A Big Happy Family - Part 1

A close friend of my brothers once asked me "Why would you want to write a book that no one is even gonna read?". For a long time, I didn't know what to think of the question. It was insulting, it bothered me, and worst of all, it wasn't a bad question. I started to wonder if it was really a smart choice. What if pursuing my own dreams was the wrong road to choose?

Only a few weeks later, one of my own friends told me this joke: "What's the difference between a writer and a park bench?" I sat there, now even having a guess. "A park bench can support a family." This joke really bothered me. You have no idea how many peope have told me that it's very rare that people are successful in their writing.

So this all raises the question: "Why would I want to be a writer?"

It's not a bad question, really. There are challenges, perks, and times of stress. There's writer's block, long hours, headaches, and more. So why would someone want to be a writer? Well, it's different for everyone.

My writing took off when I was in the fifth grade and it starts with the very thing that I create all the time. A story.

Do you remember when we were all young, and we could never sleep before Christmas because we wanted to stay up and meet Santa Clause? When everything that was wrong in the world didn't really matter because we only seemed to notice the good parts? I remember what it was like to feel like that. To be excited for things, to look forward to the morning and not really feel like there was too much going on, it's a feeling that I miss and a feeling that I wish I could experience once again.

It starts with me, a stressed mother, a drunken father, an abused sister, and a spoiled brother. Put it all together and you have one big happy family right? Well, that's what I thought when I was little. I thought that one day everything would just fall into place and I wouldn't have to think about it. I thought that parents were supposed to love each other forever - but forever is a long time. Apparently, it was too long.

So here's how it begins.

Our big happy family moves from our old house only a few blocks away. They lived there for nine years. That was my entire life. The kids aren't happy about this at all, and they hate the new scenery. We have neighbors who stay up until three in the morning coughing their smoke-filled lungs out, plus their dogs that bark all night long. On top of that all, Mom and Dad are happy with the new house, but they aren't happy with each other.

Dad stays out all night long drinking with his friends. Mom waits for him every night to let him in. I know they still love each other, they just have to, right? Christmas is coming, and they pretend nothing's happening, but there's so much more going on than I know.

On the nights that are really bad, Dad strangles Mom, and he makes my older sister watch. On nights that are good, he screams at Mom all night long before passing out on the middle of the floor. She drags him to a couch or a bed, and lets him sleep, hoping tomorrow will be better.

As Christmas draws near, we hope for just one day where we can pretend it's all okay. We need it. We need our sleep. We need our peace. And finally Christmas Eve comes, and I go to bed ready for a happy day.

Dad throws glass across the room, he screams at Mom and scares her even more. He's hidden the phones and she has nothing to do. But before he hurts her, he leaves. We don't know where he went, but it doesn't matter. He's gone, we can sleep, not that I would sleep. It was Christmas tomorrow. A good day. A happy day.

Wrong.

A bad day. The day that would scar me for life. The first time that I would ever know true fear or true sadness.

We wake up on Christmas morning, ready to open our gifts. Dad is on the couch, looking angry, turning up his music like he does when he's drunk. We don't think he'll do anything. We think he'll wait it out. We try to give him his gifts but he just passes them away like worthless junk. IT hurts us. We don't know what to think. This is our day. A day to celebrate. A day to be thankful. But he just pushed it away, not wanting us to be happy. It hurts. It really does.

Finally, we finish opening the gifts and I head to my room to play. I love them they're awesome. I probably don't deserve them, which makes me love them even more. But all of a sudden, glass breaks, Dad's already shouting and Mom finds the phone. She calls the police and they take him away.

The house is quiet, maybe peaceful even. It's good, right? No. Wrong. It's bad. It' different. It's this house's fault. We shouldn't have moved. It was a bad idea from the start. They took us from our home.

The day goes by and we don't know what to think. I sleep in my brother's room and we talk about what would happen now if Dad were to come back to the house. We know it would be bad. We know he won't come back.

It's half past eleven. Almost midnight. And all of a sudden, there's a noise from outside.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Dad is back, and he isn't happy.