The screaming was deafening at times. Times where I would sit in my room and read words off pages and pages of a book for class, not to retain what it meant but to drown out all the noise. Little did I know that all fifteen years of living in such ways would impact my own personality so strongly. I wasn’t born to build so many walls around me. They formed when I was young, when I didn’t always know what was going on but I learned as fast as I could. It wasn’t always clear why I had formed such an attitude with my mom or why I cried so easily when being reprimanded by my dad. But they’re all reflections of how I saw them as a couple; my dad constantly losing his temper, my mom wailing for hours at a time— as husband and wife.
I learned how to lie and manipulate when I was too young for anyone’s own good. I formed the worst habits as I grew up in elementary and middle school, finding my ways around my mom for my own benefit. I grew up thinking I could control her, my conscience blocked out by my father telling me that “she will never understand.” I took it to my advantage so often, and when I thought it was harmless, the years passed yet again and I was drowning in the deepest corruption that an innocent thirteen year old girl could get into. Daily car rides with my mother consisted of either snarling comments or complete silence. Occasionally there were the same kind of conversations that were obligations, and other times we would genuinely laugh about something that occurred in our day. But I was still so naive, and I wonder why it took me so long to change. My intentions were always good, but my decisions proved otherwise. Off and on again went the trust between my father and I.
It hurts to know that I can rarely remember “the good times” that all three of us used to share. All three of us being my mom, my dad and I. Perhaps pictures could help refresh my memory, but smiles in our case only represented obligations to happiness and placing facades over hearts that were breaking slowly. I suppose if I thought long and hard enough they would come eventually.
And although I might never have a true love for the earlier childhood that I once lived, I still thank God everyday for blessing me with the strength that held me together for so many years. For blessing my parents with the strength to hold themselves together. My father with patience, my mother with determination. You could say that I sometimes hoped for their divorce when I realized the kind of home we were living in. The other day, my uncle told me that he knew that my parents “wouldn’t last until your sixteenth birthday,” and he was right. I’m almost seventeen and things still aren’t the best. But I thank God for keeping our physical beings safe. No one was ever beaten, ever self abused. It’s just the certain things that pain me to think about as I look back and over analyze.
The next few years will continue to be difficult. I know that and I say that in a way to prepare myself, even when I know that in time I will not handle the hurt as well as I thought I would right now. At least I’m not clueless, hah. The divorce has yet to be finalized, my mother has yet to come out of her depression, and I have yet to figure myself out as a whole. In all honesty I can’t imagine wanting anything else for my parents but happiness. Simply happiness. I repeat myself in words and in my mind that I still feel uncomfortable visiting my mom an hour away from home, only because she’s just so sad. I keep thinking my presence will be enough to lighten the depression but I know for a fact that I’m not always trying my best. I’m just scared.
In the future I see my dad and his girlfriend’s marriage. I really do. I hope for it because I know he is at his happiest. Never in my whole life have I ever seen him so passionate about his music and about a woman that he loves. I guess it’s bittersweet considering he was married to my mom for so long, but that’s life.
It’s funny how much things make sense after enough time has passed to understand them.
