Some of the people who read this, may not like what I have to say. To all of you, I’m sorry…but this is my story, and it’s time I tell it.
My parents first told us that they were getting a divorce when I was 9 years old.
Back then we didn’t know about divorce. No-one in our family had ever been divorced, and none of my friends at school had divorced parents. But my brothers and I cried nonetheless, because Mommy and Daddy didn’t love each other anymore, and one of them wouldn’t be living with us anymore.
Things progressed to the obligatory counselling for us kids. I don’t remember much about it, except that it didn’t last long. Mommy and Daddy somehow miraculously loved each other again, and would not be getting a divorce.
Fast forward 5 years, and we’re sitting in the lounge again….and hearing the same story again. Only this time, we all knew what divorce was.
This is where a lot of my own issues started. Mostly, I haven’t let things that happened during my parents’ 3 year divorce proceedings get me down in everyday life, but I carry the scars nonetheless.
I was 14 on that fateful day in October when my parents finally decided to call it quits for good. My brothers and I were given the choice about where we wanted to live, and seeing as my mom was the one who would be moving out, we all opted to stay together and with my dad, who would be keeping the house.
Things went really well in the beginning. My dad was my idol, and we spent many a night just chatting after my brothers went to bed. I was the woman in the house now, and my dad trusted me enough to tell me things about his and my mom’s relationship. Things a 14 year old shouldn’t really know about her mom, and which I’m not sure were entirely true. But my dad trusted me, and that’s all that mattered at the time.
One afternoon, we were at a very close friend’s house, and my dad came to my brothers and me, and asked us an impossible question: ‘Could Mom come back?’. Seems that she missed us, and her and my dad had sorted out their problems, and she wanted to come back to us. I remember my initial reaction was that of confusion and shock, as opposed to the excitement that you would come to expect. But we said yes…who wouldn’t?
So Mom moved back in, and the world seemed right again…..for 5 months.
I remember clearly when it happened. My dad came home and started throwing my mom’s things out of their room. She followed shortly after and they started having a screaming match in the hallway. In the past, whenever my parents had an argument, they would do it behind closed doors, but as my mom started closing the door and asking us to leave them alone, my dad screamed that we were to stay, and to see what he was doing, and why. Insults were hurled like knives to and fro, with my brothers and I watching every second of it.
After what seemed like an age, we left the room. My brothers ran for their respective beds to cry, and I tried to find help from our live-in maid (who was like a second mother to us). When I came back inside, my mom was in the room with my brothers. Their sobs could be heard down the hallway.
I’d only been in the room for a few seconds when my dad arrived. He screamed at my mom in what is supposed to be a child’s safe haven….and she screamed back through her own tears. It was here that one of my most vivid memories took place. My dad made the unforgivable mistake of asking me what I thought of the whole mess…right there, in front of everyone. I replied with a shout of my own: ‘Why do you always have to fuck things up!?!’ I meant it for both of them, but my dad was the one who stalked off saying that he was the bad guy again, while I collapsed in tears.
To be continued……
(P.S: a lot of this is going to be about my dad. That is not necessarily my intention. I have my issues with my dad, a lot of which are because of the divorce, but I’m in the process of forgiving him for past wrongs. This is part of my healing process)