Because You Are a Liar and a Cheat.

He was gone. Out of the house, and with hope out of our lives. But my mother knew all too well that he would be back, and when he came back he wanted the house.

For a few weeks my step-dad was gone, completely out of contact with anyone. He had told my mother he was leaving, packed some things, and left. They had been together for 15 years and just like that he was gone.

I went on to graduate high school, on time might I add, which was a huge achievement. He had been with me throughout my journey whether he liked it or not, and when this beyond important date finally came he was not present. He had vanished just like that. One minute we were bonding over life and the next he had moved on. Deemed us no longer worthy to be in his life, just like that, with a snap of his fingers.

When he came back he forced my mother into a corner, either get out of the house or pay him what he owned. His name was on the title, making him the half owner of the house even though my mother first purchased the house and paid it on her own for 3 years. My mother, still going through cancer treatments, decided she would just pay him off. What choice did she have? She wasn’t going to let him take everything and get away with it.

He was stubborn. Not for a million years did he think she would settle, and he came at her with everything saying that he owned more than he did. He argued over the money for months. My mother had to take out a loan in order to pay him back, and days before the closing fee was due he backed out. He said he refused to pay his part, so to get rid of him my mother paid his fee. All of this just to stay in our house, the only house I have ever known. Why did he do this, oh for the money of course. Part of this property he owned, and with that came money, even if it was a trivial amount.

Later he came and took the rest of his things. His brother helped him move the stuff out, the brother that was closer to my mother than my step-dad. They took meaningless things, but it was still the act of coming into our house and removing items that I have grown up with. It was like I was reliving what I did years before with my father. I was losing memories, even if they were held in material items.

My mother stood stoic on the front lawn as they removed piece after piece. I followed them around the house to make sure they weren’t taking things they weren’t supposed to. After the truck was loaded up they were gone.

That was the last time I ever saw him or spoke to him.

So why did he do all of this? Why did he rip a family apart? His reasoning was because he was finding himself, that this journey he was going through did not include us. He was adopted as an infant and grew up with these feeling of abandonment, then he had two children it turns out he didn’t want and in turn practically abandoned. These feelings are what he blamed for leaving. He added that he couldn’t handle our medical problems, that it was just too hard for him. So he left.

My mother did more for that man than he ever deserved. He never opened up to her except in the end when he was looking for a scapegoat. My mother raised his children, fought battle after battle for him to have better custody, told him what to say to have a real bond with his children, paid for everything and anything all on her own even though she too was sick and struggling. She did all of that for him, so that he could have a good relationship with them. Well it turns out they were both mistakes that he never wanted.

My mother’s last name revolves around Valentine’s day and she was born only 3 days after the holiday, so pretty much Valentine’s day was her day. In all 15 years he never once took her out or bought her a present. He viewed it as meaningless which meant he could care less. He viewed every holiday as meaningless. For Christmas my mother would go out and buy his children gifts so that they had something to open from their father. My mother did everything for him. In his weakest moments she was there to pick up the pieces. Well it turns out it was all for nothing.When the pressure was on him he couldn’t handle being a real man. He was a coward all along.

He was cheating. All along it was another woman. All the lies that came out of his mouth were to cover his own ass to make him feel better. Apparently saying that you’re leaving because you need to find yourself makes the guilt less than saying what is really going on. Apparently that makes it all okay.

The moment we knew was when he accidentally sent a check (which was so small that it didn’t make sense, years later we figured out it might have been him sending money for the closing fee?) with his address on it. An address we looked up, which was owned by a woman, a woman who went to the same yoga studio as him, a woman he had wrote about in his yoga journal. She was younger than him, had her own house, and was on this spiritual journey. Just like he “was”. She was living the lifestyle he wanted, and unknown to us they ended up together.

Both my mother and I drive by the house often since it is on a main road going to the local hub of the area. His ancient car sits in the driveway. The man that refused to buy anything found a new host to mooch off of. His charm is never ending and clearly she was as easily fooled as my mother.

liar

What he does is mooch off of people. He has this innate desire to save, save, save. For what? We will never know. At this point he would have close or over a million dollars. Yet he has nothing to his name. He has a car that is falling apart, no property to call his own, no relationship with his only family, and no interest in marriage or anything.. He essentially has nothing. But yet he must think he has everything. He gets to live in another house, pay nothing, live the lifestyle he wants, and pretty much get away with murder.

