Silent Treatment

Standing in the doorway, I watch my mother pace around the kitchen, a half-empty wine glass in hand and a furrow in her brow. She’s been drinking a lot more the past few nights. I keep thinking there must have been something I did to make everyone upset, which would explain her noticeable uptick in nightly glasses of vino. I just wish someone would break the silence and tell me what I did wrong.

Passive-aggressive silent treatments are my family’s specialty. My sister and I learned from a young age how to dish out and deal with some wicked silent treatments that would rival a mime. Since I came home from my night out last weekend, they’ve been layering on the ignoring-me-and-pretending-I-don’t-exist thicker than the top layer of frosting on my favorite carrot cake. 

- - -

I figured it had to do with my forgetting to take out the trash bins before I met up with my friends, since my nonexistent curfew couldn’t have been a culprit when I stumbled through the door at 3:30am. It’s a chore I hate and always forget, accidentally on purpose so it can be someone else’s problem. After my clumsy and foggy return, I made my way upstairs and collapsed in my bed and didn’t wake up again until four the following afternoon. Nobody was home when I finally ventured downstairs, but the breakfast dishes were still piled in the sink, which is something my perfectionist and appearance-obsessed mother would never let pass. 

I walked out of the kitchen and down the hall, through the pretentiously decorated entryway, out the heavy, mauve-colored front door, and followed the manicured path along our front yard, turning left to continue walking along our quiet street. I wanted to give my brain fog a chance to clear after a night of bad choices and heavy pours. It’s so frustrating that I can’t even remember much from the epic night. 

The last thing I remember was stumbling through the conversation with Amber, trying to figure out which one of us could drive home and get us to our respective destinations in one piece. The rest just slips away like I decided to walk into a thick fog instead of making the stupid choice to drive drunk. I still don’t know how I got back home alive, but I’ve obviously deduced that Amber must have driven my car and dropped me off on her way home to her and her mom’s tiny third floor apartment. I’ll have to call and ask her to come pick me up at some point so I can get my car back. 

When I got back home from my meandering exploration around the neighborhood, my parents’ cars were both in the driveway. I was really not looking forward to that conversation where I knew each would try to feign reprimand and disappointment like they actually gave a shit about my safety and poor life choices. Like anything they do or say isn’t only for show in their made-up, reality television trash about a wholesome, loving family. 

I walked inside and quietly padded to the dining room where my parents were both seated at the table, facial expressions forlorn and heads hung. They must have had another fight; mom had clearly been crying and dad looked like he hadn’t slept in days. They didn’t even look up to see me enter, so I turned on my heel and hurried up the stairs to my bedroom. Better not to draw more attention to myself when they were clearly already headed down the warpath to unwarranted anger and quick, stabbing retorts, no matter the pitiful reason they chose to be angry. 

As I reached the top of the stairs, I noticed my sister’s light was on, but I didn’t hear the usual blaring of Hamilton songs coming from her JBL speaker all the waking hours of the day. She must be pissed too, even though she had no right to pass that judgment on me when I’ve seen the idiotic choices she makes on the daily. Her current boyfriend offered a prime example of her lack of brain cells. 

I closed my door and threw myself on my bed in a huff. Whatever. This stupidity is nothing I’m not used to. I was sure that the next day, they’d all be over it and we could return to our regularly scheduled programming of pretending we’re not just a bunch of fucked-up individuals sharing a living space. 

- - -

That was three days ago, and I often think about how this must be the longest and most all-encompassing case of silent treatment I’ve gotten from all three of them at the same time. My frustration grows into exasperation and then anger at their relentless bullshit. 

We’ve all just been like ships in the night, passing each other in the hallway on the rare occasion when they’re actually home long enough to catch me when I emerge from my fortress of solitude and venture into the common areas of our frigid home. I don’t know why they’ve all been so busy and absent, but I don’t really care when their presence is so uncomfortable and awkward. 

That evening, I’m sitting on my bed when I hear dishes clanging in the kitchen. I finally decide it’s time to confront them and ask what the hell I did to make them all so mad. It’s not like I shit in the flower bed or tore my sister’s posters off her wall again like in middle school when she wouldn’t stop stealing my goddamn stuff. 

With a determined face and a quickness in my step, I head to the kitchen to see what the hell is going on. My mother is at the sink, my father at the stovetop, and my sister is slumped like a deflated bean bag in the bar stool at the kitchen island. I start to ask what in the world they’re all so pissed about when my sister gets up and leaves the room, ignoring me completely. 

That’s it. I’m so fucking annoyed with this toxic family environment. I start to lecture them about how they all need to grow up and learn how to communicate when something is bothering them, but I still get no response. Not even a passing glance or sigh of annoyance. My mom continues rinsing the used dishes and loading the dishwasher while my dad mindlessly stirs the sauce in the stock pot on the burner. 

I can’t believe them. What on this entire green earth could be so bad that they’re piling it on this heavy? Seriously, this is beyond ridiculous, and I’m fed up. I ask if they’re even listening or if they even give a shit. With the continued avoidance, I finally lose my temper and start to scream at the top of my lungs. 

The lights flicker above me, and I’m confused about the lack of burning in the back of my throat from my outburst. I actually haven’t felt much of anything the past couple days, come to think of it. My confusion builds and I stop screaming suddenly. 

My mother’s head shoots up in my general direction, my dad finally slips out of his stupor, and my sister runs back in the room and asks “did you hear that?”.