Slam!

I do not slam doors. The last time I slammed one, I was silently retreating from kitchen-table screams. My childhood seems full of screams: my dad at mom, at us, at the walls; my mom at him, at us, at the dog--whatever was in their way.

The last door I slammed as a teenager was as a 17-year-old girl, fed up with the noise. It was met with a slap across the face and an admonishment that I was no better. Who did I think I was, running away, slamming doors? No better, that's who.

In some memories, I slapped back. In others, I cried. But in truth, I think I stood there, stunned, confused, because I thought I was better. I thought silence was better than yelling, leaving was better than staying, and slamming was better than making no statement.

I rarely slam doors now. As a mom, I yell: at my husband, at my child, my dogs, my computer, my keys. I yell at slammed doors. I yell at people who run away.

I grew up with love and self-esteem and everything in life that mattered; it was simply a life louder than some others. No childhood is perfect. If it is, then it's especially not. We all have our demons, our desires, our ghosts, our skeletons. These define us. Moments define us.