Happy Little Family

Crying… once again huddled in the darkness of my room. The noise of anger I've become used too. Fighting is just a once a week thing. From drunkenness to misunderstandings, it's just another detail.

Maybe I should have gotten use to it by now but instead I force back the tears and echo the words, "I'm fine."

The more it happens the more my dreams of a happy family fade. Once upon a time it was smiles and laughs but now it's more like tears that accumulate at the bottom of an empty whiskey bottle.

No matter the time, no matter the years, they'll still be two children throwing a tantrum. Today it started over someone's drunkenness and some redecorating misdirected information.

As they yell, I sat, curled in the fetal position with the door open and listened to their yelling and ignorance. Then all is silent until the sounds of forced breathing come into play. At once I forget my own emotional turmoil to walk into the kitchen to help my mother through a panic attack. Gripping her shoulders I try to force her to do as I say, having been on the receiving end of more than one panic attack.

Soon enough I end up being a third party mediator in a fight that is as meaningful as putting out a fire with alcohol. Which in a sense is exactly what happen. The fight grew worse and the yelling louder. The only thing I was thinking of is taking the glass on the table and smashing in on the ground in hopes of someone remembering that, indeed, I am still here. I didn't though.

Within time my futile efforts to have a civil conversation whittle down to nothing and I find myself barricading the door, blaring the radio, and finally letting my emotion wall fall just as Berlin's. While I sat, I held my breath until I was forced to breath then repeating the action again, it was either that or suffer from my own panic attack.

The inevitable came. The door knocks and I remove my barricade to allow my 'sister' to enter. As she tries to console me, stating in near tears, that she hates to see me like this, I can do nothing but back into a corner trying so forcefully not to be touched. It is then she breaks, and her ever-so-calm composure slides away.

At that time, my eldest brother, David, joins us followed by my mother and we fall into our normal rhythm of apologies, tears, sympathy, and replying over and over that it's not my fault and me, yet again, replying that I'm fine.

Things once more retreat back to normal. Ken asleep, and mother forcing us into the hot tub as if the warm circulating water was an remedy that could cure even the worse ailments, be them body, mind, or soul. We sat, soaked, and enjoyed before moving back inside.

Soon after changing I find my mother, smoking as always, and explain to her what happened, why, and what she shall do. She heads off to bed as I head off to watch TV until the wee hours of the morning.

While I lay my mind reels. I come to the conclusion that, yes, I'll never have a perfect, happy little family but, nobody can always be happy, nor can a family be perfect. We may not always be happy, I concluded, but we are a family and all a family needs is love. And a drunken fight is only a step to overcome.

Tomorrow life will return to normal as if this little fight never happened and everything will fall into life's nice little rhythm.