AUGUST TO JArNUARY THE FULL MOONS. MULAN'S TEENS.
"Dear Diary..."
I was 16 when my mother gave me that diary. I opened it and stared at those two pre printed words. I think it was to encourage teenaged angst. Personally it put me off.
There is nothing 'Dear' about pouring out why you hate your parents cos they don't understand you and the boy that touched you without permission and made you feel dirty and your first joint in the girls toilets to escape the school bullies and how you puked your drunk guts up all over your friends plush carpet and when you stole an expensive silk scarf from the mall and got a tattoo just above your ass with some obscure sign that you thought was cool and in fact was shit and stuck your fingers down your throat every night cos you felt fat and ugly and hated everything about the town you were born in and all the people in it.
To say I didn't fit in, is an understatement. This is not the teenager talking. I was ready to accept my life but always felt there was something missing, just out of my reach. I can't give it a name.
Marriage and children were not for me, I was gay before I even knew the word. I would be a soldier.
A few relationships here and there but still hollow inside. I had come to the conclusion that I was incapable of love, whatever that entailed. I cared I felt I laughed I cried. Was that enough? Watching my parents I wondered if that was why. They slotted into the caring couple routine, a few dinner parties with that shrill laugh at jokes that were not jokes, but subtle put downs. The cheerful waving at neighbours with a glued smile. A kiss on the cheek 'have a nice day at work dear' They remained polite to each other but lacked any warmth.
My father, a veteran of dark days, started to work late. A distance grew between them and many nights he came home and would fall asleep on the sofa with a beercan in his hand. Did he drink to numb the memories or erase the present? My mother never said a word and hummed softly to her self whilst picking up his laundry, and restocking the fridge with ready meals and his favourite brand.
One night, he didn't come home.
We never discussed it. I was worried. With the absence of my father, what little I had left of family were drifting. Occasionally we all got together and made the right noises and went our separate ways. My grandmother struggled with her health but remained as supportive as she could. I was closer to her than anyone, but the realisation only hit me in maturity.
My mother got a job in a roadside cafe. She had no qualifications on paper but that woman knew how to feed people with a smile and keep the chat going. For a while I thought we were going to be okay. She bought leftovers home at 2 in the morning which we would eat together and tell me funny stories about her customers and we would laugh and nearly choke on our cold fries.
That stopped. At 17 I was introduced to her new 'acquaintance'. He smelt of whisky and sweat. That smell soaked itself into the house. I would lay awake at night with the stench of his odour in my nostrils while my ears were subjected to the unsavoury noises coming from my mother's bedroom.
My parents had never raised their voices so the first time he screamed in my face, his spittle on my cheeks, scared me so much my bladder let loose. Then screamed at me again for being disgusting. He revelled in his power. I swore one day to take this power away from the likes of him. I looked to my mother to defend me and was met with a wall of silence. She pandered to his drunken moods. I approached her more times than I can remember with tears upon my cheeks, but each time she defended him and blamed me. She always blamed me.
One night, I didn't come home.