It’s Sunday. The t.v. blares with the sound of football announcers yelling out “spectacular” plays that have no meaning to me. My mother sits on the couch next to my Dad who’s screaming at the inanimate object willing his team to win. Mom’s only pretending to care about what’s going on to keep the sanity. My sister and I sit in the other room trying to drown out the unnecessary noise in order to finish homework. That was the daily rhythm of life before the melody faltered and my parents’ fell out of step. Everyone walked around on their tip toes, and not the pretty lighthearted ballerina tip toes, they were more like frightened scurries. The contrast between living with both my parents and now only living with my mom can be painted as hate and love. The atmosphere with both was a suffocating mixture of anger, heartbreak, misery, and dark heated clouds that were ready to thunder at any minute. The atmosphere with my mother is one of serenity, smiles, peace and quiet with no clouds in sight.

Tension. Tension is the word I would use to describe my household a few years ago. Banging doors. Loud footsteps. Stifled sobs. If you wanted to find a relaxing environment I wouldn’t suggest the oversized white house at my address.

I remember the constant bickering and fighting between my parents. At times it seemed like we wouldn’t know happiness ever again. Granted, the family dynamic was not always like this but for the most part, that’s how my mind recollects it. My life was dependent on a ticking time bomb that could rupture when I least expected. And boom, that’s exactly what it did. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t be the hero of this story. The path was one of predetermined destruction.

Mornings were a pivotal time in our household. Four people. Two teachers. Two students. 6:00 am. One shower. Out the door by 7:00 am. Combined, it produced a bloodbath resembling the Hunger Games. The only difference was that no one came out victorious. Every single person was defeated. I remember cold water pouring over my head and chilling my bones due to lack of consideration. With sleep visible in my bloodshot eyes I stumbled down the stairs into the battlefield known as the kitchen.

No, it wasn’t the perfect image of a happy housewife gliding around fixing breakfast with an in control husband reading the paper and two perfect angels sitting quietly at the table. My Dad was on the computer ignoring the rest of us. My mom frantically put lunches together whining about how she was going to be late. I popped a frozen waffle into the toaster and called it a balanced meal. My sister laid her head on the table wishing for a few more minutes of blissful sleep. Then the rush began.

Words I’d heard a million times before spilled out of my Dad’s mouth, “WHERE ARE MY KEYS? WHO TOOK THEM?” The truth of the matter was that no one ever took them. He just always misplaced his stuff and deflected the blame on any weak target in sight. The three girls were constantly on trial even though we were all blatantly innocent. Finally he found the keys which were usually right under his nose. But that wasn’t the end. The cycle continued and the next “mysteriously” missing item was his wallet.

If I was lucky I was out the door by that time, on my way to school. My safe haven during those turbulent years. I looked forward to spending my day in a no yelling zone. I realize now that my life was pretty sad if I actually savored the idea of being at middle school.

When my parent’s were together I actually dreaded the idea of having my friends over. I was embarrassed of my family, ashamed that my parents’ had so many problems. I hated talking about it and it was rare that I offered my house as a hang out spot. The war at home was not meant to be seen by the public eye. I didn’t want to be that messed up kid who came from a broken household. I refused to accept that that’s what I was becoming.

Afternoons were my favorite time. It was solitary. No noise except the sound of a scratching pen on paper. That’s what I did everyday after school. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Escaping was nice. The paper created an imaginary world that I could fall into. Sadly, I was awoken by the sound of keys turning the lock and footsteps entering the household.

I would stay locked in my room most nights. Only seeing light to scavenge for food. What I saw on those journey’s into the real world was almost nightmarish. At least in my room I could only hear it. Seeing was the most painful. Break downs for my mom were common. I hated seeing tears on her flawless undeserving face. She’d try to hide it but I could tell.

During these episodes my Dad and sister could be found ruthlessly combating each other over math homework at the kitchen table. That table was never a place of happiness. It represented everything that was wrong with my world. I’d cover my ears and search for food then steal away to my room. I’d fall asleep only to dive into a pool of nightmares that reflected my equally nightmarish reality.

It was a cycle. Everyday. I could almost predict it. That’s why I was almost glad when my Dad finally left us. Trust me, I was deeply upset and severely hurt, but I always saw it as something positive. It was best for our family.

Contrary to popular belief, living in a nuclear family had more drawbacks than living with a single parent. It was a drastic change but one parent is more than enough to deal with, especially as a teenager. My house wasn’t a place to fear anymore. Anxiety ceased to radiate and I could begin to call it home.

Mornings with just my mom are still hectic, after all, three girls and one bathroom is still far from an excellent ratio. But it’s an improvement. I can bathe in all the hot water I want, worry free. I’m still tired, but happier. Most days I bound down the stairs with a smile on my face instead of a gloomy foreshadowing frown. Nowadays the kitchen table is a welcoming space.

I can sit and have a conversation with my mom without interruptions or scoldings. In my eyes she looks more like a happy housewife even if she’s lacking a husband. There is no more panicked rush to get out the door. No one loses anything and best of all I’m free from the interrogations. I’m treated with respect.

School isn’t so special anymore. It no longer functions as an escape. In reality it’s switched to the new hell. But it can never be as bad as those few years during the war. Not even chemistry can ruin my day. Explosions in that class are fake, chemicals create them. Tiny particles that we can’t even see. I know what a real explosion can feel like. One with people. Nothing is worse than that. We aren’t particles, and we can not only see, but feel the pain.

I don’t keep my family isolated anymore. It is a rare occasion when friends aren’t found at my house after school. My house has become a railroad station. It’s bustling with life and most importantly laughter. Tears are a thing of the past. Smiles are the future.

Locking myself in my room isn’t an option anymore. Yes, I still write privately but after, I always emerge. It’s tolerable downstairs. The smell of homemade food wafts through the air on most nights. We sit at the table as a family now. A complete one.

Nightmares are nightmares. A negative resemblance between my nighttime reality and my daytime reality does not exist. The day is not evil and the nights are for dreams. It’s safe to say that the day is for dreams now too. I don’t look at the floor anymore. No more hiding. I look to the sky and don’t mind being exposed.

Sometimes change is for the best. Even if it’s painful or destructive to get there, the end is always brighter. Everything happens for a reason. Family’s fall apart for a new beginning. Wars happen for a better outcome. In my case, the pieces were picked up and restored into a healthier, more coherent family unit. Ironically, it took my world crashing to my feet in order to discover true happiness. Looking back, my life with both parent’s seems like a facade of fake euphoria. There were secrets building up behind the walls, tears infiltrated all of our eyes, and anger boiled in our blood. After the storm there is always calm. That’s what I have found with my parent’s divorce. The sun shines after the rain, and clouds turn into rainbows. Who knows, maybe I’ll even find my own pot of gold.