I don't believe in "happy" anymore. I used to . . . before everything went wrong. Everything is not "okay".
It was Christmas day, and as I came home from Simon's house, I was feeling a hollowness that I couldn't particularly identify yesterday. He came by to drop off his Christmas present, and I mine, since I've been grounded lately.
I did the stupid teenage thing, lied about where I was, scared the living crap out of my parents, Luke – my stepfather - flipped out more than imaginable...and I ended up having to spend all of winter break on house arrest, for lack of a better term. The irony of the whole thing was that Simon was who I was supposed to see that night anyway, but I got sidetracked and was gone for four hours, without anyone knowing where I was. Now this was the catalyst for my whole disaster.
Simon, the boy who knew my every thought and more, sensed something was wrong with me while I was at his house. He dragged me in, and made me plop down onto his couch without a word. His room smelled like warm cider with the added overwhelming aroma of an apple scented Bath and Body Works candle that his girlfriend demanded be lit at all times. She thought it was "sexy."
Being the perfect family that they are, Simon's mom had orchestrated a perfect family gathering – shiny silverware, matching napkins and china, a plethora of smiling family members gathering around the table they all set together. I'd seen this a million times, spending several lovely evenings with them myself – but that night I was due home. My mother had grown increasingly overprotective lately, and it was driving me insane. I had to be monitored at all times of the day, like a prisoner.
Simon's irritating girlfriend Maia was at the party of course, and gave me a rude once over as I entered the room, seething in clear annoyance that I was once again present in his home. Maia was just like Simon's father in so many ways, impulsive, volatile, and judging... and the only thing that kept me from despising her as equally as she did me was the simple fact that she loved Simon, even if his feelings sometimes swerved toward other people. It was unconditional. And – it was unrequited... But that is a story in itself.
Maia sneered at my sweatpants and winter jacket attire, which was completely out of place in the overall atmosphere of the fancy charade Simon's family had established for the holiday and asked, "Well, are you staying here long?"
"Nope," I sighed, "I'm going home in a minute. Don't worry." I looked at Simon wistfully, "Besides I've got my own family party to go to."
"You could stay Clary," Simon offered. "You know you have a home here, with me, whenever."
"Yeah Kiddo, I know." I smiled "But luke and mom aren't letting me out for more than an hour a day. I don't know what their so afraid of. . . " I made my way to ward the exit before Maia decided to kill me. Simon gave me a reassuring hug on the way out.
My family was a mess. I have two siblings, ridiculously young kids, who torture my sanity as well as my mothers on a daily basis, but it's not their fault. They are kids. The thing that's a mess is – above all else – the mind numbing routine that follows dealing with kids that young in our financial situation. I don't really know why we were in so much debt, but sometimes I heard my parents talking about hospital bills . . . though my step dad, Luke, worked at one.
Mom stays at home most days of the week, washing the kids, feeding the kids, dealing with kids, yelling at kids, kids kids kids kids. Luke, who isn't really my biological father, works 5 jobs at a time, at several different hospitals and deals with more stress than the average man should be able to take. I don't know how he can live, working 36 hours straight in one hospital, coming home to nap for 2 hours, dealing with kids, going to another hospital working a 45 hour shift, studying god-knows-what material to be the best doctor in the facility – then coming home to sleep again. So how does he deal? Alcohol. Cigarettes. And yelling.
All mom ever does is slowly depreciate herself, while the children scream at kick at each other on a daily basis, and all "dad" can do is nap, drink, smoke, and yell.
I was filled with a hollow jealousy walking home that day. I wanted to have a family dinner, at a specific time of the day, with shiny silverware and a happy atmosphere. I wanted Luke to work normal hours, sleep at regular intervals, and I wanted my mother to let me live my life, to feel less confined in my own home.
More than anything, I wanted to get out of the financial mess we were in – at that everything would be okay again at home. But it wasn't and it was never going to be – despite my fathers empty promises years ago that once he finished his Fellowship at the hospital and started earning money it would get easier. We weren't poor – but the family was at each other's throats like savages all the time and I hated it.
I wanted to fix myself – just as much as I wanted freedom. I had lied to my parents, just because it felt good to get away with something and finally be gone from the everyday nonsense and noise. I was selfish; immature and irresponsible. I could be volatile, and sometimes, and myself staring out of the windows, thinking I should run away. There is something waiting out there, something better.
So I ran. I lied and I walked the streets of Brooklyn, searching for something anything, that took me away from the life I lead at home. After what I've done, its no wonder Luke doesn't trust me, and what's worse is I used my mother as an excuse for my actions because I knew that she was just like me; Twisted and desperate to be noticed. And I hated myself as much as I hated the way my family worked.
I wanted to be happy. I wanted us to be happy.
A few hours later, as my family was gathering in our now-clean town house, I sat, brooding. It was one of those days I wanted to run again. Enter Luke, eyes bloodshot from not sleeping and stressing at work, seething in contempt and hate for his own life as he wobbled toward the liquor cabinet, and poured himself his sixth shot of the evening.
My mother, Jocelyn, walked into the kitchen and startled me out of my trance.
"Where the Hell have you been?" she practically screamed, not really caring we had guests over. She took me harshly by the arm and led me to the stairway, dropping me like luggage.
