One Mixed Tape Part 2

Sometimes, when people are strong, it's scary. I'm not talking about picking a fight with somebody who bench presses your weight- times two, I'm talking about courage. When somebody stands up and says they disagree, says something they strongly believe is right and true. Like when your mom, who is the strongest person you know, stands up to your dad, who is the strongest, strongest, person you know. When they argue and you hear your mom having trouble controlling her voice she is so fired up. It gives you chills because her voice it foreign to you. It cracks in the middle of words and is strained. Her tone is so full, so adamant. It's a voice you never hear. The sudden drop of her harsh voice as she tries to control her volume makes you lean forward. She is trying to quiet it, maybe trying to keep it from you, or maybe she is just trying to seem like the 'bigger person.'Then you hear the deep tone of your father's voice retorting in low hostile anger. You shudder.
         What's really scary is when you can't hear anything through the wall except murmurs and every time a voice hits a climax or it gets too quiet, you wonder if the argument became physical. You wonder if your father's strength, the muscle kind, caused silence in your mom. Then you hear the loud slamming of the master bathroom door and you freeze, then shudder again because you know your first conclusion was not that somebody had slammed a door in anger. Your first conclusion was that a body was being rammed against a wall and then you see your dad, green shirt illuminating his reddening face, advancing on your mom, whose face is pale against her red shirt. You shake yourself back into reality because your imagination almost makes you scream out of hate and fear. Besides, you have to keep listening, just in case. Listening means that you are helping your mom, and somehow, protecting her.
         I was listening- intently. What could they possibly be talking about? What on earth, what- on Christmas Day- could they possibly be upset about?
         The voices recessed back into a murmur. No words could be understood. Making myself keenly alert, I began to think about why they were fighting. Was it me? Had I done something? Triggered a thought? I know I had been the cause before, I know that they often brought me into their defense, or offense, while arguing. Blaming me for things, saying that I had done something, caused a problem. Always talking about how teenagers were a pain or just kids in general.
         I heard bits and pieces. A few words here, a few words there. From what I heard I now knew that I was a part of it, but for what? It was Christmas Day! I had done my job. I was thankful for everything, surprised and appreciative of all my gifts. I had said thank-you, made conversation, been kind to my brother, I had played the "perfect child" all day. I suddenly felt guilty. I felt like I should say something. I wanted to apologize, to say that whatever it was I had done, was wrong and that it would never happen again. I. Felt. Guilty. Was it my fault? Had I ruined "what could have been?"
Sitting here I have lingering feelings. My stomach feels full of haystacks, and like it's still settling into my abdomen. I can still see the vision of the dark hallway leading to my parent's bedroom looming before me. I feel small.
I stand up and place my right hand on the doorknob then my left hand on the light switch. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to walk the few steps past my parent's bedroom to mine. There really wasn't anywhere in my house where my parents couldn't be heard. I notice my left hand shaking and I realize that I am scared to open the door. I'm afraid that my fear will turn me away once again; that I will not be allowed to hide in the familiar comforts of my room. I think about my brother, across the hall, sitting in his room with his door that never closes; the door that never closes because my dad and mom will yell at him or suspect that something is "up." I remember how he told me that he kept a bat in his room, right by the head of his bed. He kept it for times just like these, times when we worried about our safety, but more importantly, our mothers. Before I even acknowledged that this was the time for me to be strong; that I am grown up now; I feel an invisible and untouchable power rising and beginning to flow through my veins.
I turn off the light and open the door. I step into the hallway, my shoulders back and my head up. When I peer into my brother's room, three steps on the way to mine, I see that he has jumped from the sound of an opening door. He was holding the bat in his hand. When he saw me, and I looked at him, I saw three things in his eyes. Hate, fear, and the small glint in his eye that told me he was on the verge of crying. I gave him a knowing look as he lowered the bat. I had been in the same position as him before. The rising of my parents' voices made me turn. I was standing in front of their door as they yelled.
         This was the one thing I had always thought would be the worst. I had always been afraid to be anywhere near it when they were arguing. . . . I was worried their door would be opened and I would be frozen- stuck- with no place to go.
