chapter 2

Where It All Began

I was once a happy girl, and I say girl because I was just a child. You know, waking up early on those summer days ready to feel the warm summer air. That was once me, careless and free as my hair blew in the wind. The home I lived in appeared to others as a loving home. Little didn’t they know the inside made me scared. Most nights my door was left open for the voices to bounce off the walls to mine. My home was once built with love, turned dark, so dark it kept me up at night, it kept me afraid, kept me from ever living a life that was filled with hope.

I say this with love, my family was never really meant to provide the support I needed. My parents both have different stories, they just never figure out how to solve their problems for the better.

Divorce is a frequently asked question that’s asked in the school environment. Society believes that if your parents are together you must live a great life. No going house to house, packing multiple bags, separate holidays. They say life is so much better with families that are still together. I always saw the different side of it. The little girl that was filled with the idea of a family from all the movies I’ve watched, was slowly ripped away from me at such a young age.

Sitting at the doorway, crying as a young girl is the way I spent most of my nights as I listened to the constant arguments between my parents. Some nights it would end with my being back in my bed and falling asleep for school, and others would be different. I’d run out there crying for them to stop, yelling just like they showed me to solve things. Daddy would leave furious, but eventually, come back calm and things would subside. With the rest of the night being calm, they’d say “I love you” and go to sleep just as if nothing ever happened.

These nights to be are like wounds. These wounds cut me open and I just wait for them to heal, but their too deep to heal over and put a band-aid on. I still remember the first wound, and I now have multiple wounds. As a 7-year-old, I have experienced so much, and I never had the voice to scream, but I had the mind to know this wasn’t right. More fights meant more founds, more wounds meant more issues that I had to deal with alone. I wonder if they knew, that the nights I didn’t come in between them that I was listening in my room. If they just came to check on me maybe things would’ve been different. The nights that were normal between them, felt odd to me since I was just waiting around for things to crack.

All these moments in my life were built up. My parents took the life out of me, and they didn't know it. They just questioned why I was so depressed. Moments in my life I thought to myself why keep fighting this in my mind, what would it feel like for it to just stop? Stop the heart, stop the mind, and stop the fight. It would’ve been over for me, and the whole world would’ve been missing what could’ve been a great person, and for what? All because I didn’t know how to cope with my parent's fights. I continue to fight for my existence every day. Every day on this earth provides me with an experience I never want to go through again. I knew from the first night at my bedroom walkway I was going to be a different person from you. You may not have gone through what I have, but you and are different from each other.

My parents play a big responsibility for my mental health. If they know it or not, they both equally ruined me at an early age and it was up to me to fix it, and I’m still trying to fix myself for what they hurt. I love them to death, but they have hurt me in ways I never thought I could’ve been hurt. “You’re doing so well, we raised you well” No you raised me to see the worst experiences and force me to grow up faster than I wanted, and here I am still fighting for myself. I’m just wondering when the fight will end, and when I will beat it. In all honesty, I’m tired of fighting for things to change, for everything to be “perfect” for my home to be healthy for my mind.

Maybe if I didn’t go through this alone I would feel better, but after all the texts back and forth with my siblings I’m still waiting for the “are you okay”, and “do you need to talk” I’m waiting for someone else but myself to care. But in the end keeping things quiet is all I know how to do since I’ve always been shut out by my mom. I should know this by now, I go through everything alone, and in the end, no one cares for anyone but themselves.

If they loved me enough they’d be there for me, if he loved me enough he’d put the beer down. If they just loved me enough, they’d see my screaming from the inside out.

This is what built me, into who I am. It started with experiencing such traumatic events at a young age. Not proud, but I’m stronger than I think I am. That is until all my fears are greater than my hopes for them, hopes for our family.