Life had become routine. I woke up each day wanting for my existence to be different but it wasn’t. I promised to give my best effort each time I was blessed with a fresh morning, but the feeling at the end of the day was always the same. No matter how hard I tried to improve my circumstances, I fell asleep at night feeling as if life was slipping away. My father was crumbling around me and my mother was crumbling somewhere unknown, with some other guy. I didn’t want to wake up anymore . Somehow, despite the change occurring within my world, my eyes opened that morning.
I pulled the covers back off of me. The ceiling fan above my bed circled a slow rhythm that spun cool air down on me. I was sweating. I had been waking up in a moist layer of nervousness every morning for months. The fan dried my perspiration so it didn’t feel so thick. I rubbed my eyes, let out a rebellious yawn, and forced myself to sit up. My legs dangled off the side of the bed and I stared at my toes. This is where I really fought to distract myself. To think of anything besides what I was about to face. I wiggled my feet to stretch my stiff muscles and stood up.
The rest of my morning routine was painful. I lifted the blinds above my bed to look outside in the driveway. Her red car wasn’t there and I didn’t hear her come home at any point throughout the night. That meant she stayed out all night, with him. They probably slept in her car together or in his tent somewhere in the woods. He was a homeless guy. He had quit the life rehabilitation program for men at his church’s sponsored home. Couldn’t even stick that out. What a lousy excuse for a man.
I shook my head and thought of what a bitch my mother was as I walked to my bedroom door. This was the next daunting task of my morning. Going in to the rest of the house. I could always tell what my mother had done the night before by looking out my window, but my dad’s actions weren’t so easy to discern. He was a creature of habit and so I had to visibly encounter him to tell what his night had been like. He was seemingly attempting to hold himself together, to continue being a good father to me, to stay strong. My heart broke for him every morning. Literally. I could feel my heart shatter like a dropped picture frame when my eyes landed on him.
This morning wasn’t too bad. There wasn’t any dried blood on his face and his fingers weren’t swollen or lacerated. It was clear he didn’t take any aggression out on anyone or anything last night. His deep, slow breathing told me the alcohol was still fresh in his system. He probably fell asleep around four o’clock this morning. It was now seven-thirty. I closed his bedroom door. I didn’t want the noise of my shower, or my crying, to wake him.
brokenandrebuilding 