Times may change but memories never fade

Recollection

I remember the hazy sensation just as my eyes opened in the early mornings and the few seconds of bliss before memories of the previous days shot back into my head. Those small moments kept me going longer than they should have. The memories not only brought sadness, but confusion as well. Thinking back I couldn't have been more than 7. Obviously all of it adds up now but at the time I only knew a few things for sure; Mommy and Daddy were mad and so was my brother. I caught a few words every now and then, some that will never leave, some that will play in my mind for the rest of my life.



"Don't hit him again, please, just leave him alone!" Why did these words stick with me? I had never been hit, why would my brother? I just didn't understand.



He told me Daddy was a bad man, that he had hate in his heart. Was he talking about the same dad I knew? The one who gave in to every whim I ever had? He had to have been talking about somebody else because I didn't believe it for a minute. The daddy I knew was loving, kind, and always laughing. But sometimes he got mad, really mad. I didn't know why, but it always scared me more and more. It wasn't just his words that were angry, it was his whole body. He would throw anything he could find and if somebody got in his way, well, he would just throw them too.



Everybody seemed to know what was going on but me. Most of the time I would just hide, but sometimes I just stood in shock of what my eyes were seeing. I felt like there was nobody to run to for safety. When it's your own family making you run and hide, who do you go to? I had friends, but I wasn't allowed to tell them anything. When a window would break I was supposed to say it was an accident, or my brother was playing baseball in the house, but I knew that wasn't true. I knew it wasn't true because I saw it happen. But still, I kept it inside where nobody would find it. These secrets multiplied by the thousands as time went by. Doors were ripped off of the hinges, holes were put into walls, dishes were broken, but coincidentally all of these were "accidents" too.



This tore me into pieces. I was always told if something bad happens or somebody was hurt I was suppose to call the police. So when I saw blood, heard screaming, and fists flying I ran for the phone, but I was stopped by my own mother.  Everything I was taught, everything I knew and felt was crumbled up and thrown away. Nothing made sense anymore and I didn't know where to turn. So night after night I just sat and watched as the ones I loved ripped each other apart wondering if this would be the night things get taken too far. I was completely helpless. I was stuck in a world with hate and anger without any way out.  Eventually I started to blame myself. Could I have been the fault of all this violence? But again, there was nothing to do. 



Growing to my pre-teen years things started making more sense, which in fact only made things worse. I started to understand the hate, feel the hate, and it killed me inside. I didn't want to hate, I didn't want the anger either.  So instead of hating others I started to hate myself. Going to school every day started getting harder and harder. I felt like I was always carrying a deep secret, and I was. I had "best friends" but even those closest to me didn't know it all. I knew if that information got into the wrong hands it would get serious. I didn't want the police to know, but deep down I think I did. Maybe that would be the only way out. This self hatred lead to self harm. Those who knew blew it off as "normal teenage behavior" but little did they know I wasn't any "normal" teenager at all. Even looking back today I still don't know if I was looking for any attention I could get or if it was a sincere cry for help. Either way I didn't get what I was looking for. After months of nobody noticing, I confided in my own mother. That night I actually felt hopeful. She told me I would get help and everything would be alright. Days passed, and so did weeks and she never spoke of it again. I started to realize that we were pretending that nothing ever happened.



I decided that nobody was ever going to help me and I was on my own. Even though this thought killed me, I had to accept it. After that realization everything seemed to mean less to me. I would go home and see the same things I always did, but it just didn't matter anymore.  I saw what was happening but my mind never took any of it in. I started to accept the pattern of things too. I knew there would never be a "peaceful" night out, or a "calm" family event as my mother claimed. It would start with bickering and end in violence every single time. This is when I started the mindset I would have for years to come. I told myself it would be okay one day. It might not be okay today or tomorrow, but one day I'll grow up and it'll all be over. This small bit of hope was all I had, but I held onto it with my life. Of course I asked myself why, but nobody was there to give me the answers. Just luck I guess.



The only thing that seemed to change as I grew into a young woman was my understanding of what was happening in my life. The hate never made sense though, and it still doesn't. They said my dad had a horrible father and that's what made him do what he did, but that didn't make sense either. Aren't you supposed to want better for your children? My "grandfather" though I had only met him once was said to be a bad man. He beat my grandmother and did unspeakable things to his children. It still didn't add up. I knew I wouldn't be like my dad no matter what. Isn't that what they all say though?



