I was 9, when my second life began.
I was not ready for it.
After mom died, dad fell into what I now think was a nervous breakdown.
He started neglecting himself-and especially, us.
He started yelling at us for everything.
Mom could never be mentioned, or he would cry, or yell at us some more.
I don't know if it was out of sheer love for my mom, or if he was simply unable to face the big crack that had appeared in his "picture-perfect" life.
Unable to keep going when things got rough.
He became more and more isolated, also from friends and family. He didn't want us to see anyone- I don't know why, but I think now, in part, because he didn't want us to tell anyone how bad he was doing.
He fired my nanny, and the woman who cleaned our house.
He never wanted us to see our grand-parents.
My mom's mom, her last surviving relative, died soon after. She had been fighting with cancer for years, but I guess the tragedy of seeing her only daughter dying prematurely, was too much for her.
Me and my brother were left alone: imprisoned in a smelly, untidy home, that no one cared about anymore.
We spent our nights alone: crying, most times. We had decided to sleep together in my room, to keep each other company.
We fell asleep together in my bed, snuggling up to our mom's sweater and other clothing, to give us some comfort.
Long gone was my fairy tale!
When I got up, every day, I felt like I had fallen into a nightmare, instead.
A horror movie.
And I didn't know how to get out.
....
After some time- I can't remember how long- but after some time, I had had enough.
I've cried all of my tears, and begged Jesus to come and help us (I was pretty religious back then).
But no one came, and I was tired of living in piles of dirty dishes and laundry. Tired of crying.
I rolled up my sleeves, and I started taking care of my house, and of my brother.
I started sneaking out to meet with my grand-mother- my dad's mom, the only one I had left- and with my uncles.
They were appalled to see the conditions we were living in.
They gave me money, food, clean clothing.
I still, to this day, wonder how no one ever called social services, the police, some professional help for my dad.
I don't know, but I guess keeping up the "good name" of the family, keeping up the appearances, was still more important to them than our well-being.
Problems were just swept under the rug.
Anyway, they did help me. With many material things.
When I came back home to my father, if he realized I had gone out, he would beat me.
He never harmed me very seriously: he slapped me in the face, pushed me against the wall, or threw things at me, most often.
I was left with red marks on my cheeks and bruises everywhere, but I realize now, I was never physically risking to die, or have permanent damage.
I'm not justifying him, of course. Just stating how things were.
But anyway, back then, I was seriously fearing for my life.
I was convinced one day he would be so mad, that he would kill me, or my brother.
I started thinking how could I kill him, if the need arose. If he seriously threatened our lives.
And it was in that cheerful environment that, around one year after my mother's death, two new characters entered the picture.
YOU ARE READING
Let's hope for the best
Non-Fiction... but prepare for the worst. When I was a kid, I thought that life was going to be like a Disney movie. Then, alas, life happened. And I found out, I was not ready for it.