He left us. He abandoned us. A ran running away from his own turmoil with abandonment went and left his closest family. And he didn’t even care. He had a family that loved him and was working with him. Sure it needed some serious help but when something is worth it you never give up. And you never leave when he did with my mother still battling cancer and me struggling to get out of bed every day.

The day he removed his things was the last time we heard from him. He has never contacted my mother. Contacting me would be a joke, I wasn’t even on his radar to begin with. That was 4 years ago and I have no doubt for the rest of our lives we will never hear from him again.

And at the exact same time I don’t care. To me he is nothing more than a liar and a cheat.

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War Zones and Failed Ceasefires

It was another night of screaming. Another night of hiding behind my bed trying not to make a sound. They were going at it again, my mother and my step-dad, and I couldn’t help but listen. I heard the argument get more heated than ever, then the crash of something, then the footsteps upstairs. I quivered, I knew it was my mother. She came in and told me to stay in my room, that he had called the police on her.

I waited in my room while the police came in and questioned everyone. Apparently my mother had “scratched” him when he threatening to call the police with the phone in hand. He had already dialed 911 and by the time my mother whacked it out of his hand they were on their way.

The house was quiet after the police left. I went downstairs to stay with my mother and make sure she wasn’t going to do anything she would regret. He sat in the lazy boy chair my mother bought him. As my mother told me what happened in the kitchen he decided to make some sly comments from the living room, making it obvious for my mother to hear. He was egging her on just like he always did, and my mother still hadn’t calmed down from the incident right before. I stood in the doorway to the kitchen with my arms stretched out to block my mother from coming through. He made comment after comment, fueling my mother’s fire. As she was screaming at the top of her lungs I blocked her, I at least contained it to the kitchen. He sat in his chair, never leaving, just spitting fire. I screamed at my mother he isn’t worth it. I kept yelling it over and over and over again. Eventually I led my mother upstairs to her room and made sure she wasn’t coming out.

Fights like this were now happening on a regular.

The next week they were fighting yet again and I came downstairs to be a mediator. This was my role now, no matter how sick I was. Being the mediator came with the danger of failing, which I did many nights. This time though I screamed at him to leave, go to the movies or something. All he heard was leave and with this he was in my face spitting anger of how this was his house. Yet again a father figure inches from my face exploding. My mother quickly put herself in front of me and finished the fight without me. As time passed I started fighting back. I would spit fire right back at him. I would shake and cry and keep going until he shut up. I was done with him walking over everyone just because he was taking a different path.

The fights were over many things. Mostly over me, or the financial situation. In his head my medical condition was a joke, that I was faking it. After all the years of him being a support. He literally carried me out of the house to be taken to the hospital. He saw how sick I was. He saw everything that had happened to me. He might have no been an active player in my life but he was there to see it all happen. The financial situation was grim with my mother on unemployment dealing with her cancer treatment and he well, he saved. He refused to spend any money. He paid half the mortgage and that was it. My mother’s half, even though she was fighting cancer, was still up to her to pay.

This man said he was finding himself. When he came up short he took it out on my mother. Soon they just stopped talking all together. The house was a war zone with only a minute ceasefire put into place.

As the months passed of the two of them not talking I actually surprisingly bonded with him. I had no one else to talk to so on nights when he was home we would talk. We talked about his life and his journey. At one point I even was happy for him because he deserved to be happy. I thought if he could find himself then he could mend the relationship with my mother and all would be well again. Plus with neither of them talking the house was quiet and the tension faded.

I was wrong.

A few weeks before my prom I was sitting on the sofa, my mother in a horrible mood, and I decided to make a sly comment. I remember saying, “god, what is up your butt today”. The most teenage thing to say of course. Little did I know that exact day was when he decided he was leaving for good.

When prom arrived I still had no idea what was going on. My mother had composed herself and put on a happy face. My aunt came down to see me off to prom and enjoy this once in a lifetime experience. During pictures was when I realized he wasn’t present. I remember asking where he was, I wanted to take a picture with him. He had gone inside and eventually left for “yoga”.

A week later my mother came to me and told me what was going on. He was moving out, he had already found a place to stay and refused to tell my mother where he was going. She told me she asked one night that it would be nice to see more of him, and that she missed him, his response was that he was leaving and ready to go.

The day I made that sly comment was the day he told her.

She argued with him while in complete shock. His mind was made up. He was already gone anyways. It was a losing battle.

