Alright, so now, instead of lingering way in the past, let's move forward to only a couple of months ago. Writing, music, art, anything at all that can be beautiful, they were the things that made up my life. Hours into the night, I'd be up with a lamp on reading, or doing whatever I wanted, knowing that the next day would be good. I'd gotten completely over Christmas, though it never felt the same getting up on those mornings.
New Year's Eve, 2008, was the last time I had talked to Dad. It wasn't because we couldn't talk to each other. But since then, Mom had found a new feyonce, had a baby with him (who I love very much), and Dad had never gotten over Mom or his drinking problem.
This is five years later from the Christmas incident. Five years, and to this day, they still aren't divorced yet, but the restraining order had finally been lifted. Joy. Now he could bug us all he wanted. But back to New Year's Eve.
It was my grandma and grandpas wedding, even though they'd lived in the same house for God-knows-how-many years. That was the most quiet wedding I'd ever been too, and they got married in their own home.
After all of the ceremonial parts such as walking down the hallway to a skipping song on a CD, and someone sneezing in the background every couple of minutes, we decided to take some pictures with everyone.
Go figure, Dad wanted one with me, my brother, and my sister. After the flash, Dad decided to give us an honest and unncecessary opinion about the baby. "So how's your whore sister?" Between me and my sister, we were so mad that we stopped seeing him after just that one comment.
He was always like this. There was always something to be said about Mom, about how she ruined his life, though I don't know how that worked out. His side of the family seems to see Mom as the fire-breathing dragon while Dad was the damsel in distress. Make sense? Of course not.
But that's where it started. Me and my sister (let's call her Melissa), decided that enough's enough and that was it. We didn't talk to him for months.
I didn't see him again until May. My birthday had just passed, and I thought he might want t be able to say happy birthday. With the restraining order lifted, he was able to show up right in front of our house to pick me up, and he's gotten all of his stuff from the house too.
That weekend, I decided to go visit him for the weekend. We were going to celebrate my birthday with a gift and a movie, but we never really did anything when we visited him.
Of course, this was his chance to earn back some trust from me after pulling off his insults to a baby he'd ever even met. It didn't matter though. He never changed. He went to rehab but he still drinks. Nothing. Not one thing would even change about his personality.
Naturally, after I called about 6 times, they finally answered and told me they'd be late. My brother (who was 11 at the time and let's call him Jake) constantly answered the phone, giving excuses of why they would be late.
"Jake, just put Dad on the phone, okay?"
"Fine."
So I waited, and Dad told me why he was going to be late and I let it slide. An hour later, I called again. They would need another hour. And then I called again. Jake answered.
"Hello?"
"Why haven't you guys got here yet?"
"We'll be there!"
"You're already late!"
Click. He hung up on me, just like that. I dialed the number again.
"What?" Jake asked in frustration.
"You can either tell Dad to leave now, or I'm not going."
"Fine." He sighed. I had no idea what his problem was.
Half an hour later, they still hadn't picked me up so I called again.
"Hello?" Jake asked after three rings.
"Tell Dad I'm not waiting anymore. He can just forget it."
"We're leaving right now!" He shot at me, and hung up the phone again.
Half an hour later, the truck showed up in front of the door. And Dad was already drunk.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A Big Happy Family - Part 3
So there it is. The exact reason why I choose to write. No I'm not saying that you should only write if you're depressed - if that was the case, there wouldn't be too many writers out there - but I am saying that people should know what it's like to be in their characters place.
For the next months later, I was never quite myself. I'd smile once in a while, I'd still talk, but it never felt the same I'd look at someone, and wish that they could've been there too. People talk about their own lives like they're living happily ad I remembered what that used to feel like. Only part of the family was missing. The rest was broken.
But I would read all the time. And truth be told, if you can't read well, you can't write well either. I read for hours, never really stopping a lot because it was my only way to get away. When I realized though, that books were only a distraction from it all - that they would never really make it all go away - I knew there had to be some other way to flush the pain out and live on.
That's when writing took its place. It starts with an idea. Something as simple as staring at a issue box can spark one. My place of expertise was fantasy. Anything can happen, and everything will happen. So I put my pen to the paper and wrote out some kind of story. I have no idea what it was about, but it wasn't that good. Nevertheless, it worked. I spent more and more time writing out stories than anything else. The rest of my time was spent reading.
All of a sudden, I started to enjoy it. It was more of something I loved to do than anything else, even though it only started because I wanted to forget about specific members of my family.
