Breaking Ties

My name is Brittany Carpenter, my maiden name is Traxler. You might not think that matters, but when you grow up in a family known for alcoholism, drugs, violence, and jail time, it does. You know that jingle from Cheers, “where everybody knows your name”? That’s what it was like for me growing up. Everyone knew the Traxler’s from the Montgomery area because of those family traits I just mentioned. I just don’t understand where exactly it stemmed from though because my grandparents were great people; loved by their entire community and family for plenty of good reasons. Not everyone in our family was known for bad decisions, but there were enough who were, which created the, “Oh, you’re a Traxler?” with a scoff or snicker following it. 

Growing up I didn’t know anything different besides the dysfunctional toxicity I had always known. I didn’t realize until I was older, how bad it really was or the reason I didn’t remember a majority of my childhood, is because of the trauma I endured. I remember bits and pieces, but there is a lot missing from before the time I turned 15 and my parents divorced. The memories I do remember saved me in one way or another in my life, even the memories I would like to forget. Most of the memories I have, come from those made with my grandparents on my dad’s side. 

I grew up with my dad, mom, half-sister who is eight years older than me, and my brother who is two years older than me. My mom had been married previously to an abuser who was an alcoholic. She divorced him after he had tried drowning my half-sister in the bath tub because he was mad that he had to give her a bath. Kendra, my half-sister, still visited him and her half-brothers every other weekend. My mom met my dad some short time after. My dad seemed to have things going for him. He had bought his first house when he was 19 and had a steady job. 

Fast forward to my parents getting married, having my brother, Brandon, and then having me. For a while it would seem as though we were an average family. My parents took us to family reunions, Methodist Church in Montgomery where my paternal grandparents attended, and we went on family vacations with my paternal grandparents. By the time I turned four or five though, I have very vivid images of the violence my family contained. 

It seemed as though my brother, Brandon, was always doing something to get spanked, slammed against a wall or bed, choked, or yelled at with profanity and threats steaming from my dad’s mouth. I can remember screaming at my dad to let him go, while my mom was either nowhere in sight or sat there in silence while it all happened. I still to this day have no idea why she ever let him go as far as he did. My dad had a terrible temper and my brother was a hellion to be honest. Put these two together and you have constant conflict and turmoil. I wasn’t a perfect child, but I was sensitive and that is something my strong willed brother was not. I can remember both of us getting into trouble at the same time, which resulted in spanking us both. My dad would always ask after he spanked, “Did that hurt?” Whether it did or not, I can’t remember well enough, but I knew enough to say yes as tears streamed down my face. I would cry with just a stern look or my full name being called. Brandon on the other hand would almost always look at him with a grin and tell him “no”. I never understood why he would inflict more pain on himself than what he already had. My dad would then grab ahold of him and wail on him until my brother screamed and then, because my dad didn’t want me to rescue him, he would put him in our room where I wasn’t allowed to see him until my dad let him out. Sometimes it was hours later. 

Although most of the time we got in trouble it was for good reason, no one was walking on eggshells around the house, but sometimes the reasons we got in trouble were because we were being children. Laughing at the supper table, not finishing your food or entire glass of milk during meal time, and wrestling inside the house were not allowed—just a few examples of many I could list. Punishments for these natural behaviors would result in severe punishments, either physical or mental. I remember Brandon accidentally knocking a chair over on his way over to the table and my dad sent him to his room for the night without anything to eat. By the time I turned eight I hated milk. My mom always gave me a full glass even when I would request less and I was a slow eater. So I would eat my food, sip at my milk, and then by the time everyone had eaten their food and drank their milk, I sat there choking the rest of mine down, which had turned warm by then. I knew I had to finish my milk though, otherwise there would be punishment and there were times when I didn’t know how bad that would be. 

My dad did favor me naturally for some reason and it wasn’t just my brother who despised it, but also my mom. I just liked doing most of the things my dad did. Being outside with the animals, going to the sale barn on Saturday mornings at the Hillsdale County Fairgrounds to see what treasure we could find, riding around with him while he did errands or just visited people, usually whatever my dad was doing I tagged along. My mom didn’t like any of these things and whatever she didn’t like, she clearly didn’t do. 