He told her during the week, and by the weekend he took only a handful of things and was gone. He took the drawers and emptied them into boxes, really only taking some clothes and some electronics. Then he was gone.

But it wasn’t over, the worst was yet to come.

dying

Husk of a Man

When on the journey of finding oneself does ripping up others matter? Does the cost of your happiness mean more to you than all the others around you? Are you yourself doing what is actually right, or doing what you perceive as right?

I thought these things as he sat in front of me, no remorse in his face, no hint of pain in his eyes. He said he was leaving to find himself and he couldn’t find himself here. He said this is what he needed to do, and with that he walked out the door and walked out on a family that was left torn in half.

My mother met my step-dad when she was with my father very early on and they all became great friends. Eventually my godfather was introduced and the final gang was formed. Everyone got married and had kids, and still stayed together as a pack. They vacationed together and hung out together, and when it was finally time for my mother to leave my abusive father they stayed with her instead of him.

One after the other they all got divorced, and as fate saw it my mother ended up in a relationship with my step-dad. When my mother was able to she bought her first house and a few years later my step-dad moved in. I couldn’t be happier. He had two kids of his own my age and I grew up with them by my side. Of course he didn’t have custody so it was only on occasion I saw them, but during my summers off I bonded with them every moment I got. And I truly bonded to my step-dad since he was more of a father figure than my own dad. Together we formed this nontraditional family that just seemed to fit.

In the early years the two of them seemed so happy together. It seemed like it was meant to be, that my mother after all of this time could be in a happy healthy relationship. But it was far from what it turned out to be. Year after year my medical condition got worse, and with that brought problems. Then when I finally took my father to court it was the last straw. The home life turned for the worst and the fighting started to spiral out of control. My teenage years I spent in my room, away from the nights where punches were practically thrown. My mother with her temper and my step-dad with his below the belt punches. There was no stopping them. The screaming would go on for hours and even when it was over he would go back for more. Neither of them were happy, but my mother insisted he was the love of her life. He was meant to be with her, and she was meant to be with him.

Around the same time as my POTS diagnosis came the shocking news of my mother having breast cancer. I remember being in my room and they both come in, both with half smiles on their face. He leaned up against the wall and my mother sat next to me. She told me they had found a mass in her breast and it came back cancerous. I was in shock. How could this have happened to my mother? She explained that it was only stage 1 and that it did not spread, but it was one of the most aggressive forms of cancer and she needed further treatment. My mother being who she is opted for just the radiation therapy and biweekly injections of a substance that would shut down the proteins of those cells. They pushed for chemo but opinion after opinion said that she didn’t really need to get it since it was only stage 1 and did not spread. They did want to give her a port though, which she said no to because then she would have to tell people since you could see the port. Without the port though her veins would be ruined. She accepted this fate if it meant she could hide this diagnosis from the world. She was fighting for her life and the only people she told was my step-dad and me. No one else in the family was told for her own sake, since then everyone would want to help her. My mother is the strongest woman I know and she didn’t want to be pitied. Telling people would just make them look at her weak, as someone who is now fighting for her life. She wanted nothing to do with that.

After a botched tube was placed for her pinpoint radiation therapy she had to go back in for more surgery. Each time she would come home and my step-dad was in charge of helping her clean the open wound and helping support her. She was sliced and diced, and came home often with blood soaking through the bandages. She couldn’t come to me in her weakened state because in her eyes that was not right to show me, she had to be the caregiver, not the other way around. She never cried in front of me. She never broke down in front of me. The entire time I saw her as a fighter, which gave me strength to go on in my own fight.

On top of everything else my mother was going through she was forced to resign from work because of the recovery period. In her mind it was the right thing to do, since battling cancer and holding a job in corporate America isn’t exactly the easiest thing to do. Plus this gave her the time to watch after me since I was also extremely weak and vulnerable.

By the summer of my junior year of high school I saw less and less of my step-dad. I was told he was working late. He would roll in around 10pm and would be gone before I woke up in the morning. I always heard him come in since my window faces the driveway.

And for about a year he was sleeping in the spare, apparently due to snoring (which let me tell you he did. I heard him through the walls). Then it was because my mother didn’t want someone else in bed with her during the cancer treatment. Then it was just normal, they just didn’t sleep together. There was never any affection. It was a cold house of him just being there. It was either he was there and they fought or he wasn’t there and my mother would make excuses. That was now the norm.

