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A Sour Fizz
I sat in my bedroom and thought. I tried to think of reasons why my parents were getting divorced. I knew my Mom was constantly getting angry at my Dad for drinking that clear liquid every night. They fought all the time too; on holidays, regular evenings, days of my recitals, they never really got along together. But I remembered that they always fought over me. When I quit soccer there was a fight. Same with basketball. Whatever it the topic may be, it was always about me. So I came to the conclusion that this MUST be my fault. “It's the only valid reason why...” I thought aloud. “Great. This is my fault.” So there I was, feeling more guilty than anybody could ever feel. Before I knew it, I was balling on the floor in my room. I didn't know why we deserved this. We lived in a large house in Fairfield, Connecticut. We were never mean to anyone. We never, ever did anything to deserve this horrible change. But yet, it was happening to us.
I like to say the divorce changed me, that I wouldn't be who I am today if they weren't divorced, but I think it just made me a coward. Don't get me wrong, now that they are divorced, I would never want to go back to them being married. When I think about it now, I realize how miserable we were and I would never go back to that. But now, I am scared of so many things. I have to make sure the door is locked every night, and I hate going anywhere alone. Whenever I'm with friends, I'm on the constant look out for my Dad. I'm scared he will do something to me. I can basically pin all my fears back to the beginning of this all...
The first time I really realized something was wrong was the summer before my fifth grade year. My parents fought a lot after my mom's 37th birthday. I'd seen their painful fights before, and I hated it. But suddenly, the fights weren't stopping. They wouldn't even pretend everything ws okay afterwards because they weren't. Before I knew it, the dreadful announcement that no child ever wants to hear came. Early one morning, my mom went to the beach. My Dad took advantage of that time to tell us his own way.
“Your mom and I are getting divorced.” He said flatly.
“Dad I know you and mom had a fight yesterday, but...” I agrued.
I stopped as I looked him in the eye. His temperature was rising, he was becoming frustrated with me. His already red face turned the color of marachino cherries. And suddenly, he was yelling at me and calling me cruel names. “Yup, this is my fault.” I thought as a rock size lump rose in my throat. I dashed out of the room and down the hall to my room. I couldn't even look at my Dad.
Since that terrible day, my parents' fights hadn't been as bad. I think they were relieved that they wouldn't be together that much longer. However, after each fight, I found myself praying to God it would all end soon. I thought he was fulfilling my prayers, but on November 11th, 2007, my Dad came home angry. It didn't matter why, it was immediately directed at my Mom. The excitement of my “daddy” being home from work vanished quickly. I heard the sharp yells coated in swears pointed at my mom. The familiar voices switched back and forth like ping pong balls at lightening speed. I dropped my pencil and got up slowly, fighting the urge to shove my desk chair out of heartbreak and anger. I crept slowly down the hallway, looking at our pictures on display.
“They're all lies!” My head screamed.
As I kept tip toeing down the hallway, the voices got louder and sharper. Suddenly, I felt the all too familiar urge to cry. I didn't cry though , and I couldn't because I was now facing my parents.
“SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP!” I screamed.
They immediately shut up, my mom looking frightened and relieved. My Dad flashed me a look that could've melted an iceberg, grabbed his gym bag, and stomped out of the house. As soon as he was gone, my Mom and I were crying. She was crying for me and what had happened to our perfect life and our family. I cried out of fear of what else God had in line for us. We found ourselves soon facing more verbal and physical attacks and then financial abuse. Every unbearable, unthinkable experience that could happen happened to us in the next 2 years.
When I was twelve, the sparkly feeling that made me stick to my dad shimered its last spark. I did some growing up super fast that year. I realized what I had been taking for years was untolerable. My Dad was sick, suffering from alcoholism. I thought back to November 2007 when my Dad had been drinking the same clear liquid he had at least four times a night. He said it was just seltzer, but I had taken a sip once and knew it wasn't seltzer at all. He had had the same drink ever since I could remember. As I realized what was going on, I told my therapist immediately.
“Morgan, I've told you this over and over. No one has that red of a face all the time unless they've had way too much alcohol over the years!”
It seemed silly, but I thought about it more and more, soon realizing that was exactly it. The fighting, slurred speech, hitting, smacking, harrassment....he had been intoxicated through it all. That realization brought a huge thought to my mind. He had been drunk throughout my entire life! Then I started to shake. He had driven drunk with my sister and I in the car. He had put my life at risk every time he had gotten behind the wheel with my sister and I in the car.
I was so angry, I couldn't even see. I soon made one of the wisest decisions a child of an alcoholic could make. I realized I really didn't want to see him anymore. He didn't deserve to have a relationship with me.
The one good thing that came out of all I went through, was that I finally realized something I had blamed on myself for so long; it wasn't my fault.
Nowadays, my life is a lot happier. I ride horses, I dance, and I do all the things I used to get scolded for. It feels good not to be scared anymore. Although I still have reaccuring dreams of events that happened, they are no longer a reality, just a far off dream and sour memory.