         I looked at my parent's door. The white wood was reflecting the light from my brother's room. I lowered my head, looking at the floor. Their door now had a look that was so familiar. It was earlier this Christmas day when I had looked at it, knowing there were presents behind it; Secrets that I could talk about without feeling ashamed. Now, the door had secrets behind it that I wanted erased. Why did people always want to know what was behind closed doors? Didn't they know all the bad that went on behind them? All the shameful secrets that were created behind them, then handed to you, only so you could hide them from the thoughts of the rest of the world?
         I walked the last four steps to my room. My brother followed. This was routine for us. We would talk now about what we think might have caused the fight. We compared the different things we had heard through the wall, trying to piece it all together. We told each other everything our parents ever said, even if it was something bad. Angry, we talked about how stupid it was that they were fighting, everything they did that we thought was childish. All of the things they said that were wrong. We always brought up everything they had done since the last time they fought; All the things that irked us. We talked about how long it had been since the last time they fought and how it was happening more and more lately.
         We decided that this time we were sick of it. We didn't want to hear it anymore. We went downstairs to our basement, afraid to do anything but sit and stare. We could still hear our parents faintly through the vents. A few of their words echoing through the dusty, metal tunnels that reached every part of the house.
My brother closed the door to our downstairs office to help eliminate some of the noise from the vent. I sat down on the couch, feet propped up on the table, arms crossed. When I looked at my brother I was surprised to see a tear rolling down his cheek.
"Joey, . . . . . ." I was shaking my head, trying to figure out what I wanted to say, what I could say to him. He shook his head back at me as another tear fell down his cheek.
"You remember, Carmen. Mom told Dad it could all end. They could get divorced. What if this is it?"
"No. Joey, they can't do that. You know they can't."
"Carmen, I told you what he said. He said marriage wasn't good for anything but sex and. . . ." He was shaking now, angry and unable to repeat to me again what my father had said.
"I know. I know he said that-"
"He'll leave. He doesn't like us, or any kids. Even you said that."
"I know. But, I don't think it's going to happen, Joey. . . . ."
I had said it out loud, trying to convince my brother- trying to convince myself- that it wouldn't happen. The look on his face told me that he recognized the doubt in my voice and on my face. I glanced around them room. The air was so thick, and it seemed colder than it normally was. I brought my knees to my chest.
They couldn't get divorced . I believed that was true in the sense that it would be too detrimental to our family. To me in particular. But I wasn't sure if our parents would stay together. . . . . . . .
I knew what it would mean in they got divorced and I didn't like it. If they got divorced, I would live with my mom. I would have to move, and on my mom's paycheck to a much smaller place, probably back into a mobile home. I would most likely have to switch schools. I would have to quit soccer, quit everything extra, quit forensics. Then I'd have to get a job. It would be for the money of course, but not because I wanted to spend it on going to the movies, or buying more clothes and extra shoes, I would helping my mother put food on the table. I would be paying for my brother to take the city bus to school, possibly for me to do the same. I would be paying for our lunch; All of the necessities; unless, of course, we ended up going to the food bank again. Or getting help from the government. Perhaps free lunches at school. I would be swamped with taking care of me, my brother and things around the house because my mom would be working all the time. Not only this, but I would have to deal with my mom's "failure." She never accepted anything from her kids because it was her job to provide for us and she wouldn't have it any other way. She was so proud when she finally got to buy the groceries when her parents came to visit. It was finally her time, her chance, to be the one to help others, instead of being the one who gets all the help.
The hardest part would be going to court and having to deal with visiting rights. I wasn't sure I wanted to se my dad. We never had anything but small talk; so what would happen when we had weekends together? How did I know he wouldn't "un-adopt' me? Was that even possible? I wasn't sure I wanted to se my dad, he wasn't even my real dad. But I didn't want to have to say that and have him hear it. I was afraid of what it would do to him.  I would most likely put myself in the position of going over there and dealing with how amazingly uncomfortable it was to be around him. I knew it would be even harder to deal with because we had been living in the same house for 9 or 10 years and it was weird. If we never lived in the same house, what would it be like then? How would it change?