As my senior year rolled around and I was homebound yet again he came to us with exciting news. He had started yoga classes and joined the local YMCA. I was a little shocked honestly. This man was 6’3, easily almost 300 lbs, not exactly the yoga type. But that is what he wanted to do, and to keep him happy my mother supported him. As months went on his training took a more serious tone and he turned into this man that none of us knew. This man we knew was turning crooked. He had branched out of what either of us knew. The status quo was being challenged and he broke away from what was expected of him. But this left uncovered a dead man who wanted nothing more to reblossom.

huskHis life was yoga. There was nothing else. He decided he wanted to be trained to be a yoga master and yet again my mother supported him. He would come home with all of this weird information, come home saying that yoga can cure anything, come home saying that yoga would cure my mother of cancer and cure me of all my illnesses. He was crazed with the idea of being reborn. He wanted to cleanse his body of all evil spirits and be new again.

He juiced like crazy, far more than recommended. He would fast for weeks in order to cleanse his body. Overall this large Italian man was turning into a husk of nothing. The light in his eyes was gone yet the smile on his face remained. The wrinkles grew along his thinning face. He was turning into a man that no one had ever seen before.

The longer he went on this now spiritual journey the farther away he drifted from both my mother and me, but the full abandonment was not far away and not either of us saw it coming.

The Wound That Never Heals

This is a continuation of my journey with my father, read part one, part two, part three, or part four.
There are always consequences to your actions, even if you are just a child. I didn’t know what was going to happen next in regards to my father, in my brain I guessed taking the initial action would be enough. I would never ever have to face him again, I wouldn’t have to fear what was coming next. But I was young, and I was oh so naive.

The first round of court was focused on making my father out to be neglecting. Our first lawyer said the abuse claim wouldn’t hold up in court since there was no actual “abuse”. That was like a slap in the face, even our lawyer didn’t believe I was in danger. I was told what to say and how to say it, nothing which was actually true. Because I was a minor most of the talking was on my mother’s end since she held custody. But what doomed me was the fact I verbally agreed to do week on week off with my parents and both of them signed. Although it was not court officiated it was used against me that first round. We couldn’t even take the case past the lower judge since my lawyer royally screwed us over. So at the end of this I was forced to see my father as I was before and if I didn’t they would hold my mother in contempt of court.

But to my surprise my father didn’t want me. He of course didn’t say it in front of a judge because if he said that then the all mighty dollar would come back into play. By stating he didn’t want me he would be forced to pay child support. I couldn’t stand to be around him. And worst of all he was trying to make it seem like nothing happened, that I was overreacting to the entire situation. I would be lectured over and over. The family outing tripled. The car rides were excruciating. I had nowhere to hide. I was trapped and that was that. If I didn’t do everything he wanted I was psychologically messed with. The family friend would make comments about me to my face, then trade off to my father who would mock anything I do. The two openly discussed how horrible my mother was and that I was just like her. It was never ending. Then on top of that my father was pushing me further and further into the school nightmare. He would watch every homework assignment I had to complete. If I didn’t complete it to his likings well I better do it again, and again, and again. There was no asking for help. I did it right the first time or I was a failure. This was drilled into me until I broke down inside and knew I was a failure who would never be smart enough.

When I went to my mother for a second time I asked her if we could pursue the custody issue again but this time with a different lawyer. This time we won, we pursued the abuse issue and the courts dissolved the matter of me going there every week. My mother and him discussed on the phone how I would come over on weekends like before, and no fight was to be had. Those weekends were painful. Those weekends I shut off, I couldn’t stand to be in that house. I eventually stopped going because my father’s rage was clearly building again, and if he exploded in front of me again I just don’t know what he would have done. When my mother went to the court to have child support put back into place my father lost it. He was threatening my mother in front of two lawyers and a judge. Even his lawyer screamed at him to shut up but with no success. The last time I saw my father was that last day in court. He sat next to us waiting to be seen and tried to talk to me like it was any other day. He was unapologetic. He still thought I was making everything up. He truly believed my mother was the one doing all of this and that I was just following her lead. He had no idea what he had done and what he was doing.

