A few years of enduring constant fights at home whenever my family did something together and hearing the happy stories of Ben and Ruby, plus going through puberty, I spiraled into a pit of sadness. My mother and father couldn't talk without it ending in a fight. Ben and Ruby were so deep in love and they had barely any troubles in the world.
My home was like a war zone. Endless fighting, wondering if it'll happen tomorrow, trying to get through dinner without a fight sparking. Plus, my brother, who'd gone through so much of the fighting with me, was being a teenager. Not only did my parents fight, my brother and my mother fought. They yelled about grades, about how they didn't love each other, and how my brother should just run away. Whenever they fought, either my parents or my brother with my mother, I couldn't stop crying. When I always confronted them, they told me it was none of my business.
I'm sorry, my family falling apart isn't my business?!
Nevertheless, I did nothing. I just stopped talking as much. Cried alone in my room whenever there was a fight, started putting out a front so they wouldn't notice. My brother stopped talking, too. He would seclude himself in his room and just play video games the entire day. Even before, him and I would play games together, build Lego fortresses together, sit together through the fights with our parents. Now whenever they fought, my brother would go to his room and ignore it all. Ignore the fight, and most important to me, ignore me. When I tried to talk to him, he would get annoyed. I knew I was being annoying. I knew I was ripping him away from his precious games that shielded him. But it was the only way to get his attention. So he would either take his Nerf guns, which I thought hurt, and shot me, or he'd punch me until I left. He'd punch me hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to bruise. There was no evidence to how he was treating me.
All of it built up. I would have to listen to my mother rant about my father and vice versa. Soon enough, my parents just stopped talking all together. As my mother so wisely put it, "Why bother? If we'll just end up fighting, why bother talking face to face when we can just email?"
I just smiled and agreed. Inside, I was falling apart. The parents that had taught me so much, and loved me so much, didn't love each other. They hated each other. A few nights, I cried before falling asleep because I didn't want them to separate.
I ended up talking about how I felt even less. My family used to have game nights where we would just play a board game. Those stopped after fighting from my parents, and hateful glares from my brother. I tried for months to keep them going. It was the only thing we would do together anymore. I soon stopped when I realized I was the only one trying to hold the family together. So the game nights died. My brother barely talked, my parents barely talked, I barely talked, there'd be dinners where we didn't say anything.
After dealing with it all for years, I secluded myself in my room for a week. I watched shows on Netflix and read books as a distraction. I got into so many good series's and watched genres I never thought I'd touch. But when I was going to sleep, or were just at a time I wasn't doing something, my mind spiraled down. I cried at how alone and secluded I was in my house. Even though I kept reminding myself there were people who would wish they had even a roof over their head, I hated it. I hated my home, I hated my living room, I hated the locked doors that would keep me in. I would cry endlessly at how much I wanted to leave, how far I went to plan, and how everything I'd worked for was slipping through my fingers like sand.
I tried to tell my mother. She told me things like: "It's probably just hormones from puberty," and "Don't be stupid,". How could I react to things like that? I poured my heart onto her, and she just brushed it off with the simple words: "Don't be stupid,". So I went back to my room. A day later, she and my brother sat me down and we had a talk. They told me I should go to a counselor. My brother had struggled with suicidal tendencies and a counselor helped him. I'd be the same, wouldn't I?
They wouldn't listen, no matter how loud I yelled, no matter how hard I cried, no matter how much I yelled I only wanted to talk to them. They. Wouldn't. Listen. My mother stopped the talk halfway through to answer a phone call. If that wasn't bad enough, when my brother and I continued the talk, she would tell us to be quiet, as if what we were talking about was less important. When I gave up, and stormed upstairs, my brother didn't follow like I'd hoped. I'd hoped he cared enough to chase after me. Nope. He played on his computer and ignored the world.
Tears kept falling. A constant stream like a waterfall. I thought they loved me. I thought we could talk through it. But instead, they pushed me onto counselor. How. Could. They?
I gave up and went to the counselor a few times. One time, I broke down and told a lie. I cried and yelled, "I hate it when my mom talks about my dad with negativity." It was a lie. I wanted to know rather than be lied to.
It just got worse. My mother would start talking about my dad, then with fake sympathy, she'd say, "Oh, that's right. You don't want me to talk about him like that!" Even after she told me what he was doing, she'd always say that afterwards. What made it worse, is we only talked like that in the car while we were going somewhere. I couldn't leave the situation like in my house. I couldn't just stop the conversation by going to my room and shutting the door. I always sat through it to the bitter end. I'd always grit my teeth, squeeze my fists until my nails dug into my hand, anything to keep from lashing out.
I knew what she'd do if I did lash out. She'd yell and scream about why I'm wrong. I know because I had tried. I had tried to be honest, but she just yelled about how I was wrong, and she was right.
I no longer felt comfort in my mother. She was the last one.
Isn't it funny how parents always tell you to speak your mind, but when you actually do, and it's not something they thought, they reprimand you? Isn't it just infuriating?
I bottled up all of my emotions and didn't tell anyone. I felt I was alone, and that no one would understand. The people I'd tried to talk to didn't, why would anyone else? I pretended I got better and happier.
But in reality, I was more alone and depressed than ever.