What was bothering me was how much I didn't know. There were so many questions, big questions and hard questions that I wasn't sure I wanted the answers to.
I wasn't worried about how I could handle all the responsibilities of my "new life." I knew I could handle it. I would be in survival mode al the time and I might get tired but I would be tough and make it through because I wasn't going to let something that my dad- who voluntarily adopted me- did, ruin me. I would overcome and survive. I would live to tell about it and prove to everyone, prove to myself, that I could do it. I would become one of those people who tries to get people aware of their cause, then help out people who are dealing with the same issues. I would be a voice that is heard by people around the world, like Oprah.
                             As much as I want to be one of those idols that people feel connected to whether or not they know them, I really didn't want to go back to where I had come from. Getting past just to go back, well, that was hard to think about. My imagination was telling me that having to live it would be even worse. I really didn't want to be a part of the statistics that were used in news stories about broken families, dead people and missing children. Or in the television ads for some seminar, therapist, lawyer, or new drug to help treat depression. I didn't want to be a part of the statistics I had been taught to look down on and avoid. All I wanted was to be able to exercise my youth. To take advantage of it while I still had it. I knew that if my parents got divorced, I would have to grow up real          fast. I would have to do it now, instead of later. I knew how good I had it and only took advantage occasionally. I really just didn't want the little bit of security I had to go.
          Above me I could hear the wood of our house moving; adjusting to angry footsteps. Somebody had come our of the room I heard another pair of footsteps and my mom's argumentative voice floating towards the other pair of footsteps. . . . . my father's.
          My brother and I froze. They rarely fought outside their room. It was almost as if they thought they could keep it hidden. I knew that was why my mom tried to keep it in there, to protect my brother and I.
          I looked at my brother as their footsteps recessed back to their room. Their door slammed. On my brother's face was a look that I was sure I had held before. It felt familiar. I knew what it was. . . .it was that look you get when you realize and learn that things aren't what they seem. That life, and parents, weren't always the best thing. . . and they certainly weren't always right.
          "Why do they have to fight? Especially today? It's so stupid!"
          "I know. Most parents try to avoid fighting on Christmas, our too cool for that I guess."
        My sarcastic remark made my brother see how angry this was making me. We both sat again, just listening. I knew that my brother was trying to figure out what they were saying, even though he didn't want to hear it. I remember when I use to do that. Until the day when I was practically forced to listen and all I could do was cry and shudder with each word.
Back upstairs my brother and I could tell that things were dying down. It was finally coming to an end. I almost jumped past the "mis-trust" step, to the "relief" step. My brother, however, reminded me. He grabbed one of the bats saying that he was taking it upstairs with him- just in case. Mis-trust. He didn't rust my father, I didn't trust my father, and my mother didn't even trust my father. This was usually the part where my brother mentioned all the things that my dad had done in the past that added onto this distrust. On cue, my brother picked up where my mind had left off. Next came talking about what we would do if anything were to happen. I would take one bat to my room he would take the other to his, conveniently and strategically place them around his room for easy pick-up and use. When my dad came out of his room, I would strike at his back while my brother struck his front. The major targets were his shins and then his shoulders. If came swinging at you, his arms. Only if we were losing would we aim at his head. We wanted him on the ground first, then we would worry about knocking him out or tying him up. Then I would call the police after going in to see what he had done to my mom. I always hated that part. We both got silent. Our own personal horrifying nightmares taking form in our heads.
          I had to smile at our planning. At how brave and secure it made us feel. My mom had planned for things like this too.
So here I was, smack in the middle of Mis-trust, the almost forgotten step. This is a step in which I cannot sleep. It was late, I was tired, I wanted to sleep. Now I would have to find something to do while I was awake. Awake until I was sure that my bother was and that my mom was and that my dad was.
         My mom came down the stairs. Ahhhh, yes. The we-just-fought talk.