I haven’t actually had any contact with my father since then, he had contacted me on three occasions and that was when he was about to go to jail for not paying child support. Every single time the bill was due he wouldn’t pay and when I turned 18 he just stopped paying all together even though in his marriage contract he signed to pay support until I was 23 no questions asked. He is currently 9k in arrears. For years after the last battle he would claim he was disabled and completely broke so that the court would pity him. He would show up with no shoes on and a walker, saying that his health is so horrible and he hasn’t been able to afford shoes in 20 years. He would fake a variety of ailments all to get his cost lowered. He would show up on purpose without any paperwork that the court ordered. The same man with a record collection worth over 100k. The same man with two cars. The same man that collects artwork from around the country. The same man that travels around the country for leisure. By the end of it all he was paying less than $200 a month for me. And even that was so much for him. For his own child with medical problems I was worth $200, and even then not even worth that much because he didn’t pay that money. The realization came to me years down the line that my father put on a charade just to get out of paying child support, but the game he was playing was my life and to him I was just a puppet.

He was vindictive. A year after contact was shut off he went into my college fund and withdrew 10k, the entire amount he had saved for me while I was living at his house. Because of the plan we had that 10k would be so taxed that you were lucky if you got back 1k. It was a slap in the face. Even without him in my life he would torment me. He called me on two occasions before court appearances saying he was on his “way out” and that we should “hug one last time”. His reason behind his so called death, a minor blood clot in his leg that was so minute not even the doctors would write him a note for the courts. He called again saying practically the same thing, just a different excuse.

And when I cut off my father I also cut off that entire side of the family. They knew how my father was, they saw what he would do and how he behaved. But I lost them too. A grandmother, an aunt, two uncle, and two cousins never to be heard from again. They could have reached out to me, and honestly I could have reached out to them but we didn’t.

The life with him as my father left me scarred, left me emotionally broken and in therapy for years but I regret none of it. What I did that day was something I needed to do on my own. It was the first time in my life I made a decision by myself for my own wellbeing. There are still days where I look back and question everything that happened, questioned if I did the right thing. But every time, even if it takes weeks to come to this conclusion, I realize that I did do the right thing. Someone who takes you for granted and abuses your trust, mental wellbeing, physical wellbeing and uses you as an object has no business being in your life. When I tell people my story I always get the “daddy issues” label and it boggles my mind. I think at the end of the day people need to dig deeper into who is in their lives and even if it their own flesh and blood realize that it is not okay to be abused.

It takes real courage and strength to exile an entire side of the family. It will haunt you forever. The emotions that come with doing this will cause all sorts of conflictions in your thoughts. My mind always creates scenarios where my father is a decent human being, where he isn’t the man that shaped who I was for the longest time. I have created my own defense mechanism where I just block out the painful barrenmemories. When I go to search for them they are no longer there. My mind becomes a wasteland and with that comes peace. I try my hardest to rid my mind completely of him, but what he did left battle scars that will never heal.

Slaying the Beast

DestroyerThis is a continuation of my journey with my father, read part one, part two, or part three.
Slaying the beast was the hardest decision of my life. It meant severing all ties. It meant leaving behind a life I would never return to.

As the weeks with my father deteriorated year after year, so did our relationship, well if you can even say we had a relationship at all. By the time high school rolled around I was practically tip toeing around the house. Anything I said could and would be used against me. The slightest bit of disagreement would lead to a meltdown on my fathers end. During my sophomore year in high school I was struggling in math and for that reason had a private tutor. It all came to a boil one night when I realized I needed a calculator for my test in school the next day.

I went downstairs to ask my father if he had a spare I could use, and when I told him the reason for needing it he started to unravel. He was yelling that I was going to fail, that because of one stupid mistake my entire math career was over, that because of this one thing I wasn’t going to get into college. I retreated to my room for cover as I usually did, until I heard my father yell that he was going to call my tutor. He did and started shouting that it was his fault. This switched over to saying his prices were too high. Then switched over to how my mother is a useless piece of shit. By this time I was downstairs again begging for him to get off the phone. I was petrified that he was saying this to my tutor. The family friend told me to go upstairs and close the door, she of course was going to try and calm him down.

I waited in my room, listening to my father explode. I could hear things smashing downstairs. I could hear the family friend screaming back. My father’s voice started to crack, instead of being his normal tone it was higher. It was him breaking down to his very core. I sat at my desk with my phone in hand shaking. I was scared, truly and honestly scared. Every bang I jumped, every scream a tear rolled down my face.

I sent my mother a text message, but was then too afraid to actually call her. We communicated that night via email, the one thing my father could not rip from my hands and use against me.

