It began with conversations at school. I had a few friends, and I began to speak blasé about certain truths. We were all burdened. And though likely unhealthy, we were all desperate for understanding. Trauma, and weighted stories were shared, like reflections on the weather. I spoke of my mother. “Yeah, she’ll hit me. She gets very suspicious and is convinced that I’m out to get her. Happens every few weeks.”. At times, what I would say would draw concern. One of these friends had an aunt who was schizophrenic, and was often confused. “Is your mom not taking any medicine?” In those conversations, I began to be consumed. I learned there were options, things that could help. With the revelation, I began to anger. Firstly at myself, at how I didn’t know. How I didn’t think to check. With my mother, it was always just the way things were. A resignation to self. I then began to anger for my mother. She could have been living a fuller life. And as I sat with it, at the end of my path stood my father. I hated him, for his lack of care, but this realization carried malice. He didn’t simply “not care,” he chose inaction.
“Why isn’t mom medicated?”. I hadn’t shut the door before the questions were out of my mouth. Before, I was standing in front of my father. His poorly kept frame, cloths wrinkled, and stained, seated deeply in his recliner chair. As he lowered his paper to look at me, I saw him for the first time. Saw the malice that underlined him. At how he was the arbiter of my destruction, of hers. He just looked. “She doesn’t want to be,” he said simply. Turning back to his paper as if that were enough. And I boiled. Every moment of my life fueling the fire I felt. I snacked his paper away and threw it to the floor. “Bullshit, she doesn’t want it; she needs i-” Before I could finish, he was up, his hand around my throat, pushing me back by it until I came to slam into the adjacent wall. I couldn’t breathe. The fire didn’t leave but fear took president. I was scared. I imagine he saw this fear as he tightened his grip. “Speak to me like that again, and see where it gets you.” Eventually, after a few missed breaths, he let me go. Shaking his hand out as if he had hurt it. He had me held slightly off the floor, so as he released me, I crumpled to the carpet below. Without consideration, he grabbed his paper and sat once more. I sat for only a moment, staring at that paper. I’d considered how I’d talk to mom, how I’d find a time he wasn’t there to tell her there were other options, but as my throat ached I imagined hers. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t die trying. And with resignation, and anger still low in my belly, I got up. Not looking at him, never looking at him again.