I was no longer a child. I had been stripped of my newly sprouted petals. How could one who was so innocent be so easy to diminish. A parent of a child tearing her down instead of pushing her to her greatest potential. In the life of a child a parent is someone to look up too not to stare at in disbelief from the years of pain and suffering. To live under a sorrowful and depressed being was what life is like in the household of yours truly. The terrorizing nights full of the agonizing screams of a mother protecting herself and her children from the once love of her life. To say “It was my fault”, or “ I walked into a cabinet” were her only answers. What outsiders didn’t know was that she was a woman screaming out for help dieing inside as her children watched her be beaten by someone she thought she could trust.  I watched my father beat my mother all for things in his shadowed past that were forbidden to be talked about. Trapped in the darkness of a depressed man’s past my mother, two sisters, and I tried to find an outlet to the mayhem at home.

As we prayed for a way out I had no clue the seriousness of our situation. “Mom when are we going home?” or “Mommy why isn’t dad awake?” were the questions an elementary schooler growing up in a house of domestic violence and alcoholism would ask. My family was not like others that I knew. None of my friends had to stay in hotels or talk to the police. Why did I? To an elementary school girl who wanted to fit in with all her friends, I stuck out. My parents were negotiating a divorce that was obviously needed and as that happened our family was slowly tarnished. I longer looked at my father with respect but as if he was a monster that had somehow, some time been good. Everyday I passed through life wondering why if there was a god had he chosen my family to feel the pain of a divorce and mental abuse. As time went on and I began adapting to the long melancholy years of elementary school I was diagnosed with a brain condition called epilepsy. “Just my luck,” I thought to myself as the doctors in the hospital was explaining to my mom my condition. Any normal person would be scared. Why wasn’t I? Was I an emotionless monster like my father? I quickly understood that I knew something was wrong with me it was just the timing of being diagnosed that had gotten inside my head. I was not an emotionless being I was just a confused girl who didn’t understand why things such as having a father who mentally abused me and being diagnosed was happening to me. An emotionless being was my dad who never once asked “How do you feel?” or “Are you okay, do you need help?” The fact that a parent of a child never pays child support, health insurance for his kids or helps out in my life shows that he did not and does not care for the children in which he helped birth. My whole childhood was ruined by me asking myself “What did I do wrong?” and wishing that I could just die so I never had to live through anymore pain that my father caused me. I hate that it took him trying to commit suicide to actually try and find him some help. Weren’t we kids enough to live for? Whenever I ask my dad “Why dad, why did you try? Weren’t we enough? Weren’t we there for you through your never ending rollercoaster of emotions? How could you leave us? Me.” All he would answer back was “I saw no point”. No point in living to see me walk down the aisle. No point to cherishing the good memories I had with him. No point in sitting on his boat watching the sunset with me? I was there for him and he never understood. I was always by his side when he woke from his drunken slumber. I unknowing put myself in danger to make my father happy and to save my mom and sisters from him. I held his hand and shared his memories of fishing on his boats in the summer to keep him sane. I had failed. I didn’t help him, I made him worse. To the point where if he couldn’t have me and take me from my mom he believed life was over. “You are the reason I lived,” he thought and believed. To believe that one person, one young and adolescent person could have saved you from killing yourself is like putting a weight on the shoulders of a shriveled elder. I was exhausted by the first few years of my life that by him saying this to me was heartbreaking. I couldn’t leave him now as much as my brain told me that he would hurt me again.  He was a decaying flower only living due to the sun. What a burden the sun must feel. Every flower that dies is its fault, right. Wrong. I was not what kept him alive. I was part of his manipulation. The man I had once described to be my hero as a child had used me. Used me. Seeking information about mom to ruin her and where we live so he can take us kids back. To be used for manipulation feels even worse then being told that I was what saved his life. We were no longer children we we adults trapped in adolesants bodies. I knew it was only time until my sisters would give up hope on him. “Fat pig” or “Mommy’s b****” were things my sisters were called on a regular basis when he found out that they knew he was trying to get information from them. My sisters left me to perish alone at my father’s will.

As I moved through middle school I was trapped. Not able to leave for fear he would once again threaten his life if I did. What could I do? I no longer trusted him for he ruined the childhood I never had. For me, every weekend was a trip to hell for fear of never coming back to light. The day I recieved the message that he would kill himself was in a way a blessing. “I am free,” I thought to myself. Until now I thought that I was alone in a place that I would never get out. “Mom, when will he get out of the hospital?” I asked praying that he will stay and get better. “The doctors at the hospital don’t know yet but you can visit.” The reply was exacly what I was hoping for. When the day arrived and I saw my dad after he had sent the message saying “I am going to kill myself. Don’t bother calling the police it will already be done, I will be done. I wrote each of you letters,” I looked at him with pity. Pity. I couldn’t look him in the eyes for I knew if I did he wouldn’t be the teddy bear I remembered him to be. The amount of tension that filled the room could be cut with a knife. The man in front of me was not my dad he was a being that had been taken over by the evils inside. As the doctor talked I stared at my father in disbelief. He was sitting there smiling and believed it was our fault. “You guys made me like this!” he proclaimed. “We did nothing dad!” my sister shot back. The only conversations any of us had was fighting. When it was time to leave we got up hugged and he said “Bye.” No I love you or visit again. Just bye. Not even telling us about his gun charge and assault and battery charge that could potentially send him to jail for up to two years. As weeks passed he was still in the hospital. Through Christmas and New Years I never saw or heard from him. I had mixed feelings about our situation. Then I got a call from him “Hey! I’m out and really want to see you.” I almost burst to tears right there. How could something as little as a short phone conversation change my life so quickly? “I can’t dad,” I said “ I’m not allowed to.” As I sat there in disbelief my feelings changed. I could not trust or forgive the man who had changed me and my life. I am to live with a man who terrorized my family and I can’t do anything about it.