The Dark House
My dad always used to get upset with me when I cried. After a while, I tried everything
to avoid tears. Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, and look up. It seemed to work for a
little, until he noticed I wouldn’t look at him when he was screaming at me. I started to spend
less time with him. When I did get picked up from school to stay the weekend at his house, it
was scary. I would dread the moment I had to rush outside of my school’s gates to get to his car
exactly at 3:10. If I didn’t make it there in time, I was already prepared for a guilt trip or
manipulation session. Aunty would always make me feel better by taking me shopping or
blasting Enrique Inglasies in the car. She was my only peace at the Dark House. Even through all of these moments of anxiety for a seven-year-old girl, I was still daddy’s little girl.
Then my brother came along. Not my full biological brother, but my younger half
brother. When I held him for the first time, I knew I was meant to be a mother. I cried, just like
my dad hated, but I didn’t care. My brother was so beautiful, and I can’t believe I almost hated him because his birthday is so close to mine. With this first touch on his fresh skin, I knew I’d always be there for him.
The Dark House wasn’t just one house. I moved a lot with my dad, while my mom stayed
in one house my whole childhood. Every house I lived in with my dad consisted of black out
blinds and artificial light. I didn’t understand why he did this when I was a kid. I just tended to
think he didn’t like neighbors looking inside our house. Now, it makes sense why he didn’t want
people looking in. If our house was made of glass, onlookers would see a sad man. A sad man
who would buy the whole family a swimming pool, and the next day stab it with a hot knife. A
sad man who would scream at his two-year-old child to stop crying. A sad man who would blame his girlfriend for any minor or major inconvenience, even if she had no ounce of control in the situation. A sad man who made his kids feel like they were never good enough. A sad man who had a temper. A sad man who lived as if he was still a child, bound with the chains of trauma.
Now my youngest sibling was born on the fourth of July. A day for celebration. A new daughter. Maybe one who would redeem the things I couldn’t do. She had a light in her eyes that instantly told me she was going to be a fighter. She wouldn’t be like me. She was going to be sassy, energetic, and creative. She would have a laugh to brighten up a room. With this first touch on her fresh skin, I knew I’d always be there for her.
I knew I had to be there for my siblings. I knew I had to teach them how to navigate
around the Dark House. I knew they could try and be the right children for my father, and maybe he wouldn’t hate them as much as it seemed he hated me. Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, and look up. Glue them together to make them stronger, and take him head on.
If I wasn’t enough for him,
What makes me enough for anyone else?
He hated me,
I think because I reminded him of himself.
I don’t think I’ll be enough for anyone else
Ever.
It’s like touching a hot stove,
And first you don’t realize the pain
But then It hurts
And blisters
And stays with you as a scar.
I now carry that scar with me,
Everyday,
Thinking I’ll never be enough for anyone else.
My friends,
My family,
Men.
Because it all started with him.
If I wasn’t enough for him,
What makes me enough for anyone else?
As a kid, I didn’t understand why my father treated me the way he did. I would sit alone
in my dark room in the Dark House and question myself. As young as eight years old. I didn’t know what I said or did to make my father react. He would just explode. Tell me and my brother we were doing everything wrong. We were children.
I can feel the hurt inside my chest now. I would lie in my twin bed in tears and look up at
the ceiling, holding my tongue to the roof of my mouth in case he entered. I felt so alone there.
Always.
He never physically hurt me. He threw a chair at my brother once. When my full brother
was a child he was diagnosed with Autism. Aspergers, to be exact. He didn’t understand things
the way neurotypical people did. This would often anger my dad, and he would blow his temper fast. I soon started to be extremely overprotective of my brother, but not in a good way. I would tell him when to speak and what to say, afraid that if he did the wrong thing my father would react negatively. Looking back, I regret ever doing this, because it’s affected almost every relationship I’ve had. My brother resented me for a long time because I did this, which is understandable.
He never physically hurt me. But he put his hands on my step mom once. Multiple times,
actually. My step mom is one of my best friends. Unfortunately she’s only in my life because my
father decided to cheat on my mother with her. Of course I didn’t know that when we met. I call
her Aunty, because she’s from Hawaii and that’s just what you call your parents “friends.” She
got introduced to me as Aunty, and it stuck. She’s been in my life for as long as I can remember.
I love her so much.
She never made me feel judged, and she always tried to help me understand my emotions when I was growing up. Sometimes, we just had a wall put between us because she doesn’t understand the way my father has hurt me. She is too blinded by her love for him. Even when he’s hit her. When my father, stepmom, and two half siblings still lived in the States, I went over to the Dark House every other weekend. At least for most of my life. There was a period of time when my father manipulated me so much to hate my mother, and move in with him. I would say that was the lowest point of my childhood.
Besides the point, at least I had Aunty. She was so devoted to my father, and I never
understood it. He treated her like shit. He would lock himself in his room for three days at a time,
texting her every few hours to remind her how much of a horrible human being she was. I never
knew if this was the Bipolar Disorder, or him just being an asshole. Now I believe it’s both,
mixed with a little trauma. I was always there for her, a shoulder to cry on. Again, for as long as I
can remember, I was helping everyone around me, but myself.
The worst memory I have occurred in the Dark House off Warmlens Road. My half
sibling was only two, and I must have been at most ten. Aunty and my father had been fighting,
but I don’t remember what about, like most of their altercations. All I remember is holding my
brother with tears streaming down his face, and mine as well. He was wailing in my arms, wanting to crawl to the end of the dark hallway into the bedroom that my father and Aunty occupied. I had to take care of him, and I knew this was not a good fight. I stood at the end of this dark hall, holding my two-year-old brother, screaming, and waiting. I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I waited. Hearing the screams and cries from both my father and Aunty in the bedroom, waiting. Through all of the overstimulation going through my head, I heard a loud slap. A slap that sounded like a fight scene I saw on TV once. Silence followed.
I don’t remember what happened after that, but I remember that was the first time I knew my dad physically hurt her. The first time I realized it, I really hated him.
I don’t want to be pushed around anymore,
I don’t want to be called nasty names.
An endless sea of hopelessness,
Waiting for you to change.
Waiting for you to love me how you used to.
We never got married,
I just sit here with a rock on my hand
A rock that feels like a thousand pounds
And it seems like an enchantment has been placed on it,
Impossible to take off.
I don’t want the kids to see us fighting.
The screaming,
The bruises,
But I can’t seem to escape.
Imprisoned by my own mind,
And your promises.
Let me go
Please let me go.