“I’m just trying to be nice here.” He said in confidence.
And I also refrained from talking to him because I prefer to be alone and am not inclined to converse. I was pressured into therapy at the age of ten, but it didn't make a difference. Bringing any of it up only aggravated the situation. The doctor offered a prescription but it only served to improve my sleep. It was too costly that led me to stop buying it.
“Just to be clear, I'm not offering you any sympathy. I’m just a person who makes sure everything is fine.”
“No you're not. You don't even know me.”
Extended conversations make me increasingly eager to get away. I’m not particularly suited for social gatherings or with anything at all. I’d rather avoid the party or stay in bed throughout the night. It might be a letdown for most but what term fits someone who’s desperately trying to belong? I’m simply not that kind of person. Most individuals value verbal interaction because it grants them the connection and affirmation they seek, but I’m not like that because it doesn’t quite resonate with me. It’s not because I’m negligent or rude, it’s just that my attempts to clarify don’t alter the judgment. Then people will criticize you simply because you expressed yourself differently or because it's not what they want to hear. Even though I wanted to, I keep recalling how often I was excluded and overlooked.
Aunt Fey, who is my father’s sister was the person who remained with me when I turned ten. Given that Dad always came home late and drunk, she had to come over to our house to look after me. The first week wasn't so bad because she considered me as a kid, I felt comforted seeing a familiar face in his absence. Yet she also shifted almost like she was covering up her genuine self, she burdened me with chores and made me adhere to new rules I wasn’t used to. She curtailed my television access and set the hours for when I should get up in the morning, and I had to consume only what she approved of since she claimed that too much was not good for me. I was overloaded with numerous demands in my household. I mustered the courage twice to question her about all the workload she was giving me and all she could say is, "Quit asking question and do your job."
“Mom would never impose this on me."
“She's no longer here, right?”
“You can tell me your name.” I would begin to wonder if he's after something from me or he’s just really bored. What could this average looking man expect from someone who’s unsure how she ended up here initially.
I began to feel slightly lightheaded and my empty stomach couldn't stop rumbling with odd sounds. “I think I'm gonna throw up.” I muttered to myself and got up from my seat, leaving the man next to me behind once more.
“It’s Sam!” I heard him call out from behind as I quickened my pace without glancing back. My chest is pounding and I can feel sweat starting to form. I'm struggling to breathe as I feel an unsettling warmth spread throughout my body. I took a moment to pause in a corner hoping it might help me calm my breath. When it did I felt a tear fall down my face, only to realize it wasn't just sweat as I had thought. I'm overwhelmed with emotions, but exhaustion, anxiety, and nausea are the most prominent all in one. It becomes even worse when I'm at home. I just needed to get away from home to catch a break.
I noticed that the sky has grown darker than it was before. It's surprising how a lovely, sunny day can turn into a gusty wind that threatens to make everything wet and ruined. I haven’t quite finished this walk, but I’d rather avoid ruining the day by getting soaked from the rain. I began walking again, this time with the intention of doing it more quickly. The sound of the thunder makes it seem almost imminent. The moment I reached home, I turned to see the rain start pouring down just as I walked through the door. It seems I caught a lucky break with that. I'm quite disturbed by how unexpected it turned out to be. I shut all the windows I could see to stop the wind from letting the water in.
I was on my way upstairs when I noticed Dad picking up objects from the floor. I tried to be as quiet as possible so he wouldn’t notice me. “Where have you been?” I took a few steps down.
“Just outside.”
“I heard the weather isn’t expected to be good this week. It’s better if you stay home.”
“I’m just about to keep myself all week here.” He’s now holding some tools in his hands. When I look at my dad now, I only see a sorrowful man who seems to have forgotten his own daughter. Even though it pains me to watch him struggle every day, my anger continues to grow each day as well. If he's allowed to act like this, I'm allowed to feel this way too. I don’t hold him responsible for what happened but I do hold him accountable for my emotions. He let me go and I never brought it up. But this pain is becoming more severe with every day that goes by. “It would be great to have some friends over. . . whatever you do now.”
“I’ll probably just nap the entire day.”
“If that's what you want.” He kept gathering items from the floor and trying to consolidate them into a larger container. “Your Uncle Maxwell could use some help at the farm. The job would be easier if I went with him.”
I’m aware that he lies to me about it everytime but this is getting too much. “Don’t you think it’s a bit early to have a drink?”
He paused and gazed at me with a look of confusion. I moved away from my spot to make sure he saw me. “N-no. I'm working. I’m—” He came to a realization and took a seat again. “W-what am I supposed to do here?" He asked himself without making eye contact with me.
He seems uncertain about what to do. I pressed my lips together and turned away, fighting back my tears. Because I realize he’ll probably overlook his daughter’s pain and not even ask her about it. It tears me apart to see him bearing this pain and using alcohol to numb the reality, making my heart ache even further. We’re both wounded and that’s a profound connection we share. My anger stems not from the mess he makes each day, but the fact that he left me to face it alone after all this time. “Dad please, talk to me.” Tears continue to stream down and I knew I can no longer hold them back. I found myself gasping as I tried to catch my breath while sobbing.
“You know that I can't do this alone.” I kept crying, regardless of whether he saw me or walks away, I needed to unload this feeling. “I-I can't.”
“I’m sorry, My Carilee.” I raised my head as soon as I heard his voice crack when he said my full name once more. I believe I can handle my own pain, but witnessing my father break down and express years of regret is more than I can bear.
“L-life without your Mom. . . we had dreams. I tried fighting it for you b-but, I fail each day, Cari. And it feels like it never ends.” I tried to stay silent because I just wanted to move closer to him and hold him tightly. But after his words, he just disappeared from my view as if our fleeting conversation had never taken place. Yet, here I am, standing alone once again, feeling the sting of abandonment as sharply as the first time it happened. There’s a particular kind of pain in realizing that someone you cared for has a pattern of leaving you in moments of need.
