Breaking Glass Therapy

Some memories drift across my brain like a simple whistled melody.  Others are more like being suddenly run over by a marching band.  I had two of the second variety this morning.
I killed a coffee mug.  It splattered glass all over the kitchen and while I was cleaning it up I said, "We're just normal people.  We have supper."
I spoke a memory of my father saying that in a grouchy voice when I was a teenager.  I had asked what we were having for dinner and that somehow ticked him off - my use of dinner instead of supper.
Whenever Papa rose his voice - or worse - spoke in that angry voice that wasn't loud - big fear filled my chest and tears started filling my eyes.  I had to be careful not to let those tears spill because that would only make things worse.
Let me assure you, my father never hit me, or grounded me, or punished me in anyway except with his voice, his words, and his eyes.  I would have rather he'd knock me across the room.
Sometimes, my transgressions or my possible transgressions were obvious.  "If I hear there was alcohol at that party, you might as well never come home."  Or "Don't you even have enough of a brain to come in out of the rain?"  Or the really horrible, "Don't make me ashamed."
But why, this morning, while on my hands and knees with a brush and a dustpan, did the dinner vs supper memory kick me in the head?
And you know what I thought?  I thought, "Well that was just a foolish thing to terrify your daughter over."  It was't until then that I realized my father's anger that day had absolutely nothing to do with me.  He probably had a headache, or maybe a bad day at work, or who knows.  But it wasn't about me.   Still whenever a man raises his voice, I'm frozen with that fear.  Hmmmm.  I think I'm over that now.

The second memory came while I was looking at the floor with my less than acute vision, trying to find any little shards of glass my first two sweepings had missed.  Suddenly I was about five years old with my little broom and dustpan and I was "helping" Mom sweep the kitchen floor.  She had a nice pile of crumbs and stuff in her dustpan and I didn't have much at all in mine.  I asked her why she could find more dirt than I could and she sort of laughed and said, "I have years of experience."
That one was a happy memory of Mom and me.  I haven't had enough of those lately.  Just think!  I probably saved myself years of therapy with one broken coffee mug.

I'm grateful.