By the time I was in 3rd grade I was doing Junior Pro Basketball. I don’t remember my mom at a single game from that time until I finished playing in 9th grade. My dad was at every single game, whether I wanted him to be or not, but even when I asked if she could come the reply was always, “Your dad is going to watch you,” as if she wasn’t needed or wanted. I think I would have loved playing more if either my mom would have gone or my dad didn’t always embarrass me by yelling anything and everything from the bleachers. Despite coaches reminding him of my age at the time or the fact that he wasn’t the coach, it didn’t make a difference. I hated being yelled at while I played the game I loved. My dad made my playing about him and strived to get as much attention as he could while he told me to run faster, make the rebound, or box out. Even when I was older and asked my dad to just watch me play and enjoy the game, my dad never got the hint because he was going to do what he wanted to do. My brother wasn’t really into sports and that’s another reason you wouldn’t see him and my dad just hanging out. Brandon was into music, video games, and making trouble it seemed. 

My brother and I were close when we were growing up until he became a teenager and then it seemed as though he became a different person. He hung out with friends who were just as into trouble and poor choices as he was and it showed. He started stealing, smoking cigarettes, drinking, and then got into his first confrontation with law enforcement. I remember that night vividly because even though I had seen a lot of the changes Brandon was making and I steered clear of what he was doing, I still tried to stay close with him and do some of the things he was. He was getting ready to sneak out of the house and I was up using the bathroom. I saw him start to go out the basement door and asked him where he was going and if I could go too. He told me I couldn’t go and it was none of my business. I just thought he was going out to drink behind the oats bin again, but it was much more than that and I’m glad he didn’t let me go with him. 

About an hour after he had left, there was a knock on our front door. Our bedroom was the closest so I answered and there he stood with a state police officer. The police officer asked for my parents and I quickly ran to go wake them. Brandon had snuck out to go with his friend to steal people’s American flags out of their yard. It was the first time Brandon would be in trouble with the law, but not the last.

I was only 13 and Brandon 15, when he first got in trouble and began probation. Teenage years are hard enough without anything extra or unwanted being put in your path. Sometimes I wonder if Brandon would have had different friends or if my parents would have been a little more involved, maybe this wouldn’t have been the path he chose. It seemed like after the first time Brandon got in trouble, it started a fire that couldn’t be extinguished. Brandon started drinking and smoking more than ever and isolated himself from the rest of our family. It seemed like a fast transformation, from being siblings who were close and would stick together, to not even recognizing who my brother was. At first, I tried sitting in when he was listening to music, but I couldn’t stand how vulgar and violent all of it was. It wasn’t who I was or who I wanted to be, so at that point I decided I was better off just doing my own thing. 

I continued with playing basketball, hanging out with the same friends I knew since kindergarten, and trying my best in school. We attended a small K-12 School and so I would hear things about Brandon while being at school, but I would just tell them that’s him and not me. I wasn’t embarrassed because it’s not like we were new at the school and Brandon’s changes had been pretty evident for a while. People knew we were completely different from one another and I was fine with leaving it at that. I thought, even after Brandon had gotten in trouble and put on probation, life really wasn’t too bad, but then another twist came when my parents decided they were getting divorced. This wasn’t a shock, it was a slow ongoing process that involved us every single step of the way, in a way it never should have. 

Ever since I was a little girl, I can remember going downstairs while my mom was doing laundry and her just complaining about my dad, the bills, the hatred she had for life. There was no censoring, thoughts of how damaging this was for me to hear, or any other unselfish concept which prevented these sessions from occurring. I would sit for a few minutes because it seemed it was one of the only times my mom wanted to talk to me, but after a while I would escape by letting my mom know I had homework or chores to do. I think I unrealistically expected my mom to just have a casual conversation with me one of the times I went down and sat on the steps. There was never a conversation involving how I was doing, feeling, or what I had been up to. It was always one-sided and it didn’t cease later when I was in adulthood. Maybe the only benefit of sitting and listening to my mom was the preparation it had naturally for my career in social work I would later explore and make into my career. 