         "Okay. Well." My mom said this as though she had just finished cleaning up a spill in the kitchen and was ready to get back to what were doing before there was a spill.
         "I'm sorry."
         "Mom! You don't need to apologize. There's no reason for it." Thankfully for my mom, my brother jumped in.
         "What was that about?"
         "Your father was just upset because I let you eat your pie in the living room." Excuse me? She responded to my quizzical look.
         "He is just upset because he is sick of you two having food outside the kitchen. And his back has been hurting all day, so he is cranky. . . . . ." Then I start tuning her out. This stupid fight again? My brother and I have never spilt anything. I don't get why he thinks we are going to "ruin his carpet." And besides, she had been throwing the same excuses at us for the past year. Only two things make him cranky and they are always the reason for these fights. It has nothing to do with the stubbornness of my dad, or my mom, or the fact that yes, sometimes, people do disagree and get into arguments. I am astounded that my mother could still be defending him like she always does. "Oh his back hurts," or, "his hip hurts," and my most favorite of all, "Jill. . ." Yes, yes, Jill. The dreaded ex-wife and mother to his kids whom he doesn't seem to have love or respect for. That line is just so infamous in my family. Jill. As though she were the reason my dad has problems controlling his anger. Or as if she caused him to lack patience. I am pretty sure she didn't cut his fuse short. He's always been this way.
         I go up to my room. So done with this. It seems so childish. Not that I should be talking. My brother and I get into the most ridiculous arguments. Maybe this is how my parents feel when we argue. Well, minus the whole being scared, the Mis-trust step and the fact that ours are petty and we are kids so we can be immature. I laugh, thinking how ironic it is that both me and my parents contradict ourselves on the same issue.
         I get to my room and see my back-pack on the floor. Oh, yeah, school. I will organize my folders and binders. This will keep me distracted for a long time.
         I never really minded doing this. I had a knack for organization. . .you wouldn't be able to tell by looking in my door, but I could do it. My favorite part was being able to look back at everything I'd done. It was kind of like studying too.
         I pulled out a folder and began my piles. Need it. . . . . . don't need it. . . . .don't need it but will save it. . . . . . .might need it. . . . . .extra paper. . . . . .
         I stop when I get to one of my English papers and begin to read.
         Uncomfortable Perspective. What a crappy title. A crucible is a severe test or trial. . . . . . . Nobody goes through life without a hard minute, without a hard day, or week. Like everyone in this world I am dealing with the biggest and most common crucible, the ultimate crucible, the mother or father of all crucibles: life. How cheesy. . . . . . . . A part of a journal entry I wrote the other day has made me think so much. Everything I write makes me think. . . . .
         I am sitting here at my desk, my brother is sitting on my bed playing with the video game thing he isn't supposed to have. We are both in here after "quiet - time" has begun. Quite unusual. We never sit like this with each other in my room without having an argument - we're always arguing. Peace between us just doesn't happen. But tonight I feel uncomfortable and I am sure my brother does too. . .but not uncomfortable in the physical sense, more like mental or emotional, nerves are alert, uncomfortable. It's like being in a situation where you don't know what to do . . . or a situation that you really shouldn't be in. I notice everything in these moments. Every movement and noise, even when the tiniest hair on the back of my neck moves a fraction of the smallest measurement known to man, I notice it and shudder from it. The normal noises I hear that I can usually ignore, or, the noises that lull me to sleep at night because of their regularity, like the faint murmur of my parent's t.v. in the room next door or the hum of our central air system that usually calms me to rest, makes me nervous and jumpy. I am in my own house, in my own room, a place where I spend a lot of time, the place I have lived in for the past 8 or 9 maybe even 10 years of my life, there is nobody in the house that doesn't live here and I still feel uncomfortable like that. It seems so wrong. I'm not reading a scary book, I'm not telling a scary stories with my brother, or watching a scary movie. . . I am practically living one. Only it isn't that suspenseful, edge-of-your-seat, something-entirely-unrealistic-is-going-to-jump-out-of-the-smallest-shadow-and-kill-you-scary. It's more like the scary that's, "I can't believe this is real and happening to me. . . ."