So, hi. How are you on this... fine night? I've never done a blog, but I thought I would give it a try. I don't really sleep much so I need some way to waste my nights. It's twenty minutes until eleven on the night of December tenth, two-thousand and twelve. It's snowing. I've been seventeen years old for five days now. So none of this is making any sense. I am supposed to be over all this! I'm the strong one, I'm the wall! The foundation! ... So why am I crumbling? That's what I would like to know.
Maybe you should hear the whole story, and then you'd understand?
But you should also know that this isn't some "Oh pity me please I'm desperate for love and attention!!" blogs. This isn't one of those self-loathing blogs either. No. I don't loathe myself, I loathe everything else. This is just a way for me to release. It's for the happy people, to show them that life can suck, and the depressed people, to show them that life could be worse... So either way someones spirits are being lifted, or fucked. Read if you'd like, don't read it if that pleases you. I could honestly care less.
So, it began, at well, the beginning. When I was young and my parents would fight, breaking the walls of our Cape Cod house in central Maine. Not only figuratively either, my father had (has) quite the anger streak. Punching in the drywall when throwing things wasn't enough anymore.
I don't remember much of my childhood, most of the memories suppressed and forgotten by tears and fear, but what I do remember wasn't any Hallmark movie, well, maybe one of those sad ones that make you want to eat three gallons of Chunky Monkey. Anyway, what I remember most of my childhood is coming home from school to an empty house, cleaning, and starting dinner, all at age eleven to twelve. Then when I was even younger I remember a lot of crying and begging from my mother and screaming and yelling from my father. I remember shaking behind the door, listening and hearing every word. I remember being slightly afraid for my mother and myself. I knew my father would never hit any of us, but sometimes it was frightening.
Eventually when I was twelve years old, in April of two-thousand and nine, my best friend died. She had stage three lung cancer, and when she was diagnosed the doctor said she had six months to live... She held on to the last minute. I remember the night I found out. I was at D.I. practice (Destination Imagination). My father came and picked me up early from my middle school.
"So, I have something to tell you about your grandmother," he said.
Shocked, I didn't really know what to say. I just sat in the passenger seat of Dad's dark blue Chevy Malibu, thinking. And I kept thinking until 4:48 on the cold April morning, when it actually sunk in. When I saw her lifeless body lying on that yellowing hospital bed under the stingy and stiff blankets that smelt like death and piss. With my family all sitting round crying, thanking God that he stopped her suffering, but each one of us knew that for a moment or two we hated him. He took her from us, he did this to us... Why?! Why God do you have to be such an evil puppeteer?! Do you think my pain is funny?! Are you enjoying this?! Well I've got news for you! FUCK YOU!
... And that's what I thought for the longest time, because not three months later my father and mother moved me to a going-nowhere town in West Virginia. I was alone and I hated everything. I was scared and not sure of myself. Thinking, "Are you there God? It's me Tika."
Oh! And I forgot to mention the most important part. Three months after my fourteenth birthday, my parents got divorced. And a month or two after that, they got into serious relationships! It's been almost two years and Dad is married with a kid on the way... Dad is forty and his wife is twenty-four.
Mom's engaged to a man child. Who she only treats like a child.
Besides my fucked up home life, everything is great. I'm in a nice little relationship of my own (going on four months), I have a job (at McDonald's... fuuuuu), I have the worlds greatest friends, and... that's pretty much the only good things right now. Because unfortunately, at the end of each day, I have to come home. To an empty house that we can't pay for because Mom's broke and her fiancee is like I said, a man child. My dad doesn't really want anything to do with me, because apparently all I am is a "burden" and a "fat pain in the ass". You know what Dad? Fuck you. My mother is never home because she's now a traveling nurse, traveling around the country for a petty check to pay the bills and possibly feed us, if there's enough left over.
I feel like one of those families on that Home Improvement show with Ty something, or maybe a borderline hobo... Wait, I am a borderline hobo.
Fuck.