In short, many many many many many stories followed on from that. I learned more about grammer, more about spelling, and definitely more about life. Though there were still a few more spins to it all that fate still had waiting for me.
For the next months later, I was never quite myself. I'd smile once in a while, I'd still talk, but it never felt the same I'd look at someone, and wish that they could've been there too. People talk about their own lives like they're living happily ad I remembered what that used to feel like. Only part of the family was missing. The rest was broken.
But I would read all the time. And truth be told, if you can't read well, you can't write well either. I read for hours, never really stopping a lot because it was my only way to get away. When I realized though, that books were only a distraction from it all - that they would never really make it all go away - I knew there had to be some other way to flush the pain out and live on.
That's when writing took its place. It starts with an idea. Something as simple as staring at a issue box can spark one. My place of expertise was fantasy. Anything can happen, and everything will happen. So I put my pen to the paper and wrote out some kind of story. I have no idea what it was about, but it wasn't that good. Nevertheless, it worked. I spent more and more time writing out stories than anything else. The rest of my time was spent reading.
All of a sudden, I started to enjoy it. It was more of something I loved to do than anything else, even though it only started because I wanted to forget about specific members of my family.
In short, many many many many many stories followed on from that. I learned more about grammer, more about spelling, and definitely more about life. Though there were still a few more spins to it all that fate still had waiting for me.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
A Big Happy Family - Part 2
So there you go. Just the beginning of the end of my care-free childhood. Whenever I think back to it, I know this was the spark of the best thing that ever happened to me, even though sometimes it's hard to believe. See, the truth is, writing comes from somewhere inside you. But a lot of times, when you have to let your readers feel your character's pain, you have to know the pain too.
Surprisingly, this isn't even the part of my family drama that gets to me. But that's an entirely different story.
Mom runs down the stairs. I freeze, not knowing what to think. There is nothing to think. Dad becomes the monster of my life. The creature to check for hiding in my closet or under my bed. His shouts are curses Every word stings, and I know this is the end.
Buttons on the phone dial while I stand in place. I can only question what's going on. But there is no answer. I'm confused. I'm scared. This can't be the end. We are supposed to be a family. A whole family. The lucky ones who love each other unconditionally. A tear slips down my face.
Some mutters on the phone are followed by Mom speaking clearly. She unlocks the front door first so they can get in. Then she opens the back door, letting the monster in. He strikes her. He's furious. He hates her for sending him out of their home. There's no more love between the two of them.
My brother taps me on the shoulder, signalling to hide under the bed. I'm snapped back into reality and I slide under, covering my eyes.
Dad walks towards the bedroom, and we're all ready to scream. To run. To leave. To start over. The world that we once knew disintegrates into a mess of dust. He pulls her up the stairs, dragging her by her hair. I can't control the tears. I know I should help her but I wouldn't know what to do. We're all frozen in fear.
They reach the top floor of the house, and we can hear the sirons. They got here quickly, but they should have been faster. The police. They can't save us. It's a monster now. It's not Dad. And the monster was ready to kill Mom.
He threatened to end her life. He beat her, and the police screamed through the door. Mom screamed, and I heard her scream for her life. It haunts me. To think about the women who protects me each and every day in danger sends shivers down my spine. It can still make me cry.
The police break through the door, and they try and handle the monster. They try and take him away but he'll never leave us alone. He didn't go away the first time, what makes this any different. By now, I have my eyes closed. I'm only listening. I'm not sure of anything. And I don't know what happened.
Footsteps. Coming towards the door. Just a slow walk. Firm, steady steps towards the door. I fear it's the monster coming to finish us off too. But it's a police officer. He enters the room telling us that it'll be okay.
It'll never be okay. It's wrong. This shouldn't happen. Not on Christmas.
But it did.
My happiness is gone. I can't think, I can only cry. My brother and sister both hug me, but I know they're thinking the same thing. They didn't cry, but they didn't realize where this was going. They didn't understand that my eyes had never been opened to this new world.
From that moment on, I knew true emotion. And even though that was the end of my early life, it was the beginning of my journey as a writer.
Surprisingly, this isn't even the part of my family drama that gets to me. But that's an entirely different story.
Mom runs down the stairs. I freeze, not knowing what to think. There is nothing to think. Dad becomes the monster of my life. The creature to check for hiding in my closet or under my bed. His shouts are curses Every word stings, and I know this is the end.
