The night my life changed
I don't know how to get your attention with my first statement. So, what if I started by saying I want to go out from a grizzly suicide no one will ever forget?
No, that's too attention- getting. I'll look like I'm faking all of this.
It's not a fiction story. It's not a poem. This isn't a romance, actually it's far from one.
And I'm not looking for sympathy.
I just want someone to see things through my eyes for a change.
So, stick around if you're interested.
Maybe I'm just crazy, or insane. But some of the things in the passages that follow will shock you. Maybe you will disagree, saying my thoughts are irrational. Because I've never heard that before.
I don't want you sympathy. Oh wait, I think I already said that. But I should probably say it again. I DON'T WANT YOUR SYMPATHY.
Where should I begin? With people? With a time? And event? How about for now we begin in fifth grade? More specifically the night that changed my life forever.
I was ten. It was February. And I was a fifth grader without a care in the world. Except, of course, what I was going to play at recess the next day and who I was going to sit with at lunch.
You know how that is, how when you're in elementary school nothing matters to you and you're completely oblivious to everything around you.
That's how I was.
And at the time my sister, we'll call her Edith, was four. She was a darling little thing too, big golden curls and a cheeky smile. It'd make anyone glow with sheer "aweh".
It's strange to think that these next few hours of my life effected me so drastically. Isn't it funny how the smallest things have such a great imapct on you?
I was playing in my room, probably with my stuffed animals, probably on my Nintendo. Who knows. I don't think it matters. I was playing.
This is what I hear out of no where: "I don't know what you want me to say! You're accusing me of things I'd never do!"
I'd recognize my mothers voice anywhere. Especially of that tone. She was mad, hurt, disappointed. And the statement has lingered in the back depths of my mind ever since I first heard it.
I was curious, so I peeked my head out of my nearly closed door and listened. The arguing continued.
Who was my mother fighting with? Not my father. They never fought. They were the perfect couple.
Wrong.
My dad- I wish I could erase this from my head- screams back: "Then maybe you should give me a reason to trust you."
I'd always trusted my mom.
"Just leave, Alan," Now, that's not really my dads name. But how fair would it be to expose his identity?
My dad, angry as can be- storms out of their bathroom and into their bedroom, which is where I'm now standing.
Do any of your parents have large wedding portraits? Maybe hanging up somewhere? Something special that always reminds everyone who sees it about that happy day?
We used too.
This is how it was ruined.
My dad gets violent, and while it's never physical with people, it is with objects.
I loved that picture. Mother looked so beautiful. Her wedding dress was long and elegant with a wide, circular base, her hair was up and she was hardly done with makeup. And she was gorgeous.
My dad didn't look that bad, either.
He took the picture off their bedroom wall, opened their back door that leads out to our patio, and there goes the memories.
He didn't even bother to close the door.
Or acknowledge that I was there.
He just left into the hallway, came back, packed his bags, and left for real. Leaving a mess of broken chairs in his path. I ran to my window and watched his tailights fade into the night.
All I thought was: Who's going to take care of me in the morning?
I don't know who's still reading this. But I appreciate it.
So, I hopped off my window seat and ran into my mothers room. And I'd never seen her like this before. Crying. I'd never seen it. Not a real cry. She'd cry during movies. But this was different. She was heart broken. Eleven years of marrage for this. Sixteen years of a relationship for this.
I'm so sorry, Mom.
I huddled next to her and cried too.
After she told me she was okay, and I was convinced of it, I went back into my room and cuddled with my four year old sister- Edith, we named her- and watched her as she played with her Barbie doll. Having no idea at all.
My mother came in on the phone. She was talking to Alans mother. *Notice how I didn't call him dad.*
She called him names, said he was insane and my grandmother said she'd be right over.
He came back. He made my mother leave the room while he talked to us.
He gave us that speech.
"I love you."
No, you don't.
"I'm not leaving you, I"m leaving your mother."
No, you're leaving us.'
"This has nothing to do with you."
This has everything to do with us.
"Nothing will change."
Everything will change.
Then, he goes to leave, but my grandmother is now there. And she makes them work it out in their room.
So, why did that man freak out in the first place?
He accused my mother of cheating on him.
Yes.
And that night I learned that no matter how good something may seem, it will never- EVER- stay the way you're used too.
I think what hurt me most that night was that after that, everything changed. Even though Alan said it wouldn't.
They stayed together, yes. Does part of me wish they hadn't? Yes.
However, I lost my best friend. My father. Our relationship wasn't the same.
We used to hang out all the time, he used to coach my baseball teams, he used to do everything with me.
And now he hardly looked at me. Never cared what I had to say. But, he cared about Edith. Oh, did he care about her.
And his daughter, his first daughter, was left alone without a father figure. Even though she saw him everyday.
And that, my friends, is where the snowball begins.
