family
Family can be our support system. Or they can be part of the problem. All about the complicated, loving, and difficult relationship with us and the ones who love us.
THE ROCK IN THE HARD PLACE
I am nine when my father runs off with his 23-year-old secretary. He leaves a note on my mother's pillow: I just don't love you anymore. I know this because I find the crumpled piece of paper in the garbage can after my mother falls asleep on the couch. Then I read it in my closet with my Mickey Mouse flashlight.
By Carol Anne Shaw5 years ago in Psyche
EL INGENIERO RAÚL CHAMALÉ
My mother finally realized that the beatings she took from my father would never end and that the abuse was not just for her for for me as well. The day my father took a knife and put it to her neck after he had beat her, was the last time I ever saw my father put hands on her. I can still feel her whole body shaking as she held me close when we were asleep. In the morning she woke me up and told me to get ready because we were going on a trip. We could not say good bye to my father , he would never let us go. So I grabbed a little stuffed dog he had bought me and got dressed. My mother asked me to tie make a bow on the back of her dress for her because she could not reach. I grabbed the straps on each side of her dress and tied a knot, she asked that I make it tighter; she was so thin I could have wrapped those straps around her 4 times and still had enough to make a good size bow. We got to the airport and flew to Chicago. Life has never been easy for a single mother . The United States was so different from our home town in Central America. My mother worked grave yard and after about a year she decided I could not continue staying alone all night and most of the day while she slept. I was around 6 years old and needed someone to watch over me. She decided I would be better off with my grandmother. She said she had to stay and take care of some things but that she would be with me in two days. Those two days turned into 6 years.
By Rocio S Romero5 years ago in Psyche
Mom's missing again
"Your mom is missing", the words resonated through my soul for days, "she ran away" I knew she would be back, I knew she couldn't hide forever. I was at school, sitting in the "cozy corner" a small area covered in sheep skins and pillows. This would be the third day in a row I had spent my recess inside, an act that drew gentle teasing from my classmates. I was not upset because she had abandoned my brother an I again so much as I was aware she would be found, and when she was her life would be incredibly hard.
By L.D. Malachite 5 years ago in Psyche
The Bird Coop
The Bird Coop As I lay here on my deathbed. On my death bed? Are my final words as a writer going to be this cliché? Then again my entire life has been a cliché, even the fact that I call myself a writer and yet I was never published, I never even made the local papers. I knew I was good too, at least I think I was but they always told me writers need attention and our' family' doesn't need that, after all we don't write papers we just collect them . And I thought they said your life flashes before your eyes but the only thing I can picture is that stupid owl i saw in the barn when I was younger.
By Andre Gayle5 years ago in Psyche
Forgotten Knite
I was in fourth grade when my world broke apart in the shape of the office lady coming to my water-color covered classroom. My teacher, who taught all but two classes, was pulled to the side and delivered news that would reach me shakily. "Lydia, I need you to come with me, let's...take a walk?" she started questioningly. "Holly will cover class until we get back." she continued heading towards me, sitting in the back of the room nearest the open door.
By L.D. Malachite 5 years ago in Psyche
Glass
My mother and step-father thought it a good idea to remove the door to my room from its hinges as punishment for my absent-mindedness. In a rush to get to school or just because of an error of memory, I repeatedly forgot to lock the front door to the apartment. Sometimes, I would hilariously leave the key in the door. Their rationale for said punishment was that I was compromising everyone's safety. I thought not. Regardless of whether the door was unlocked or not, if someone's intentions were to hurt us, they would go out their way to break down the door. Besides, as a sixteen-year-old teenager, I valued my privacy over collective values. I could not stand to be punished. I especially loathed the fact that it was my step-father's idea. It sounded like something my biological father would do. Maybe the punishment was not as extreme as it was in my mind. The idea of a man-a man I barely knew or trusted having precedence and authority over me was too much to bear. The idea was made worse by the fact that he was not the best person. I often witnessed him yelling at and berating his kids over minor discrepancies. He went as far as to laugh at and mock my mom when she was crying because he had hurt her feelings. I was uncomfortable with the amount of control they wanted over my behavior. No eating in the room. No sleeping on the couch. I also needed an overseer as I washed and put up the dishes. How humiliating and condescending. My mom tried implementing more structure and discipline in my life by having her boyfriend be more instrumental. However, I was not interested. I was free to be myself. I had gotten used to my autonomy and free thinking style, so much so that I refused to go to church when the both of them tried forcing me to go. It felt like coercion and indoctrination more then anything. The fact that I was gay did not help matters either. Everything boiled up in that moment. All I could see was red, so I waited until my mom left the room after giving her an earful of nasty words. I looked for something. Anything. Then I saw it. A glass frame. I punched straight through it, not feeling a thing because of the adrenaline pumping through me. I stormed out the house to catch my breath. I thought about how glass had become a motif in my attempt to control my anger. I would later down whole glasses of Heineken and violently through the bottles into the street or smash them against a rock or brick. I went as far as collecting the bottles in case I got into an argument with my mom. Most notably, I would choose a non-fatal part of my body to scrape the broken glass against. It was surprisingly relaxing, though I knew it was unhealthy and self-destructive. Though I had left the house to avoid the situation escalating, it was too late. My mother had called the constable and my grandmother, which only infuriated me further. I calmly played along until everyone left. I spent the next week or so cleaning up shards of broken glass that had splattered everywhere around the apartment. At certain times, my mother and step-father would step on a piece of glass, and I secretly took pleasure in the tiny amounts of pain I caused them-that I thought they deserved as retribution for my suffering.
By Toyo Carter5 years ago in Psyche