My teen years were filled with careless fun with friends, sleepovers and any other "normal" activities. But there would always be the time when I finally had to go home, and I dreaded that every time. In school we would write about our families, and "good memories" but I just drew a blank. We were taught about new things like sex and drugs. Of course both were considered bad. But I would go home and drugs were not seen the same way. I knew about it for years, but I pretended I didn't, even though everybody else did. Eventually my dad started becoming honest about it, and it made me uncomfortable. Dads aren't supposed to be like that. I wasn't quite sure what they were supposed to be like, but I knew it wasn't that. I started to grasp at every inch of my childhood I had left. I wanted the innocence back. I missed not understanding what was going on, because understanding hurt. I never got to be carefree and happy. All I wanted was to be innocent again.



My brother moved out, moved back in over and over. I noticed that silence rang through the house when he wasn't near. Sometimes my brother would be there but not my dad. Silence still enclosed our home. The pattern was obvious. Every now in then the pattern would break, but not often.



As I continued to grow I would continue to speculate. Was my father really as loving to me as I remembered? The thoughts and assumptions swallowed me whole. It began to take over my life. We've all heard of "repressed memories" but that kind of stuff never actually happened, right? Days would pass and I would struggle to recall family vacations or even specific events from my childhood and my mind would just fill with infinite emptiness. I knew one thing for sure, and that was that these empty so-called "memories" were far from normal. My mind was protecting me from something, and even though I was desperate for answers, the door was locked and the key was thrown away. This lead to a never ending search, yet I knew I wasn't ready for the answers I would find.



Though my life seemed to fall into an endless pattern of drugs, violence and hate, one day the rhythm just broke. It was so sudden yet so anticipated. My dad packed up his things and left. My brother wasn't far behind. This left my mother and I. We didn't know what to do with the peace and silence, let alone the emptiness of our small house. At first I was overwhelmed with anger and depression. I didn't quite know why though. Wasn't this all I ever dreamed of? After a few weeks I came to accept the change and everything that came along with it. But the things that came along with the acceptance were deadly. For years the self harm had a purpose. Now I didn't understand why I was doing these things to myself. Maybe it was because nobody ever noticed, or maybe it was because the only father I had left in an instance. As time passed my behavior became more peculiar and along with that was even greater confusion.

Answers

At the time, all of these thoughts and feelings didn't make any sense, but as I grew I started to understand them all too well. Before I knew it I was diagnosed with anxiety. Nobody knew where it came from, but deep down I did. School was becoming harder to attend every day. I felt as though I was a walking lie. Nobody knew my life, and nobody knew my story. This lead to a complete, massive, emotional breakdown. At this point I would have chosen death over High School without a doubt in my mind. Shortly after this I was put into outpatient care at a mental institution. It seemed like the perfect solution at the time. Finally I would be around people who understood me. But sadly, I just went farther downhill. I guess I couldn't handle the truth of my own life. I became sincerely and completely suicidal. I was immediately put into inpatient care at the hospital for a week of intensive therapy that didn't seem to solve any of my problems. And then I was right back to outpatient care like nothing had ever happened. For a short period of time I became content there, I was actually stable for the first time. But just as fast as I went up, I came crashing down. This lead to the overdose. It was something I never thought I would have the guts to do until I realized I had just taken nearly 30 sleeping pills. The drive to the emergency room was unreal and hazy. The tears streamed like a river as the doctors rushed around me sticking needles here, asking me questions there, all while my mind was gone from my body. The emotional visit to the emergency room lead to another impatient visit, this one did less for me than the first one. After nearly 11 days I was free, but still put into outpatient care. This point in my life was emotionless. I didn't know what to think or feel in all honesty.



Months after being completely released from care, the doctors mention a condition called, "PTSD" and apparently would explain for my mental condition even after finally being free from all of my demons. They explained it as my mind finally taking time to accept the things that had happened to me, almost like a shock to my whole mind and body. It actually made sense for once. But this one answer didn't stop me from searching for more.



While all of this was going on I couldn't help but put school as the last of my priorities. How was I expected to keep a fake smile on my face while I had these thoughts through my head? When life sends you through a spiraling black hole, it puts things in perspective and school just seemed impossible. I couldn't focus, I couldn't keep up with the motions. The loneliness consumed me no matter who was by my side. It felt as though my life had betrayed me. I had been cursed with a painful past and a scarred mental state. Every day I would beg to know, "why me"? What Had I done to deserve this never ending pain? I was destined for failure. My father was no longer in my life and it felt as though he had dissolved into the earth and never existed, yet he still left a whole in my heart where the loving comfort of a good father should have been.