reality of love

01

Love; ləv/noun
an intense feeling of deep emotion.

Some people believe it exist, some people don't, I'm more on the latter. Maybe it was because of the hidden tints of violet on my mom's hands and neck, or because of how it's shown in the movies. In the movies it always showed it as something that was amazing. When I was a kid, I couldn't wait to fall in love. It was always something I have dreamed about, me sitting in a café while he orders a coffee. He sees me and I see him, we smile and fall in love.

I've always thought that love was such a wonderful thing, something that can change peoples lives, make them happier. That's what the movies have shown me and my mom and dad? God, I thought they would never separate, but then they did.

When I was seven, my mom had started to wear more turtle necks and long sleeved shirts. She would never pull the sleeves up, never showing me her arms and wrist. I thought it was just something she was obsessed about.

When I was ten, I saw them fight for the first time, I still remember it like yesterday. I was having a hard time finishing my homework, my dad was still out with his friends while my mom was home, it was at ten p.m. when it happened. He came home drunk, I was gonna run up to him. I was gonna hug him and greet him good evening but I was too scared about him scolding me for being awake, so I hid behind a bookshelf. 

My mom walks up to him and frowns, saying something about being home late, again. My dad, in response, pointed at her face and said, "Listen to me bitch, you do not get to tell me when I should go home. I'm the man, I run the house." And he slaps her. He walks away and I see my mom wipe a stray tear on her cheek.

"Why is the house messy?" He shouts at my mom. My mom's eyes widened in fear of what he was about to do. He put his hand around her neck while the other was slapping her, "I work my ass off at work, and I go home to this?" He shouts, my mom shaking as the tears run down her face.

I shake my head. "This was all a bad dream," I kept on repeating to myself, "My dad wouldn't do that," I thought, but then I hear the slapping noises getting louder and louder- harder and harder each slap.

I didn't sleep well that night, and the rest of the nights following. I laid on my bed while my father screams at the top of his lungs.

"I could stop this," I thought, but I didn't. I was too scared to get hit, too scared to admit that this wasn't just a bad dream. They would stop arguing at about two in the morning, I would hear a door slam. In the room besides mine, I would hear the faint sobbing from my mom. In the morning, they would act like everything was fine, like the night before didn't happen.

Years past and my mom's bruises were more noticeable. She would have then on her cheeks and her legs. The fights got worse until one day my dad sees me. He sees hiding behind the bookshelves next to the door. I got punched in the stomach while my mom kept on screaming at him to stop. He stops, only to slap my mom and shouts at her to shut up. I was fourteen when he started to hit me. His main places were my stomach, my neck, my cheek and my thighs. He kept on screaming at me that I was a mistake and that this was all my fault, that it was because of me.

I tried to help my mom, I cleaned the house, I helped cooking the food, I hid all the liquor. I have thought of going to the police but kept on dismissing the thought. "Telling them will only make it worse," That was my excuse.

My dad left us when I was sixteen. My mom told me a week after that he moved to a country in Asia, somewhere in Seria, from what I've heard. I was happy, I thought that with him gone, my mom would be happy again. But she wasn't.

It was on the twenty-eighth of May, seven days after my eighteenth birthday when mom took her own life. She downed a whole bottle of sleeping pills while I was at school. I came home to see her lifeless body on the floor with a note saying, "Dear Eden, I'm sorry. Everything has been a little too much for me. Please don't blame yourself, you couldn't have prevented anything. I transferred all the money in your bank account. Be safe." I didn't have the energy to cry, I just stared at the piece of paper. After a minute from reading the note, I called the cops, "My mom killed herself." was all I said then hanged up. Minutes later, the cops arrive. They bombard me with questions. I didn't answer, I just kept on staring at the piece of paper. She left me. I was kind of relieved, knowing that she's in a better place now, knowing that my dad couldn't hurt her anymore.

Later that night, at ten p.m. I burst out in tears. My mom was gone, I finally realized. I didn't stop crying until late in the afternoon when my aunt came. She was in another state when it happened, she received the call and flew back here. She hugged me until I stopped crying and she gave me water and soup.

"You have two choices love, either live with me or live alone with yourself." She told me after I was done eating.

I chose to live by myself, not wanting to be a burden to anyone else's life. I moved to a house in Los Angeles, close to my old house. My aunt kept on transferring me money, even when I said I didn't need any. I already had a job, I worked at a small bakery close to my apartment and decided to do online school because I kept on breaking down in front of everyone in school.

Ever since my mom died, I have been having nightmares about her. Waking up in the middle of the night, screaming. I throw up everything I had at dinner and stay awake while watching movies.

It was always like that. In the morning, my alarm would go off at eight in the morning. I would walk to the bakery and served people with cakes, sometimes receiving some winks from guys. At twelve in the afternoon my shift would end and I walk back to my house, laying down on my bed and answer shit for school then stare at my screen while listening to music after. At nine p.m. my stomach would grumble after having nothing from the day and I would order pizza. At ten is when I would try to sleep, just laid in my bed and focused on trying to sleep.

That cycle would repeat, occasionally my aunt would visit and clean the apartment since I have no energy and determination of doing so. She would tell me to visit a therapist, saying that she'll pay for everything. I always kept on saying no to it until one day she cried to me. "I don't wanna see you like this Eden, please. You're the only family I have left and I don't wanna see you rot in your apartment." She pleaded and I accepted. I would go monday, wednesday and friday at four, sometimes I don't have the energy for it so she ends up going to me.

It was like this for two years, it never changed. Until I moved to a proper house, my own house. My aunt helping me move, helping me pay for the furniture. I still had my therapist, still did online school, I had another job at an art store and I was still having my nightmares. My therapist knows about them, she told me that every time I would wake up, I should count to sixty until I calmed down. Every time I would start panicking, I should focus on my breathing and count to sixty. When I broke down in tears she said I should just let it flow and after I have calmed down, I write it down a notebook she gave me. I never wrote down anything, too sad to do anything after I broke down.

I didn't improve in my emotional state but I still continued on the therapy sessions just for my aunt. It stayed like this for a year, until my next door neighbor came.