I’ve been reminded of my childhood a bit lately. There was a constant battle and people were always fighting, arguing, and bickering back and forth. As a child it wasn’t really easy listening to, but I did get very used to it. I always found it perplexing that other children were upset or if their parents talked of divorce or separation. I would have been happy, and found myself often suggesting it to my parents. “You guys don’t get along, you’d be happier if you were away from each other.” I never even thought about who I’d end up staying with and didn’t care. Later in life I was told they were sticking together for our benefit. Having experienced life the way I did, I can’t explain what those kind of words do to me.
Fighting often triggers a bit of feeling in me. I’m an adult now and recognize such, and recognize its appropriate at times and there are appropriate places for it, but I’m still reminded of the times it wasn’t and think of myself in those places where it wasn’t. People fought, people exchanged harsh words, and nobody would let go. One day my mother might start it all, and the next my father would provoke the fighting. My mother would tell me all the horrible things about my father that made her act, feel, and react in the ways she did. She was right, and it made sense. My father would do the same, and he was right, that made sense too. Both had legitimate reasons to hate the other and be upset with them on a daily basis. They had a right to express it. My mother never came home, never cleaned the house, never fixed dinner, never worked, and spent all her time on the telephone and neglecting the family, nagged constantly and yelled and raged at the kids. My father, he expected all these things to be done but not having to be deserving of them. He didn’t come home, drank, got addicted to porn, and didn’t support the family.… I don’t blame them for hating each other. But really, who started it all? Does it matter?
Me, I was just caught in the crossfire. Everybody had their legitimate reasons for feeling the way they did, but I couldn’t help but notice it destroyed everything. It destroyed them, it destroyed the house, and my siblings. They cared more about fighting and their own issues than they did about raising us in a more loving environment without all the chaos. You could tell me all day long about how complicated it is, and about how they felt and why, but I grew not to care. They cared about their own feelings and how they were wronged, and they stopped caring about the rest of us. That’s the wrong I see done to me. And I don’t place any blame on who started all that fighting and bickering because I don’t care. The real crime is that nobody cared enough about the other people involved to stop it. I guess growing up in that environment shaped me into who I am. There always has to be another way to achieve things; something other than war. There *has* to be, or else, I lose all faith in life and humanity all together.
Everyone in my family felt justified in what they did, but all I saw was destruction, and a bunch on Ns. that accomplished nothing at all. All that was left was an empty dusty old house that nobody cared to come home to anymore. Somebody did something wrong. I’m glad now that the place was sold and everybody’s out. Maybe a new couple will have a chance to raise a family in it and be productive to society. Maybe somebody else can do it right, and plant a garden that will grow.