Homelife

By Jessica Lake

Ed, Jeff, Aleta, and I arrived first—every two years, like clockwork. We lived like strangers in a flop house, keeping to ourselves. Ed was the violent one. Throughout our childhood, each of us lived as if under a tornado warning.

I stand at the confluence of many tributaries that feed my trauma. To me, trauma was as natural as mother’s milk. As such, my mind trivialized these dustups as situation normal. Memories with little distinction were discarded.

One memory, however, persists: the decades-long menace of my oldest brother, Edward.

⸻

CPTSD, Explained

By Jessica Lake

It is as the river toying with a stone.

The river does not crush.

She insinuates herself.

She counsels, castigates, consoles.

Her patience rivals Death’s.

And at the appointed time?

There never was a stone.

⸻

Recently, I had a long talk with my sister Aleta—the first meaningful conversation I have ever had with any sibling.

At the end, I held her close, cradled in my arms, and said:

“See how this feels wrong. See how you tremble and pull away? That’s not right. It shouldn’t feel that way.”

In our teen years, I remember a happy Aleta singing along to her 45-rpm records. She loved Motown and The Supremes. I did too.

Eddy could not stand it—the singing, the happiness, the simple joy. He hated Aleta from the inside out. Most of all, he hated that it was Black music.

On the day I’m recalling, the three of us were in Aleta’s bedroom. I watch Eddy pick up a record from a stack of 45s and hurl it like a Frisbee against the wall, just missing her. The smug little smile on his face said it all:

“Don’t blame me. The fault is yours. You broke the rules.”

He continued until there were no records left.

Eddy was a monster. It doesn’t seem fair that he was the oldest and the biggest. To me, he was huge, violent, and unpredictable. Anything could set him off.

Among his many petty piques, Eddy suffered from misophonia. For the sufferer, the sound of gum popping is not merely annoying—it is a sonic assault. A triviality becomes a personal affront, enough to summon Eddy’s malign demons.

For him, these sounds triggered a fight-or-flight response, as if under physical attack. His strongest belief, though, was irrational and absolute:

“You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to control me. You’re humiliating me.”

Eddy had no idea why he was rattled. And then—boom—he would explode. Verbally, he yelled, blamed, accused, and threatened. Everyone was guilty. Physically, he slammed doors and hurled plates and tumblers—anything breakable—against floors and walls.

We learned early that any involuntary and innocent sound—chewing, breathing—could provoke Armageddon. We trembled in the ash and soot of rumbling Mount Vesuvius, desperately scanning for signs of an imminent eruption. There was nothing we wouldn’t do to prolong the peace.

After Aleta escaped into marriage, I had what I call a flashback. These recalls feel unreliable; they lack detail. With memory, it’s hard to tell fact from invention. You go with what feels true.

I remember Eddy, still a young teen. To me, he was Frankenstein’s monster. I see my mother trapped in the corner of a room, afraid for her life. Eddy is screaming in her face, out of his mind with rage. She is cowering, trying to defend herself. He shoves her to the ground. Then, realizing what he has done, he leaves.

When my father came home, he spoke with Mom. Then he went upstairs to Eddy. They exchanged a few furious words, and my father beat the hell out of my brother.

Before Eddy escaped to college, I had a nightly ritual. Jeff and I shared a room, but we never spoke. Everyone in my family lived in a private bomb shelter, hoping to get through one more day.

I would turn out the light and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars and galaxies I’d painted on the ceiling. And I would think:

Tonight. Maybe tonight Eddy will kill us in our sleep.

Then I’d say to myself, almost in prayer:

I just hope it’s quick.

And that made it all better.