- it's scary because it's real. Every time a sound occurs, it seems so loud and makes my heart skip a beat. I stop everything I am doing, put down my pen, stop breathing, freeze my already tense body and prepare my mind for the worst of situations that could happen between a family of four that is half male, half female, half adult, and half child, that has ages varying from 48 to 13. I prepare for the absolute worst, even if that means seeing and experiencing death, or another tragic event that could scar me in so many ways for the rest of my life- something that could make my life a firey pit of confused angst compelling constant shuddering reminders of a most likely secretive past; something you would hear about in the news or go to therapy, see a shrink for. Oddly enough, I am reminded of a story we read in English about a little girl who thinks up different, rather childish ways to kill her father. It's that eerie weirdness, that statement that warns you, tells you - screams out at you, that something is not right, and most likely something that will be ignored, or something that can't, or, won't be solved by the people involved, and should somebody interfere, it could cause a plethora of painful scenarios, in which case the result would be a largely altered life, one that wouldn't really be affected in a pleasant or positive manner, and the pain would feel so unbearable, undefeatable, like holding the world on your shoulders. Imagining the pain makes me cry, my brother notices and begins to look worried and I see the glint of a small tear in his eye; but then a sudden manifestation of anger grovels across his face making me feel a little safer. This brings out the anger in me, the tears stop. I use this anger all the time to hide my daunted side. If a situation really did occur, it would be worse. How does it get worse than crying and feeling ashamed of yourself? Your life? Your family? How does it get worse? I am imagining I have lost extremely important factors of my life and I get a pain in my stomach, one that hurts in my heart too. I'm just imagining it. They say you have to endure the storm and rain before you can enjoy and see the light and the rainbow that come after, but you shouldn't have to. Not like this and it really shouldn't get worse before it gets better. Not in this situation. I can not for the life of me figure out if my childish fears, hormones, and "typical" teenage thoughts are the cause for this or if it really is a problem - one that I am not creating in my mind. I always wonder that; I tell myself that it's just because I am a teenager but when I can't stop thinking about it I see where blaming it on the fact that I am a teenager could be wrong. But I see where I am right too . . . things shouldn't be like this. These are the moments when I question myself the most. . . . this is one thing I will never get over: questioning myself, beating myself up for not being perfect, because that is what I strive for, will never stop and I inflict this entirely on myself. Yes, I realize my environment affects what I do and think, I know all that, but shouldn't I be able to overcome all that? Isn't it true that my surroundings shouldn't control me? I should have ultimate control of what goes on in my life. . . . nothing can overpower or control you more than yourself.  But it almost does. The frigid-ness and anxious-ness of my mind is not something I inflicted on myself. It was my parents. They are fighting . . . again.
         I almost laugh here, but really, tears are beginning to fill my eyes. I don't think that I have ever been so open with my life- especially to a teacher. Part of me can't believe that I ever turned this in to let somebody else read. I can't believe that I told somebody so much about what goes in my house, what goes on in my head. I keep reading. . . . I remember when this all started. Way back when I was in the 7th grade . . . fall of that year. My dad locked me, my brother, and my mom - his wife! - out of the house. I dealt with so much. People whispering about why I couldn't get a hold of my emotions, why I suddenly had my eyes opened to the fact that grown-ups are not always better than kids and many times have "closed eyes." Eyes that don't see what children see. They say to think about how you are making people feel when you do something . . . why do they contradict themselves? I wonder if every teen has a breaking point, a time when they realize thoughts such as mine. Is this when they decide to separate themselves from their parents because they are finally able to see their faults?
          Now they are still fighting and all I can think about is how or if it can get worse than this moment.