Then it happened. The family friend burst into my room, tears falling from her eyes. My father silent downstairs. She came over to me and hugged me. She was saying sorry over and over and over again. Then you hear the stomping. He was coming up the stairs. He burst into the room, she was screaming for him to get out. She sobbed as his face neared hers. He left, slamming the door shut. To protect us both she pressed her body weight against the door. We were both crying hysterically at this point.

My father was ballistic. From the other side of the door he was screaming that my mother was a lying bitch. She was worth nothing. That she ruined him. That all she wants is money. He called her every name in the book, saying that my then step-dad was the reason for all his despair. With every word he banged his fist against the door, the friend pushing with all of her might to keep him out. When she couldn’t any longer he was there, in front of me, practically foaming at the mouth. His fists were inches from my face and I was now my mother. In his eyes there was no difference. He was yelling at me like I was her.

My mind went blank. I sat there as the world seemed to fade around me, my father’s hands blurred, the sobbing in the room disappeared. In that moment I was gone. And then it was over.

He left. She left. I was there alone. The faint quivers from my father could be heard from downstairs. I sat there for a while. Not moving, not sure what to do. If I moved he might hear me, and if he hears me he might come back. So I sat as still as a statue.

After about an hour I snuck an email to my mother, her reply was pack as much as I could into my backpack as I could and act normal until I left for school the next day. Hours after the explosion my father came into my room. He comes over to me. He forcefully hugs me.

He says “that needed to happen, you needed to hear that” and leaves. I packed my essentials and as much clothes I could fit in my backpack and went to bed. I didn’t cry that night. I didn’t think of what had happened. I only thought about getting out. My only goal was to get out of that house safely. The next morning no one was awake to say good morning, no one was awake to tell me good bye. I walked in the dark to the bus stop and waited. I went through school like a normal day. I told no one what happened, and when it was time to take the bus home my mother was there to pick me up.

We drove to a parking lot close to school and she asked me if I wanted to do this. I was ready. I was ready to leave that house and I was ready to pursue legal action to do so. From here we drove to both counties my mother and my father lived in and told the police what happened. We also did this to notify them he has a history of physical violence and that there is a strong likelihood he will show up at my mother’s house expecting me to come back with him. When we got home my mother called him letting him know where I was and that I was not coming back. Within 20 minutes the family friend was dropped off at my mother’s door and was trying to negotiate a peace treaty. She kept insisting to see me. My mother kept me away. After no success my father picked her up and we didn’t hear from him for a while. In a weeks’ time my mother negotiated a way to pick up my stuff from his house, not realizing this was going to be a permanent removal. When I went to pick up my things no one said a word to me, in fact no one really looked at me. I was able to take my remaining clothes but that was about it. My computer was there, my bedspread from my mother’s house that I had since I was a young child, family keepsakes, all my childhood toys. I was leaving behind so much and it broke my heart. I knew this would be the last time I would be in this house. I knew even though just material objects, I was leaving behind a part of myself.

Within two weeks the court order was sent to my father and the legal battle began.

Innocence Removed

This is a continuation of my journey with my father, read part one or part two.

What happens when good intentions cause immense suffering and betrayal? What happens when you are protecting your loved ones and yet causing battle scars that last forever?

The warning signs were all around me, the red flags signaling at every turn. Who was my father really and what have I gotten myself into? At my mother’s house I saw actions that were the norm, drinking alcohol at nights, prescription medication for the variety of medical issues everyone suffered, and regular arguments between family members. When translated my father’s house was no different. But when critical information was withheld I didn’t realize what was happened was the beginning of something much worse.

To protect her daughter my mother never told me my father was an alcoholic and drug abuser. She never told me of his anger issues, never told me of marriage from hell, never told me of the abuse my father inflicted upon other women in his life. I was none the wiser to his actions. I never thought to tell my mother of any red flags because things seemed similar. When a child sees one parent doing an action if the other repeats then why would that cause alarm?

