I never felt that I fit in well with my family. Even when I was little I knew that I was different from them. They were chemists and engineers and CFOs and CEOs. I was an artist and a dancer. They were a proud family of “straight A’s” and if I could scratch by with a C I was thrilled.
Grades were always a point of strife in our home. Days when report cards were sent out were often spent elsewhere. I would avoid the inevitable conversation about “living up to my potential” and “applying myself” as long as I could, seeking refuge from disappointed faces at a friend or neighbor’s house. When I was ten, ‘disappointed faces’ turned into something uglier.
When it’s said that your life flashes before your eyes in moments of perceived extreme danger, there is no exaggeration. I don’t remember the specific trigger. I know that report cards had been issued a few days prior, and since then I had come home with incomplete homework and a painfully low quiz grade. The teacher had offered to let me re-do the homework for half credit, which apparently was enough of a point increase to make it worth trying. I sat on the floor of the family room, at my father’s feet, while he slowly explained and re-explained whatever problem I was working on. It had been a grueling two hours since I first sat down with it, and he was reaching his limit. I pulled at the short pink threads of the carpet and let out a heavy sigh. Not only was I completely disinterested in the topic, but I was also completely defeated. “I hate this.”
I don’t know how I moved from Point A to Point B, but my next immediate memory is being pinned to the wall across the room, my father standing over me with a rage I hadn’t seen in him before. I was shaking while he screamed inches from my face. He hit me hard enough to drop me down to my knees, and there was a moment of peace there - like the eye of the storm. From my new position I could see my mother ushering my little sister out of the room, then returning, only to cower in the doorway. He grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me back up to my feet. He was still shouting, but none of those words ever stuck with me. I was staring passed him, and at my mother. I’d never hated her before that night. She did nothing to stop it. She said nothing. She didn’t fight for me.
Alone in my room that night, I moved my hand to cover my face and felt burning. I got up and looked in the mirror. The top of my eye was open and bleeding. I found a washcloth and a water bottle in the room and took care of myself - there was no way I was voluntarily leaving my room again that night. I laid there, holding that stupid cloth over my face, oozing hate for both of them. I hated him for everything he was. I hated his job. I hated his brain. I hated math. And I hated her for being weak. I hated her for not standing up for her ten year old daughter. I hated her because I didn’t trust her anymore.
No one woke me up for school the next morning - or the morning after that. I would have enjoyed that a bit more if home didn’t feel like a prison of tension and nerves.
After that, my mother described my father and I as having “clashing personalities”. Not that he stepped over the line. Not that he hurt me in the deepest possible way. Not that my trust in my parents had been obliterated. Not that our relationship would never recover. Just simply our personalities clashed. As if this was a common problem between fathers and adolescent daughters.
Eventually, it stopped. Eventually, when it escalated enough that an outsider was brought in, mandated counseling happened. And then college happened. And I never moved back. I’ve forgiven him by moving on. I tell myself, and the few others who are cursed with a close friendship with me, that it was a different time. He was a different man. I’ve forgiven her. I’ve recognized and forgiven her weakness. But trust is a thing of the past. Trust is a fantasy from childhood.
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