In the midst of having an emotional breakdown, lying on the floor and sobbing I thought about my life and how different it was a year ago. A year ago I thought I was at the lowest point I’d ever be. I’d hide in my room or spend hours in my backyard smoking and listening to music — trying to escape from what was going on inside the house. Family, something that in a perfect world should be an environment where you are welcomed and feel comfortable, not people you can’t stand being around. I could have swore that life could not get any worse. There were four of us but we were hardly ever in the same room let alone having civilized conversations with each other. Resentment filled the air and still pumps through my veins violently. Daddy was always watching television on the couch and if you dared talk to him all you’d get back was complaints. It had always been complaints. Mommy was always working therefore stressed and she still is. Dear brother was always on the computer watching conspiracy theory videos. And then there was me. Avoiding it all. It could never get worse, right?
And yet, here we are. But now we are three and somehow it’s much worse. I spent a good part of my life believing that if my father just left already things would be perfect. We’d be happy. And then after what seemed like endless years of threats, he left. He didn’t just move down the street. He left the country. And though I am thrilled that he is somewhere clearly happier than he could ever have been here, I resent the fact that him leaving has made things worse. How is that possible? I was confident that he was the problem and now nothing makes sense anymore.
And I sit here thinking thoughts that I never thought would cross my mind. That he should be here. That I miss his objections and dissent. His degrading words. I actually fucking miss it. I guess I’d rather have that then nothing. Or maybe I just became accustomed to it. Either way, I miss him for weird reasons. Of course I miss his good side —more than anything. When he’d call me amorcito and tiki and how he’d always silently motion for me to sit next to him on the couch. And put his arms around me. Watching Heat games.
I miss the simplicity of knowing what would happen. The comfort of the cycle of pain we went through. At least then it made a little sense. Because now it just doesn’t at all.