Buttons on the phone dial while I stand in place. I can only question what's going on. But there is no answer. I'm confused. I'm scared. This can't be the end. We are supposed to be a family. A whole family. The lucky ones who love each other unconditionally. A tear slips down my face.
Some mutters on the phone are followed by Mom speaking clearly. She unlocks the front door first so they can get in. Then she opens the back door, letting the monster in. He strikes her. He's furious. He hates her for sending him out of their home. There's no more love between the two of them.
My brother taps me on the shoulder, signalling to hide under the bed. I'm snapped back into reality and I slide under, covering my eyes.
Dad walks towards the bedroom, and we're all ready to scream. To run. To leave. To start over. The world that we once knew disintegrates into a mess of dust. He pulls her up the stairs, dragging her by her hair. I can't control the tears. I know I should help her but I wouldn't know what to do. We're all frozen in fear.
They reach the top floor of the house, and we can hear the sirons. They got here quickly, but they should have been faster. The police. They can't save us. It's a monster now. It's not Dad. And the monster was ready to kill Mom.
He threatened to end her life. He beat her, and the police screamed through the door. Mom screamed, and I heard her scream for her life. It haunts me. To think about the women who protects me each and every day in danger sends shivers down my spine. It can still make me cry.
The police break through the door, and they try and handle the monster. They try and take him away but he'll never leave us alone. He didn't go away the first time, what makes this any different. By now, I have my eyes closed. I'm only listening. I'm not sure of anything. And I don't know what happened.
Footsteps. Coming towards the door. Just a slow walk. Firm, steady steps towards the door. I fear it's the monster coming to finish us off too. But it's a police officer. He enters the room telling us that it'll be okay.
It'll never be okay. It's wrong. This shouldn't happen. Not on Christmas.
But it did.
My happiness is gone. I can't think, I can only cry. My brother and sister both hug me, but I know they're thinking the same thing. They didn't cry, but they didn't realize where this was going. They didn't understand that my eyes had never been opened to this new world.
From that moment on, I knew true emotion. And even though that was the end of my early life, it was the beginning of my journey as a writer.
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.
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.
To Be a Writer
They stare at me with my nose in a book and they wonder what I see. Yet even if I put the words in front of their eyes, they'll never understand what it means. They'll see a bunch of words and laugh. "How could this be any fun?" Well truthfully, it's not - it's so much more than that. It's everything to me, my entire life. It's a transformation, I become who the writer wants me to be. Everything changes, and I feel what it tells me to feel.
"Well how could that be a good thing?" they'll ask. "If it's telling you what to do?" I won't reply because they'll never understand that I read because the world around me is painful. Everything hurts, and my only escape is to read. It's a drug. It's a passion. It's everything to me. Because I can go anywhere I want and I can still be in my own bedroom where I could go right back to sleep.
So they wonder why I would want to write if reading's what I do. I tell them that there's more to this than they'll ever comprehend. They'll never know, theyll never see it, and they'll never have the imagination to see what I can see. A world where I make the choices. A world where I get to choose what happens. There's no end to the possibilities, which makes it even more rewarding.
The ideas spark inside my head, and I know I can take others to this world. There's no perfect way of saying things, there's no right way to write. But one thing is for sure, and that's that i will take them to my world no matter how hard it is.
This is the life of a writer - a life questioned by so many. But if you have to question me, you'll never understand. A writer knows true pain, true love, true happiness, and true imagination. And we stand on our own because it's only us who will ever understand.
"Well how could that be a good thing?" they'll ask. "If it's telling you what to do?" I won't reply because they'll never understand that I read because the world around me is painful. Everything hurts, and my only escape is to read. It's a drug. It's a passion. It's everything to me. Because I can go anywhere I want and I can still be in my own bedroom where I could go right back to sleep.
So they wonder why I would want to write if reading's what I do. I tell them that there's more to this than they'll ever comprehend. They'll never know, theyll never see it, and they'll never have the imagination to see what I can see. A world where I make the choices. A world where I get to choose what happens. There's no end to the possibilities, which makes it even more rewarding.
The ideas spark inside my head, and I know I can take others to this world. There's no perfect way of saying things, there's no right way to write. But one thing is for sure, and that's that i will take them to my world no matter how hard it is.
This is the life of a writer - a life questioned by so many. But if you have to question me, you'll never understand. A writer knows true pain, true love, true happiness, and true imagination. And we stand on our own because it's only us who will ever understand.
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