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About a month ago, my mom told me that she was leaving our house, and that it was time to start our own lives. At first I brushed it off since she always said that from time to time. However this time it was real, she said she was moving in with my sister and to see if one of my brothers would take me in. We all lived in the same house for almost five years, and to me the thought of our family, dysfunctional and broken as it was; to be divided literately was too much to consume.
She told me to talk to my sister to see if I could move in with them since she was going to pay most of the rent; I already knew the answer, if not then see if one of my brothers would take me in. I had spent most of my life to distance myself from them; I had never been in trouble with the law, never took drugs, and never did wrong by our family. But in the end I couldn’t escape being grouped in with them.
I had made a promise to myself that if I couldn’t find a job I would take a bottle of painkillers I had in my desk and die, I also took scissors and would cut my wrists to feel some sort of catharsis. One night I heard my sister putting things in boxes, I freaked out and had the bottle of ibuprofen in my hand fighting the urge to swallow the pills. My hands were shaking; I was breathing rapidly, and sobbing quietly, at the possible reality of loosing the only people who would put up with me.
My youngest brother, who has a girlfriend and a daughter, offered to take me in, and then his twin also would bunk with us. He found us a place to stay, and pretty soon I got a job at an industrial bakery. It isn’t much, but it is better than the alternative. It’s ironic; the people who I had felt so much anger and hatred towards are the ones who were there for me, while those who I had remained loyal to discarded me without a second thought. Recently I had asked my mother for a ride to work, I told her where I worked, what I did, and her response was that she was disappointed with me; since I graduated high school, and vocational school to be an accountant I end up doing hard labor.
I remember when my mom confided in me about the frustration she felt from my brothers’ shenanigans, and how the two of us were going to go away and live somewhere where they wouldn’t find us. Sometimes I lie on the couch waiting to go to sleep, thinking about going back to the house and having everything go back to the way it was.
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