It should be no surprise that the process of my parents falling into a divorce would occur or that we would know almost each and every detail leading up to the day we would leave. I remember at first it being abruptly quiet at home, which was unusual for my parents. The tension was noticeable each day from the time I stepped out of bed until I put myself asleep for the night. They would sit at the table together, but not talk—not only to each other, but to Brandon or myself. My dad had started sleeping on the couch and then one night while my dad was out of the house, I am thinking at the bar, my mom sat down my brother and I at the table and stated, “I haven’t been happy with your dad for a long time, but if I have to, I can wait until you guys graduate to leave him.” I don’t know how at the age of 15, I had the thought to tell my mom, “You might as well just do it now with the way things are.” I think I honestly knew it would probably be better for them to separate than to continue with the tension and awkward fog we were left in day after day. 

Shortly after this conversation, my mom began going over to see our old neighbor who we had known our whole lives, who used to live across the road from us, Dennis, at his house he had moved to in town. All of a sudden we were going over there daily, without my brother or my dad. We would go shopping, out to eat, and then after my mom would get me settled into watching television, they would disappear into his bedroom. I remember one night lying on the couch falling asleep and briefly waking to see Dennis’ arm around my mom’s shoulders as he kissed her cheek. 

Within a couple of weeks, my mom was packing her things, furniture from the house, and then sitting down with my brother and I. She told us we needed to choose if we were going to move with her or stay with our dad. I knew, despite my dad favoring me all these years and the way my mom lacked any interest in anyone other than herself, I would be better off choosing to live with her and Dennis. I knew if I stayed with my dad with his helpless nature and overall disposition, I would be left cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, and anything else my mom had always done on top of being around alcoholism and violence. Also, even though my dad favored me, he was still just as selfish as my mom and this remains true today. My brother had said he wanted to come too, but then when it came to us having our last moving day, Brandon had changed his mind and despite all of the violence and unfairness he had with my dad over the years, he simply said he couldn’t just leave him by himself. I think part of this was true, but I also believe Brandon knew he could get away with more at my dad’s and continue drinking, smoking, and partying without any repercussions in comparison to living with my mom and Dennis. I felt bad for my brother because I knew it would be a downward spiral from the path he had already begun, but I knew nothing I said would change his mind and I had to do what was best for me with what options I had.  

Moving in with my mom and Dennis may not have been as dysfunctional as living with my dad and brother, but it wasn't a cake walk either. I had always liked Dennis and again, being a tomboy, when he would do something I was still usually tagging along. My mom despised this. I mean after all, she was finally with a man she liked being with and being a mom was never her priority. Tensions rose the longer we lived there. Eventually I chose to be gone every day doing baby-sitting jobs and then when I began driving, working at McDonald's. I still tried to have a relationship with my mom, but time after time every attempt made was a failure. I’ll never forget asking her when she would be ready to go prom dress shopping for my first prom. She snapped back at me that there was no rush and if I couldn’t wait until the afternoon to go, I could just take some money and go with a friend. My mom never wanted to get out of bed before noon after starting a job with Dennis working 2nd shift, so I decided to do what she really wanted me to and go without her. The letdowns, disappointments, and impossible ability to form a relationship with my mom never ceased. 

I realized as I got older the family that I was born into didn’t need to become my own. My own family I would have one day, didn’t have to be made up of what my childhood consisted of. My own family would be just that and eventually it would come down to breaking ties to really break cycles. I would be lying if I said it was hard to do because it wasn’t. Eventually, I simply saw my mom as being the woman who became pregnant with me and gave birth to me, that was it. Sometimes we have to use the failures of our past, to have success in our future. The failed relationship I have with my mother and my father, has only driven me to being the mother I always longed to have, for my own children, after waiting for a husband, who would be the father mine never was.