My parents liked to get high. Especially my father. They smoked weed from as early as I could remember, and when I was little I hated the smell of it. It was especially bad in a closed car. As I got older, I appreciated my dad smoking it, especially after my mom died, because it chilled him out a bit. But there are a few instances when I was little that they were high and didn’t display the best judgement.
Do you know how when you remember things that happened when you were very young, that it’s sort of like watching a faded home movie? It is with me anyway, and that’s how I see the following incident. I was four, in the back seat, with my parents up front. They were high, and we were driving through a strange neighborhood. They pulled over to the curb and told me to get out and walk home. I remember watching the car leave, and then I started walking. I had no idea where I was or where home might be in relation to this, but I suppose in my four year old reasoning, I thought I’d get there eventually. I don’t know. I remember walking through people’s yards as I cut through and coming out on another street. My parents pulled up behind me, and I remember being surprised to see them. I don’t know how long I had been walking, but my mother was crying and my father was pissed off. He yelled at me to get in the car, which I did. He asked me where I was going, and I answered that I was walking home. He asked how I knew where home was. I don’t remember what I told him. I think it was that I didn’t know.That’s all I remember of it and the film ends there. What I think is that they went around the block and expected me to be standing there when they returned.
This came up today in therapy. I’m not sure what brought up that particular memory… we weren’t talking about my parents or my childhood. By the time I finished telling him I was shaking and nervous, which is kind of odd. It wasn’t a traumatic experience… it was just an example of how things were.