Abandon

The first month was hard. I would find myself calling out his name as if he was still there, but only emptiness replied. It was like I could still feel his presence in the house, the few scant family pictures we had hung on the walls, our smiling faces printed in colour on the glossy paper. I was only four in that photo, that moment when we were all happy and bright.

But I was still only four, could I truly sense the unhappiness and anger that ran abundant in the house? I remember my phobia of loud noise, as strange as it may seem, started around then. Anytime I heard a sudden crash or bang, I would cover my ears from the sound and curl into a protective ball. Was I afraid of loud noise, or did it come from the true reason of my fear, the bitter screeching of my parents at each other as I hid in my room. Away from the intruding noise, away from the true nature of my family.

As an eleven year old child I was forced quickly into the world of adults, as I learned the hard truth about life long before I should have. My innocent eyes widened by the harsh cruel future before me. To date, the worst night I've experienced in my sixteen years of life. As a family was shattered into pieces, ripped apart from the bottle of the bottle and a vision of jealousy.

The fighting went on for hours. I ran to my room, craving the secluded space, the familiarity and place where I could be safe and just escape. TV turned up loud, I waited till the furious voices stopped and all was silent, but instead I was a witness to a moment of violence that stretched on for an eternity in my fragile, young mind. A tumble to the ground and me just wishing and praying that it would all end, that if I would have stayed at my dads one more night instead of coming home, it wouldn't have happened at all.

Somehow, if I wouldn't have listened to my own selfish desire, instead of regarding the wishes of others, then it never would have happened. That it was my fault it did happen and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

But a slamming door tore me from my thoughts and a crying shell of my mother walked in my room as my dad walked away from the house. Her words were harsh yet soft. "Why couldn't you have just stayed at your dads another night?"

I remember waking up the next morning, as my tormenting dreams came to a halt. Getting out of bed, the memories washed over me like waves of the sea. I felt nauseous and had to take a deep breath before climbing the stairs.

As I came into the living room, my aunt and mom were sitting on the couch. They both looked not unhappy, but I couldn't understand the emotions in their eyes at the time.

The next few days passed, and I clearly remember speaking to two social security ladies that had to talk to me about the incident. There names and faces are blurs, but I can remember the shakiness of my voice as I obediently answered their questions. As I slowly began to turn indifferent to what was happening around me.

That these moments turned me into the seemingly cold, emotionless, ice queen that I am today. But this isn't true. I still feel, very strongly infact, but I don't express my emotion as often as I should.

One of my classmates told me that I was happy all the time. The way she said it, didn't make it seem like the comment was that I was actually happy. That one comment got me thinking, and it was true. Whenever I was around others I was always happy. Or was that just a front I put up to protect myself from the unfairness of life and the people that could hurt me.

Even today, I still ponder the thought that I never reveal anything truly personal about myself to anyone. Not even my family or best friends. The closet person to know me is probably my cousin, but only bits and pieces, as I know of her life.

Either way, now I can truly see the anger that had been in my childhood, parents who always fought. One who tried to support us, while the other drank constantly, the main reason why they split apart in the first place.

I haven't even cried because of the divorce. I just...can't. I don't know what it is, but it's like it doesn't effect me anymore. Any somehow, that makes me feel even more guilty and sad than anything. That I didn't cry over my parents divorce. I was eleven, I should have felt some kind of emotion!

Now, I'm living a completely different life, with my mom and step-dad. After moving eight times in sixteen years, I'm still not fully stable. With a place that I can actually call home.

I only live twenty minutes away from my father, yet I only talk to him or see him about once every two months. I can't help but feel angry whenever he says I should call him more often. I mean, he's the adult! He's the one who's supposed to be the responsible one!

If I didn't call, then he probably wouldn't even call me. Sometimes I wish he wouldn't have met his girlfriend and then moved into an apartment with her. I just wish he would have stayed living at my grandmothers house, where we could go swimming everyday in the summer and take walks at midnight down the street. I wish for the days that I could have back. I was cheated from a true childhood, and I want it back. It's not fair that I had to deal with all this commotion from such a young age.

My father should have abandoned the alcohol for our families sake, and tried harder to keep us together. Instead of drinking every night and never having regard how it would effect his wife and daughter. How it would effect me.

And still today he drinks.

And today I still feel abandoned.