Bubbly

New Edit: Unfortunately, I didn't win the Wattpad Scholarship (cue sad face) , but congratulations to all the winners and honorable mentions!! Thank you for all who have read.

"Tell us a true story about something that has impacted your life (and helped shape who you are today)."

The phone rang. My mother answered the call with an upbeat greeting as I sat at the dining table waiting for my father to come home for work. His birthday cake, candles delicately placed on top, was starting to melt. I wondered why my father had not come home. Watching my mother, I noticed her complexion slowly turn ashen as the caller continued to talk. My mother's words stuck to my mind-husband, suicidal, unstable, and hospital.

My father had checked himself into the hospital under suicidal tendencies. The words repeated over and over again in my mind as my mother and I rushed to the hospital to see him. We wondered about his state of mind and body. Each minute that passed by felt like hours, but eventually, the door opened and I saw my father. My first impulse was to run towards him for a big hug, something I had done since childhood, but the sight of him stopped me.

Who was this disheveled stranger before me? I paused and scrutinized my father's weary, bloodshot eyes and graying, thin hair. Where did the spark in my father's eyes go, and who replaced him?

My mother and I sat in a drab room to give our family privacy in the hospital. The off-white walls and rotten egg floor tiles were surreal; my father was alive and sitting across from me. I shifted uncomfortably on the cold, plastic chair and sneaked glances at my parents. The air was thick with tension and my mother's voice cracked as she asked, "Why?" I expected to feel sorrowful or sympathy for my father, but all I felt was confusion and numbness. I didn't understand the situation, whether or not I was supposed to console him or shriek at him. There was a sense of betrayal as I sat there alone with a multitude of questions to ask. The words were trapped in my throat as my mother argued heatedly with my father. They raised their voices, breaking the initial silence in a painful manner. I didn't want to hear them argue yet again. I wanted answers, not more fights.

They continued to fight. He blamed her for his mental illness, for his miserable life. She blamed his illness on his mother, who nurtured him incompetently. The insults went on, the fingers continued to point at one another. I continued to shrink into my chair.

I sat there helplessly. This was a family matter, but the topic seemed reserved for adults. I found myself in an uncomfortable position as I watched my carefree, compassionate father cry openly. Quiet sobs escaped his mouth. Tears rushed down his cheeks. I wanted to question him about everything, but was too scared to break this already fragile man. My heart cried with him as I watched silently as he broke down. His teardrops marked my transition from childhood to adulthood.

And it was only the beginning of a long, but rocky relationship with my father.

I was a mere eighth grader, caught up with then important matters like boy crushes, grades, and extracurriculars. My parents argued a couple times daily; I used to think they could argue about anything they wanted. Still, I knew arguments were typical in marriages, so I didn't think twice. That is, until my father had depression.

His depression hit me in a different way. I was a "daddy's girl," always spending quality time with him. We were close, so when he had depression I felt the bond we shared had shattered. I was confused. At that time, I was experiencing the foreign disease called puberty. I worried over the changes in my body, not the changes in my home. Heck, I did not grasp the slightest bit of understanding what depression was: I knew it was a synonym for sadness. Thus, I believed my father was sad and he would eventually get over it. Obviously, it wasn't so. His depression dragged on for years. I didn't really know how to react to his negative outlook on life; nobody in our family knew how to react. Our family felt no longer a family as we walked on eggshells around him. Our home no longer felt like home, but a war zone of screams.