Thursday, March 23

day 10702: day 4 of silence

Despite the rosy glow I try to paint in all my schmassion childhood stories, things were far from being peachy. Things weren’t disastrous by any means, but we had our bouts of spats, disagreements, attempted murder etc etc. We were a typical family; we children fought amongst ourselves, the parents fought amongst themselves. Sibling rivalry abound, I’m sure there are as many times when Sista hated my guts as when I hated hers. Probably more times for her, I wasn’t an easy person to get along with.

When times were good, they were great. Sunday afternoons, we’d finish lunch, watch American Gladiators or some other brain sucking television program and pile into my parents’ bed for a communal nap. Four of us in one bed, it was awesome. We’d lie there, laugh, chat and gradually fall asleep. Wake up late in the afternoon, and then get on with our days. To this day, nothing feels quite the same, nothing feels quite as content.

When times were bad, though, everyone watch out. I had a bad temper - a quick temper. I was a force to be reckoned with. Just joking. Not quite. All of us had tempers. All of us have been known to throw things, break things, lash out in anger with words, storm out of the room, hang up on each other, well, you get my drift. It was a long time before I learned how to even begin controlling my temper, and I admit, to this day, it still occasionally peeks through.

Sista and I fought about almost everything under the sun… toys, boys, television, music. The parents, on the other hand, only fought about two things. Money or family, both of which always had to do with things on my dad’s side of the family… long story that I’ll save for another day. We’d plead and beg for them to stop fighting, making empty promises about how Sista and I would stop fighting if they stopped fighting. Even then they laughed at us, knowing that the probability of us being able to accomplish such a feat would be slim.

Things escalated when I was about 12. There was a huge fight (probably about money or family, more likely about lending money to family), the Maternal One got pissed, packed her bags, grabbed Sista by the arm and left. Came back fifteen minutes later and decided to kick out Da instead. He came back after spending a couple of nights in the car somewhere and things were quickly back to “normal.” It was the only time I’d ever seen him cry.

During all this, and the times afterwards, I always wondered, why did the Maternal One only take Sista, and what the heck did I do to piss her off at me?

It’s day 4 of silence. It’s been much worse before, but this time, I feel like I'm playing for keeps.

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