storm is in me. And when the wind blows, I break. Everything I cling to is ripped away. I fall to the earth, screaming silently in the wind as it rips my breath from my lungs, howling in delight at my raw, ferocious pain and unending agony.