As soon as I wrapped up work at Sam's place, I headed straight home only to be greeted by the chaos of clutter throughout our living room. The wallpaper that's been in place since my childhood is now gone, completely ripped from the walls, leaving a stark empty space that looks worse than the old worn furniture. Our living room, once a space where I could stretch out on the floor comfortably, now appears nearly empty except for a jumble of items piled in one corner. As I tried to make sense of the surprise, I glanced around and noticed my father sitting exhaustedly on the floor, surrounded by a collection of tools and bottles of alcohol.
“Dad.”
I can’t tell how long he’s been staring blankly into the void. I called out to him twice, but he didn’t seem to hear me. He remains completely still. I set my belongings down on the floor and approached him, carefully moving his tools to prevent any accidents.
“Dad. . . what happened?”
I’m doing my best to stay calm despite the situation, especially since my head is already tired from the early work and the situation with Laurel. I come back home to find my father once again in a dismal state in the corner, expecting that I would go straight to my room and take a moment to relax from the day’s occurrences. Quietly wishing that I’ve come up with a way to resolve things with Laurel. It was clear that I had given her a reason to be mad at me. Not the usual annoyed expression she typically directs at me. I don’t feel equipped to handle this situation right now, but I need to take the drink from him. “What are you doing?” As I was about to reach for it, he unexpectedly grabbed my hand. “Just leave me alone, Cari.”
I moved back from where I had been, biting my lips and placed my hands on my hips. I began to breathe rapidly causing my whole body to tremble. I kept reminding myself to stick to his instructions and do what I was originally meant to do, especially when I saw him around the house, head resting on the table, eyes closed, and needing the alcohol. I could see myself becoming exhausted by everything. I felt a sense of dismay every time I came home to find his mess. I found myself begging to turn a blind eye and I’m frustrated with myself for believing I could be the one to change him.
“What do you want, Dad? You want me to leave?” I still didn't receive a response from him.
“Honestly, I’m not going to question why you're drinking again. I just want to understand why you did all of this. Because of what?” My voice began to tremble and the tears I had been trying to hold back started streaming down my face, making it impossible for me to look at him. The only thing I’m aware of is the depth of my pain. I desire to understand him more fully. “I-I’m tired of dealing with this. Whatever this is.”
I feel hurt when I think about how he used to act towards me and everything else. He was a careful individual. He disliked disorder and was tidier around the house than Mom, always ensuring everything was in order. I hardly recognize him now. “Just leave, Cari.”
“No! Tell me what is wrong with you?”
“I said just leave!” His voice cracked with emotion and tears flowed as he waved his hand, urging me to go. Seeing him cry so painfully made my chest ache and I couldn't help but softly whimper as I looked away. “I want you to leave. Just go.”
“Why can't you just tell me, Dad?”
I'm feeling deeply wounded by this. My heart raced as I confronted this once more, with unresolved questions still swirling in my mind since he began this. My whole body feels so vulnerable that all I desire at this moment is to cease my unusual sobbing. But I just can’t, the pain is overwhelming, making my tears flow uncontrollably while my neck is drenched with perspiration. I could only fold my hands over my face and let the tears flow freely. This kind of pain is unlike any other. In the depths of my heart, there's just a heavy load of emotions I can't put out of my sight. As I stand here, tears welling up in my eyes, the weight of my thoughts feels unbearable. The world around me blurs as I struggle to make sense of the pain that courses through me. Every breath feels like heavy and the ache in my heart seems boundless.
“Get out of this house while you still have the chance, Carilee. You will only be shattered by what’s inside here for the rest of your life.” I’m unable to stop myself from crying. He's just there, like he knows what he's talking about. I'm in pain and all he could say to me is leave, as if he’s telling me to give up everything and desert the place that’s been my anchor since I felt so alone. And I still feel completely abandoned.
“And now you're pushing me away?”
“Y-you should go. I've seen how much you've changed. You d-deserve a better life. I could never give that to you.” He wants me to go and I’m at a loss for how to react. Should I be grateful for the chance to finally distance myself from him, or is this a feeling I hadn’t considered before?
Maybe he’s right after all. If I act on it now I wouldn’t call it leaving, I’d consider it moving on. Happiness began in this house but in the end, misery always takes over and will persist as long as I stay here. And I came to understand that I truly want to embrace life. It could be about living with diminished confidence, which I don't need given that I have people I trust in my life. Since I’ve never depended on others before, I believe it’s fine to allow them in. Maybe it involves experimenting with distractions, like those women online, such as starting my day with a cup of coffee, even though I didn’t enjoy it the first time I tried it. I can’t control my melancholic feelings, but I can find something—or someone—to hold on to.
“I don’t want to continue living like this.” I murmured to myself as I wiped my face, wet with sweat and tears. “It’s time for me to go, Dad.”
“Maybe the three of us will be together again before long.” I went immediately to my room to pack, with tears beginning to flow again. Growing up here, I faced a series of challenges that made the house feel like a battleground. Each room bore witness to my tears, my frustrations, and my feelings of isolation. The living room, once a place where I should have felt safe, became a stage for endless arguments and conflicts. My bedroom, instead of being a haven, was where I lay awake at night, consumed by anxiety and loneliness. The kitchen, where meals should have been a source of nourishment often felt like a place of tension and conflicts. Despite the pain, there were moments of fleeting happiness, but they were overshadowed by the pervasive sense of misery that seemed to define my experience here. It’s as if I am shedding a part of myself that has been shaped by this house. There is a bittersweet quality to this departure, I am leaving behind a place that has been central to my life, but I am also breaking free from the shadows that have long loomed over me.
