Chapter 3 | Les mauvaises années

We all go through bad times. Maybe for a week, maybe for a month.

Or maybe not at all.

I'd like to think that something bad happens to everybody. Call me evil, but I think it's good for the soul. It makes people a lot less stupid. Maybe.

Probably not, I'm mostly grasping at straws here. I've said this before; I'm no expert on all things fucked up. But, I think I know fucked up pretty well. Firsthand experience here.

The thing is, I thought that the abuse was the worst that had happened to me.

It wasn't.

I'm a very unobservant person. So it seems. Because I never noticed how distant and strange my parents became. My mom always had this crazy glint in her eyes. She stumbled around constantly. She never really ate anymore. She was wasting away.

My father was a different story. The man that once seemed powerful and fearless began to crumble.

His eyes. There was terror in his eyes. He finally looked worried. Even during the years of abuse I never saw him look worried.

He was finally starting to crack.

He was still crazy, of course. That would never change.

I guess I had hoped that this sudden change would make things more bearable. That things would be easier.

I was seven. Like I fucking knew what was happening.

I started to stay with my grandmother more often. I hated the thought of going back home, it fucking terrified me. My grandmother acted like nothing was happening, but she knew all along.

I don't really know how I feel about that. Maybe angry, maybe thankful. Maybe nothing.

Maybe keeping me in the dark was the best thing for me. I can't say I agree with it, but sometimes I don't know what's best for me. Who am I to say? I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels that way. In fact, I know I'm not.

The first pill bottle was lying on the living room table.

I was a curious child, fucking sue me.

I asked my mom what it was. Her reply? "Oh, it's just for my headaches, sweetie."

Because I totally buy that. Yeah, sure.

I didn't ask about it again. It would've been pointless.

Things didn't get hectic until about three months later. Of course, hectic is an understatement.

I'm sure that we all have gone on family vacations before. I'm assuming this correctly aren't I?

That's what I've always heard anyway.

My family vacations are a bit different. In a bad way. You expected that though right?

The first vacation was to a small beach in Florida. Ugh, I hate Florida.

I had thought that this was the start of something better. Oh, how wrong I was.

They were fine on the drive down. They were smiling and laughing. From the outside we looked like one big, happy family.

Too fucking bad we weren't.

It didn't start until late that night.

My sister and I were asleep. Well, trying to sleep.

You couldn't really sleep for all the screaming. Too much screaming.

I felt like my eardrums were going to burst. It was too loud.

I don't even think that they realized how loud they were being. They were too out of it. They probably wouldn't have noticed me even if I tried.

Fucking idiots.

I know you're supposed to honor thy mother and father and all that shit. But, how am I supposed to honor them with the way they act. Honor is the last thing that comes to mind when I think of them. Sorry, but no thank you.

I try and be a good kid. Really, I do. No one's perfect in this fucked up world.

We've all screw up once or twice.

The thing with my parents is that they have risked my life time and time again. I am their child. They are supposed to protect me. Not hurt me.

But that's all they ever do. Hurt me. Every fucking day of my life.

I want to hate them. I want them to feel everything they've made me feel.

I want them to suffer.

I wish the cared enough. Just enough to not put me in these situations. Just enough to ask me how I am. Just enough to look at me when they're sober.

But they don't.

If they cared, I wouldn't be in this situation. I wouldn't have to pretend that everything's okay.

Because I love them. And I have to protect them.