The idea of simply my mother, sister and I is almost sinfully appealing.
I say this because my father has, as I'm sure is apparent, been "enraged" for the past days. And, as per usual, the cogs that make my family dynamic "tick" are beginning to rust and wear. Basically, it's becoming aggravating and annoying to the point that it surpasses it's initial fear factor, so to speak. I'm tired. I'm tired, and I don't even have to put up with a fraction of the dilemmas my mother and sister do.
And that baffles me, that makes me so furious and confused and heart broken. I can never understand why he favors me. I do nothing. I am not kind, I am not selfless, I do not have bright aspirations that are inspirational enough that one could write a book on said goals alone. I'm not important, I'm not exceptionally aesthetically appealing, I don't compromise like my mother does, I'm not mind-blowingly sociable like my sister is.
So why?
Why does he rage at my sister, why does he yell at my mother? Why not me? If given the chance, I'd willingly take on all my mother and sister have to go through. Because they deserve to be loved and respected, they're incredible, admirable women. I'm just a whiny, somewhat "emo" teenage girl. And yet he "favors" me the most.
And like I said, I'm tired.
I find myself wildly wishing that my parents were divorced. But then my inner voice of reason and logic and dullness pipes up and reminds me somewhat chidingly of what I already know full well; what the repercussions of the separation would be. Sometimes I find it almost frightening, the clarity with which I "predict" the future.
If they were to divorce, my mother to separate herself from him and keep custody of both my sister and I, my father would have little to live for, I imagine. His job is depressing and fiercely hated. He doesn't really have many "guy friends", to go to bars and watch sports with. He already drinks beer a tad bit more often then widely accepted, I can only imagine he'd turn to it full force. He used to smoke before my sister was born. Knowing his personality, I wouldn't put it past him to return to the practice.
He'd dissolve.
It curls my stomach, but if it were to happen, I also wouldn't deny the possibility of suicide. And no matter how mad he gets, how aggravating and testosterone-fueled he can be, he's still my father. He still built me a trundle bed when I was little, still celebrated the holiday my sister and I made up where one had to wear socks on their hands and underwear on their head. He's still my father, and even if I think sometimes it'd be better, just the three of us, I could still never wish those results of a separation of the man whom I call dad.
I don't know how my mother does it. She's been married to him for over 20 years. How does that even work? How? I'm not sure, frankly, whether I'm disgusted or awed that they've been together so long. Their relationship is an odd one.
And one of the problems, I think, with the problems, is that there's not physical abuse. There's never a need for him to swear never to do it again only to wait a few weeks and begin again. There's no bruises for coworkers to ask my mom about in low tones. Which sucks, to be blunt, because just because it's not visibly apparent, there's still bruises and scars. His actions are always affecting my personality, psyche, lifestyle, dramatically. It's because of him that I am never going to marry, never going to allow myself to fall in love because everyone will always have flaws and people are always, always changing, evolving and morphing, their new experiences and memories and knowledge shaping them into some one different then whom you first met and there is no such thing as a Prince Charming because eventually he'll just evolve into some one else and there's nothing to be done about it, no one should try and prevent it because that's what humans do.
We evolve.
And his actions have affected my evolution. It affects what I do when there's a tense situation, when I only peek out behind my bedroom door when I need to eat. I'm never going to be the type of girl who'll get equally mad, who'll stomp and yell right back. I'll dart around in the corner of your eye, collect what I need for a night or a day or maybe both and retreat to my room, akin to a squirrel burrowing down for the winter. I'm a coward like that, I suppose. It's what I do. It severely affects my life plan, since I never intend to marry. I never intend to fall in love. And although that's not necessarily singularly his fault, seeing my parents (who have a pretty good marriage, in comparison to some people) in these situations impacts me more strongly then the regular displays of bittersweet romance do. It just resolves me even more so to never "open my heart", or whatever cliche line floats your fancy.
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