I was already uncomfortable staying at my fathers and knew if I said anything the consequences would spiral out of control. I was already losing control of myself and my life, I couldn’t stand to lose even more. Staying at my father’s house as a recently puberty ridden young woman was tough. My body was changing and the support given to me was just uncomfortable. At school I was being sexually harassed. I was a late bloomer in my physical appearance which caused a group of older boys at my school to harass me. They would follow me around, comment on my Wickedmosquito bites, make remarks that I must clearly be a boy, talk about actions similar to rape in regards to me, and call my home phone until we were forced to unplug the cord. Day in and day out the remarks were shouted at me, isolating me even further from my peers. The stares others would give me made me feel so alone. The backlash I projected alarmed even more of my peers. The harassment was making me the weird one. When I sought comfort with my father his responses were awkward. He would reply with “I always found small boobs on women attractive”, as if that was to comfort me. I confided in him before my mother, and with the awkward response I never told my mother in fear her response would be similar. It was not until the day they called my mother’s house phone literally all day right after the other that my mother went straight to their parents. She had no idea what was going on and when reported to the school it stopped. Legal action was threatened finally on my mother’s part before the sexual harassment completely stopped.

I stopped going to my father after this for any help on how I was feeling. The tension at his house was already growing. The former family friend with the beach house moved in and acted much as a second mother towards me. As the migraines progressed so did the harassment at his house. When I had a migraine one of them would burst in and make a comment. At his house my room did not have a locked door and he refused to put one on. There was no knocking, no simple voice spoken to make me aware someone was coming in. Just the burst and my door wide open. On many occasions I would be changing and there I was out in the open for either to see. On days I had a migraine I laid in bed hoping no one would come in, usually without success. Someone always felt the need to say suck it up or get up you’re faking it. Soon the comments turned to anger and I would be screamed at while in bed with a migraine. I hated it there. No one believed I was in pain, and no one believed anything I said.

The fact was that no one at that house was taking care of me. At first the transition was successful and privacy was respected, meals provided, a caring and comforting environment for me to grow up in. In a matter of just months that all left. Where there was once family dinners now laid empty tables and empty fridges. If I was hungry I would scrounge for anything in the house, soon I was strictly eating the dollar noodles. My father, preparing for cycling, would starve himself and with that starved me. In the fridge lay a pack of carrots and alcohol. If you were hungry you would snack on the carrots, which at the time I hated. When I brought this up to my mother she would give me money to go to the local store for food and continuously yell at my father for not cooking. He tried on and off, he tried to be there for me but the effort was fading. Grilled cheese became a regular item for me and when food was cooked that I didn’t like a fight would breakout. I would apparently throw my nose up and disrespect what was put in front of me. When I was excused from the table someone would follow me upstairs and yell at me. You might blame this on me being a picky child but what once was little a scolding were turning into fights that made you fear for what would happen next.

The red flags were surfacing at even a faster pace now. On multiple occasions my father would walk to the bathroom naked, which you must understand my room was right outside the bathroom and the hallway was not long. Every time he would act shocked that I was there, but how could you not know I was there with my door open? The comments were being made left and right about my weight. “You can’t eat that, it will go straight to your thighs”, “Once you turn 13 its all downhill, eat what you can now”, “Skipping a meal might be good for you”. The lack of approval was also fading. Nothing I ever did was good enough for my father. I excelled in school despite my constant absence. When I came to him and told him about my success I was told it was not good enough and to do better. If I had an A I should have an A+. If I wasn’t perfect I was failing. This created this gap in my brain that fostered and grew into something I still deal with today. This constant reminder that I am not good enough, between my appearance and my performance.

I was putting up more walls, creating more barriers between me and other people. The little friends I did have were fading. When I was allowed to go out I hung out with the bad crowd, I was a bystander to my own life. I was there with a group of people who accepted me coming from their own troubled home life. I was always asked by my teachers why I hung out with “those” kids, that I was better. I didn’t know I was better, in my mind I was worthless. Who cared if I was a straight A student hanging out with the middle school drug addicts, at least they seemed to care about me. When high school rolled around most of the people I hung out with went to the tech school or they were forced into private schooling leaving me friendless. The friends that did transition to high school with me ended up abandoning me for being weird. Even the troubled kids thought I below them.

Eventually I was accepted into the nobody crowd, those kids that didn’t fit into any sort of clique. Even though I was accepted it didn’t mean I would be welcomed. I was still an outsider even amongst them.

As middle school came to a close and my high school journey began a new phase in my life started. But even by now the once innocence I had was torn away and replaced with a growing fear and regret for past choices.

Strangers To Enemies

This is a continuation of my journey with my father, read part one here.

