Read Nowhere but Up for Free Online Page A

take the time to look beyond your messy parts or rough edges, but I didn’t feel like my mom or stepdad were interested in doing that. I guess it’s hard enough to parent a teenager, let alone decipher the hieroglyphics of a broken one.
    Aside from sitting at the table during meals, our family rarely spent time together. By this time all my siblings were out of the house, so at times I felt pretty lonely at home. I may not have acted like it at the time, but I wanted to do stuff as a family, even if it was just Bruce, my mom, and me. We could take bike rides. Or have game night. Or go to a sporting event. But we didn’t do much other than watching TV.
    Communication wasn’t a big deal in our family. Outside of small talk about mundane topics like the weather or school, we really didn’t talk a whole lot. We definitely didn’t express many emotions openly with each other.
    One afternoon after school, I sat at the kitchen table mindlessly munching on ketchup chips (popular in Canada) when the phone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “Chris Zehr got into a car accident,” said a friend of mine on the phone, panting breathlessly. “He’s dead.”
    I gulped. A wave of disbelief rushed over me. Memories started flooding my mind. I had known Chris since I was three or four. We had the same babysitter and were super close early on in elementary school. He was at my birthday party every year when we were kids. We’d drifted apart over the years but kept in touch every now and then. I thought about his mom. She was a single mom and Chris was her only child. How could fate be so cruel?
    I threw the phone down on its cradle and ran upstairs to my room. The news knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t breathe. I threw myself on the bed and physically felt grief inching its way through every crack in my heart. My sadness paved a way to other emotions, deeper ones I didn’t understand. I sobbed hysterically and made such a ruckus that Bruce heard the commotion. He knocked on my bedroom door and opened it, looking more annoyed than concerned.
    “What’s the problem, Pattie?”
    “I’m sad,” I managed to blurt out between the heaving sobs that shook my shoulders. “My friend just died.”
    Bruce let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, stop that. My friend Jimmy died a few weeks ago. You didn’t see me crying and acting a mess, now did you?”
    I blinked through my tears, stunned speechless. Weren’t you supposed to cry when someone died? (In hindsight, perhaps Bruce, like my mom, was uncomfortable with deep emotions and didn’t know how else to respond. I know he didn’t like to see me upset.)
    I talked to my mom later that day and told her what happened. I wanted her permission to feel sad. I needed her to tell me it was okay to cry. “Mom, Bruce said I shouldn’t be upset.”
    My mom looked uneasy. It was a conversation that may have required kid gloves, but the emotional undertones were quickly cut off. “Well, when Sally died, that’s what people told me. They said crying was just a way to feel sorry for yourself.”
    Looking back on it now, what she said is heartbreaking. How sad that my mother was probably never able to properly grieve the loss of her daughter in an emotional way. How could she have encouraged me that it was okay to cry if it wasn’t okay for her to?
    Mom wasn’t a naturally touchy-feely person and didn’t show much emotion. She was direct and matter-of-fact. Unfortunately, as a result, what could have been a teachable moment or an opportunity for her to console me was shut down. It was another reminder to hush up. Feelings were useless, and anything that could give rise to feelings should be ignored, buried, or superficially glossed over. Period.
    I know my mother recognized the tension between us. She even admitted at times her inability to relate to or talk to me. But recognizing the tension didn’t fix it.
    Like any child who has been through a traumatic experience, I was left screaming on the inside