         For the past two weeks it has been the worst. I go back to wanting my father to be out of town every week because I know that they are less likely to fight when they haven't seen each other for five days. Ever since the first time my father got extremely angry (which came after I said yes at the "adoption ceremony". . . .coincidence?), I always imagined him going to the extreme when he was arguing with my mom. I worried about her, but not like I do today. I heard glass break in their room and I heard my mom scream one time. I remember that feeling . . . like was I losing someone I couldn't live without. I wondered if that would happen tonight. Everything they were arguing about was stupid in my opinion . . . . . the click of a door knob, the smell of somebody after a really tough exercise. . . .that marriage had nothing to do with love, unless it was the physical expression. . . . only because he knew it would hurt her. I have such a hard time figuring out if this is supposed to happen . . . and I've decided that it isn't. I smile. Good for me. I keep wondering if this happens to everyone . . . if everyone has to deal with this. I can't figure out if the whole reason this is so hard is because I am a teenager. Or simply me; is this hard because I am who I am? Because I am me?. . . . . .
         I stop here. I am amazed at the depth I put into this paper. And still I sit, unable to believe that I wrote this for somebody else to read. But now I feel relieved in a way. I relax a little because this means that when I get back to school, there will be somebody who has practically been inside my mind, and maybe, just maybe, she will understand. Maybe I won't have to sit in agony trying to figure out what the problem is. I won't be stuck with all of these burdens, all of these secrets that I've held onto so long. I think now that somebody will be able to help me figure this out, maybe I can finally understand something with the help of a fresh pair of eyes. 
         My thoughts switch now back to the paper itself. I sound so, me. So, childish. I put the paper down. I have started to cry because I hate that all of this has to be true. My sister found this and read it. Then she showed it to her real dad. They feel sorry for my brother and I. I don't want people to feel sorry for me like that. Every time my sister calls and I tell her that "mom and dad had a fight" (how many times have I said that?), she tells me that she is sorry. She is sorry that she ran away from home and left Joey and I to fend for ourselves. She tells me this. And my sister Lainie, who moved out to get away from this, tells me the same. About how stupid it is.
         I'm in this mood now. I am crying and I am done organizing. I am done with everything. I always get like this when they fight and I think too much. I crawl into bed and pull the covers way up around my chin. I lay in my bed, curled up as tight as I possibly can be, and cry. I don't care, I tell myself. I leave the snot and tears running down my face, I don't care about anything. I don't bother cleaning up the mess I made trying to organize my school things. I close my eyes and try to sleep. I don't care. I don't care, I don't care, I DON'T CARE. I don't care if my dad does anything to me. Let him. I simply don't care about anything anymore. This isn't worth it.
         I fall asleep, not knowing if my brother is sleeping, if my mom and dad have gone to bed and if all is safe. I fall asleep, with a wet face and not a care.
         Of course, it doesn't last long because my father is up. The creaking of the hall floor wakes me as it always does.
         At least four times a night my dad gets up to do some pointless thing on his computer. The computer which gets more respect from my father than I do. Even more than my mother. He worships that thing. I am angry again and I can't sleep. So I wait. Long after my father has gone back into his room, into the bed he is sharing with my mother, I begin to fall asleep.
                                                      ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
          When I wake up the next day, all I can think to do is write. And that's all I want to do. I can't get out of the house to go anywhere. So I escape in my own world that consists of a notebook and a pen; a radio playing music that helps me get it all out. I sit in varying places throughout my room. Laying down then sitting back up, leaning back and for a brief time, up-side down. I sit on my floor against my wall, against my bed, and against my bed. Then I just lay in the middle of my floor for a while. At one point, I clear all of the clutter on my desk to my floor and use my desk. I sit in my chair leaned over and then leaned back. Sit with my feet on my desk and my notebook on my lap. I finally move to one of my favorite spots-underneath my bed. It is quite down here, I feel shut out from my house, from my family and from my life. I lay there and I think. I look at everything under my bed. Boxes of old memories that I preserved. A box of papers that I still have to organize and my new snow board that I will probably never use.  And then I begin to think, something I have trying to avoid all day.
         I think about middle school mostly, when I was still innocent in some respects. Back when I was a little more optimistic about. . . . . . everything. I remember thinking about how scary all my thoughts were. The first time I had though of everything I have started to think about again. It was deep, provocative and it made me nervous.