"Simons." I managed. "What mom, what's the big deal?"
"The big deal is you didn't tell me where you were going, and you didn't call me back." She started pacing, "Clary you were gone again, do you have any idea how worried I was, you could have been hurt!"
"I'm not a child!" I snapped. "I am going to be 18 in one freaking year, so please, treat me like it. God, I can take care of myself, and you are overreacting. WHAT ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF?"
"I am your mother." Her eyes burned holes. "And you have to listen to me. Clary you are so naive, so impulsive, so stupid . . ."
"You're my mother? And whose fault is that?" I retorted. "Look, mom, I didn't do anything wrong, and I don't understand why you and Luke shelter me so much. I am never allowed to go out, I have to check in all the time...what am I going to do about college hmm? I understand that you were worried but I was honestly. With. Simon."
"Are you lying to me Clary?" She hissed. "Are you lying again? Because you know I can't trust you – not after what you have done."
"God, I just messed up, like a normal fucking kid mom! You've screwed up in your life too...marrying that slob. He's an alcoholic like your father was... God, he's so vile sometimes, I mean with the noise and the fighting, people probably think this family is insane."
"You hate this family that much Clary?" She stammered. This was the closest my mother had ever come to tears, but I didn't relent.
"I hate you and Luke so much sometimes, I can't stand it." Mom just stared at me. Jocelyn Fray looked at her daughter as though she had never seen her before, like she was seeing a stranger. She gasped a breath and left the room. And with that, I sank to my knees.
I went into the kitchen and did dishes, hands shaking tears pouring, but I didn't care. I don't remember much - I lost all feeling. Luke walked in and told me to go upstairs but I refused. I wanted to do the only thing I was good for. I wanted to do the dishes. He tried to pry me from the dishwasher, but I clung to the plastic and glass silently begging him to hit me. I wanted him to let his anger out; I wanted to be punished. Maybe physical pain would make the emotional screaming pain of pushing my parents away lessen. He didn't hit me. Instead he screamed my name and tried to take the dishes away, and together we broke two wine glasses in the sink. The noise started it.
I ended up telling him how much I hated what this family has become. I told him he was an alcoholic and bipolar and that mom was losing her mind staying at home, and that I hated having little siblings and having everyone mad at me, and that I just wanted to be normal.
"What the hell is normal to you Clary?" he screeched.
"Not fucking this!" I cried, my torso shaking and breath sputtering as I spoke through sobs. I was about to fall to my knees.
"I want to have a dad who doesn't hate his life, doesn't drink whiskey like water, I want a mother who doesn't stay at home losing her mind all the time, I want to have dinner together like a normal family – I want a family that will listen to me and won't expect me to be perfect because I'm snapping and we're all just so ridiculous. The way you shelter me - we are chaos. This," I gestured to myself and him, standing wide eyed in front of the machine, "this is not okay..."
I cried out of anger, out of pain, I don't know really. But Luke ended up holding me and telling me something unintelligible in my ear softly, sounding something like a muffled apology. I knew that wasn't what it was.
I went upstairs than, and cried for 10 more minutes, when I heard more dishes break. Something in me broke as well, and I made my way down the narrow hall back into the kitchen and sank to my knees before Luke, as he picked up the broken ceramic plate. The dishwasher broke somehow through all this, so I stood without a word and began washing everything manually, drying and putting things away as dad worked on the machine beside me. Mom came down, silently, and began fixing the broken machine as well, none of us making eye contact or speaking.
It was an odd moment in my life. We worked together, each of us lost in our minds, trying desperately to fix this one small thing. Maybe fixing the machine would be a start to fixing us, fixing this.
I washed everything. It took an hour at the least, and eventually my parents went upstairs without a word. I remained in the kitchen until past 2 in the morning, scrubbing, rinsing, drying, putting things away, not thinking. Sometimes I cried. The dishwasher wasn't fixable.
I guess we aren't either. Merry Christmas.
"What now?" Simon said, trying to find the words, as I did nothing but breathe into the receiver of the house phone. I had already had my cell phone taken away and lost all computer privileges that week, but now I was just going on stolen time.
"I don't really know Kiddo," I said eventually. My voice was harsh, scratchy. "I can't stay home tonight I know that much. It's been two days and no one has even looked at me. I'm going on autopilot through my days – and I can't even see you because I'm stuck home."
"You are always welcome to run away and stay with me" he suggested.
"Hilarious, you know that's the first place they'll look for me" I snapped.
"I'll hide you in the laundry basket." He said this with an odd amount of confidence, as though this plan was actually plausible and not as ridiculous as it sounded.
"Simon, that's sweet...stupid...but sweet nonetheless..." I chuckled slightly as I said this, imagining hiding in his closet like his secret girlfriend. Uh oh bad thoughts.
"You're right," Simon sighed. "besides if the solitude doesn't kill you, the smell of my gym socks will surely be your demise."
"Lovely." I'm smiling despite it all. "Thank you Simon."
"Always Clary." His tone is different now. All jokes and teasing gone – just raw tender caring. My eyes well up again, and the sting of tears for the hundredth time this week tells me I need to escape and do it now. I choke an apology and an excuse and hang up before he can hear me sob.
I'm so tired of crying.