Author's Note: The first thing of mine that is actually in first-person.
When I was younger, I would have never imagined me and my life and my family turning out like this.
When I was younger, I imagined living in my old town with my old friends and my mom and dad in the same house and a family that wasn't ten times screwed over sideways.
When I was younger, I thought my father would be playing catch with me in my front yard until I was thirty.
Funny how things don't turn out that way; funny how, when a child gets older, there is the short spurt where they suddenly find out who their parents really are. Their father isn't the man who took them to the fair on 'Daddy Day' and who bent down to the floor to hug both daughters with both arms. Now he is the man who gives them a dreading feeling in their stomach as he comes home, happy one moment and psychotic the next. A hypocrite with a racist brother, a judgmental and bitter father, a pill-popping mother, and a mean sister. A man who just broke up with his girlfriend so he lets all of his anger out on his children and causes them to slowly hate the man who used to buy them cotton candy on Santa Monica Pier.
He pushesandpushesandpushes and then gets angry as they fall over.
Or maybe I'm just talking about me.
When I was younger, my biggest worry was that the dog ate the head off the Barbie I left in the back yard.
When I was younger, I would sit on the patio with my mother as she smoked a cigarette and talked to her sister for hours upon hours.
When I was younger, she would always be the constant in my life, the one I can go to because at the ripe age of seven she treated me as an adult.
But it's simply hilarious how different things could turn out. Divorce would move a mother away from her two children, three thousand miles away to live with her sister and cure her alcoholism. A year later, she would get kicked out by her sister's husband because she didn't pay rent to live with them, and her siblings would go and watch and do nothing and the family would be permanently broken and the mother and her sisters will never talk again.
Their mother wouldn't the woman beautiful in her strength anymore. She has seen too much, smoked one cigarette too many, dependent on her new husband who tries his best but can't quite make ends meet. She would get brain cancer and her children would try to act like the tumor was a big mistake and she'll be better, but they can't deny her depression and money problems as the seizures do not allow her to work anymore. They would watch her in her mood swings and her exhaustion and her writhingwrithingtwrithing on the floor, holding each other and her as tears drip down their faces.
And their mother's sisters won't even call as the woman falls apart, a broken shadow of the lady who used to carefully work out issues with multiplication and little elementary friends.
She breaksandbreaksandbreaks and doesn't even want to realize it.
But I could just be talking about me again.
If I were young again and I had seen the situation beforehand, what could I have done to prevent it?- to make it a little better, for my mother or perhaps my sister, who screams about suicide as our father bellows cuss words in her face?
That's the one question I can't figure out.