By the time I was entering middle school and diagnosed with migraines officially the home life started to get a bit rocky. The summer of 6th grade everything changed. I was with my father for an extended amount of time and he decided to go down the Jersey shore with me. A family friend, sometimes girlfriend, sometimes not had a bungalow down the shore. It was quaint and just a few blocks from the beach. I loved going down there to roam the town on my own, even though I was only 11 I was given the freedom to do as I please. Times down the shore were exciting with my father, he would often just give me quarters to go to the arcade by myself or plan exciting day trips as a group. I hardly knew my father even at this age, all he was to me was someone who wanted to have fun. The times we spent together were not spent in conversation but in activities. I had no obligation to talk to my father if all he wanted was my company. If he wasn’t talking to me then of course I wasn’t striking up a conversation. I was a shy child around strangers and my father was practically a stranger.

I remember on one of the last days at the beach my father was going to go out on a bike ride. At the time he was a competitive bicyclist, and a pretty good one at that. I remember having these butterflies in my stomach before he left. I even went to him and told him to stay home and not go out on the ride. He went anyways. Hours upon hours go by and we get a call from the hospital. My father had crashed and was at the local emergency ward. I remember arriving and being escorted back to the room where I saw him lying in excruciating pain on the stretcher. Apparently as he was riding he pulled off into an empty lot but didn’t see the lip from the road on to the pavement. He came crashing down smashing his entire pelvis. The hospital quickly figured out the shattered pelvis but took hours until they figured out the broken collar bone. My father was smashed into pieces and was helpless.

It was an odd summer. I was over my father’s house often because I felt some obligation to take care of him. He needed help moving and couldn’t really use his legs. Plus I wasn’t in school so what else would I do? It was also not far from my fathers rented house to my mother’s house, only about 10 minutes away. By the time summer was coming to a close my mother and I were not getting along, at the time I didn’t realize it was probably because I was over my father’s house far more than she wanted. My father seeing an opportunity decided to bribe me. For being such a good daughter over the summer he was going to buy me a new desktop and my very own laptop! The catch was that I had to agree to stay every other week at his house. I was thrilled! Fun time dad every other week?! I mean how could I pass that up! Especially since I was having a bad time at my mothers.

Instead of going to the courts to get it officially changed the group decided on just a written agreement. The main factor was that no child support would be paid to my mother since I would be half and half now. But my father had to start putting away savings for my college. It seemed fine to me, I was just happy to have all this new technology. So for the start of my 7th grade I was split between the houses. Things for fine for a while until my migraines started to come back in force. When I had a migraine at my mother’s I was cared for. When I had a migraine at my fathers I was being dramatic and should suck it up.

In 7th grade I also officially became a woman, which brought a whole new fun set of issues to deal with. The major issue, menstrual migraines. The nastiest, most brutal pain I could even imagine. And every month like clockwork I would get them. The worst part was the neurologist providing treatment could no longer help me. I ended up in the ER on multiple occasions just to get a cocktail of Toradol, Benadryl, and Zofran. Whatever the case this seemed to always rid me of my unbearable migraines.

I was always miserable whenever that time came when I was at my fathers. I was scared what would happen. There would be no way he would take me to the hospital if something were to happen. Soon my neurologist recommended that I see a gynecologist and be put on birth control. This way I could at least go 3 months without a hospital visit. For those who don’t know the pill form of contraception can be taken consecutively for 3 months then a week off, and it is not just used for birth control. In fact the pill can be used to help alleviate a variety of medical issues. In my case medical migraines. After this I started planning tTrappedhat time around the weeks I was with my mother. I couldn’t bare the thought of having to be at my fathers while that was happening. Soon things were starting to look in my father’s mind that I was only sick at my mothers. He started issues with my mother, threatening a custody battle until he decided that I clearly need therapy. So at 12 years old I was dragged to a therapist to work out my problems. I was told I was going to build a better relationship with my father, little did I know there was another agenda.

I was regretting my choice to change my living situation only a few months in and I knew if I changed my mind now it would only cause more drama. Therapy was practically a disaster, it was awkward and beyond uncomfortable when my father was brought in. I didn’t truly understand why I was there. I thought I was doing something wrong, that my actions at some point had led me into this situation. Therapy sessions ended with awkward hand offs from mother to father and vice versa. I was feeling so alienated between the home life and the medical situation. I felt like no one could understand what was happening to me.

As life around me was spiraling out of control so did my appearance. I wore nothing but black, talked to no one, and confided in only a single friend. Some say it was just a phase, that every child goes through their phases. But what was a phase and what was a desperate cry for help?