My story

This is a copyrighted work of nonfiction by the author Beth Ann Koustas. All rights reserved.

Note: I posted this for Lina. It's not a writing of mine that I like, but she insists on reading more of my writing, so here it is:

I’m my own worst enemy 

I’ve always wondered what it’s like to have a normal family, but then I ask myself: What is normal? My mom always wondered if she should have left. “Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t left” She’d say, or “Maybe you’d be different.” When she thought I wasn’t listening, I could hear her mumble “Maybe you wouldn’t be so fucked up.” And I still think to myself, “what’s wrong with the way I am?”

I don’t remember a time when I lived under a roof with both of my parents at the same time. My mom says she left when I was only a few months old. Occasionally, she’ll look for something, and the she’ll remember she left it at my father’s house when she left. He sold all of her stuff before she could go back and get it. I’ll ask her why she left so quickly, but she just turns grim and tells me it doesn’t matter. But I matters to me.

They’re yelling at each other again. My mom is screaming into the phone, tears streaming down her red face. I can hear him yelling back through the phone. I wonder what a stranger listening into their call would think. It doesn’t matter. They can hang up and stop listening when ever they want. I can’t. This is my life, my reality. It’s all I’ve ever known. I turn my iPod up to maximum volume, trying to drown out my reality for a while. I don’t want to listen. They’re fighting about me again. My medical bills my mom simply cannot pay for on her own. My dad is rich, but is once again refusing to pay anything. He should have to. It’s his fault I’m sick. Even the rough, scratchy voice of Marilyn Manson fails to drown out the yelling I’m being subjected to. I run up the stairs, tripping and falling on the way up. I lock myself in the bathroom, putting as many walls as possible between me and the yelling, but I can still hear it. It’s constant, I never get a break from it. This is my normal.  I want to cry, but the tears stopped flowing years ago. They never did any good. They just added to my problem, and a dull headache would be my punishment for  being so fucking weak. 

My dad always had a different car every time I went to see him for visitation. I hated getting up at 5 every Sunday morning. His house smelled to mothballs, and to this day I’ll either throw up or cry when I smell mothballs. I hated that smell. He would always drive me home, flying over the hills in his car, singing to me. It was always the same song, Nobody can possibly despise any song as much as I despise the song “Mockingbird” 

My mom’s crying herself to sleep again, what she doesn’t know, is that I hear her every time she cries. And I can’t stand it! She cries because she’s weak. She’s weak because she trusted. She trusted because she loved. Love destroys people, it makes them blind to the obvious. I cuddle with my bunny, and try to think about something happy. I used to talk to my bunny all the time. When I spent the night at my dad’s, I would stay up and talk to him. I’d talk to him until the street light outside the window turned off and the sunlight returned, promising a day of misery.

I went to a Catholic school when I was young. And I felt so different. On Parents day, I was the only one without two parents. My classmates always asked me where my “Daddy” was. I’d tell them it doesn’t matter. Twice a year we had parent-teacher meetings. My father only showed up to one, and he was 20 minutes late. Most kids who grow up in broken families hope their parents will get back together, but to me, that was my worst nightmare.  It still is. When I failed my spelling test in the fourth grade, my father yelled at me all day. I may not have physical scars, but emotionally, I’ve been battered and beaten, left on the side of the road to die. 

He was sleeping again. He always was. I never understood why I had to be here if all he did was sleep. That was all about to change. Her name was Tara, she was young, thin, and had long flowing blond hair. A trophy wife of sorts. But to me, she was just the evil step mom. She hated children, especially me. I must have only been 2 or 3 years old at the time, but I remember it. It’s like a movie that won’t stop playing in my head. It’s different, this memory. I can see a girl crying behind the couch, screaming for her mom. She does not  want to be here. Tara is staring at the little girl who is me, saying that I fucked things up again. I ruined her night. My father is sitting in a chair, just watching the horror movie on the screen of his flat screen TV. Tara grabs the phone and dials my mom, handing me the phone.  The next few moments of this memory are tragic, as I watch myself scream and sob as my mom tells me she can’t pick me up until tomorrow, because the courts won’t let her. Tara is standing there staring at me as I sob, with an evil smirk on her face. She knows she’s only made things worse, but she doesn’t care. I can’t get this movie out of my head. It won’t turn off. When I sleep, this memory becomes a dream, and when I’m awake this dream is my reality, I feel like an intruder, watching a little girl sobbing for her mom, but I’m not, because that girl is me. 

We lived in the basement of my grandparents' house. I remember sharing a bed with my mom because she didn’t want to buy another bed. I used to lay in bed at night watching my mom stare at the TV. She was addicted to the shopping channel, and she spent away all of her money. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was trying to buy her way to happiness. The only thing that she got was a bunch of useless shit and debt. But I still find comfort in watching the shopping channel. 

Scapegoat: one who is made to bear the blame for others. I, am my family’s scapegoat. Whenever something is missing, it’s my fault. When something isn’t working, let’s all blame Beth Ann! My uncle used to call me “Mouse” because I was small and have a squeaky voice. I’ve always been the outcast of the family. The one who’s overshadowed by everyone else’s achievements. My cousins are all A+ students, musical prodigies, and first class theater stars. Four of my cousins have been quarterback of their football team, two have been valedictorians, One is a cheerleader, and my cousin Joe is going to Yale on a full-ride scholarship. To my family, I am nothing. I’m the one to throw the blame on. Thanks to my family, I’ve grown up feeling as if I was not worthy of greatness.

My happy memories are like a bunch of snapshots to me.  They seem so close, and yet so far away. Running through the park in the snow with my best friend. Being pushing up against the rim of the stage by the crazy crowd behind me. That’s where I’m the most happy, when I’m at a concert. It’s the reason I took up playing the guitar. I learned how to play by ear, because my mom couldn’t afford lessons. I saved and saved for months, just to buy that Electric Guitar. And to this day I am still proud when I look up and see my guitar-my prized possession-in the corner of my room. Music just might have saved my life. Music makes up for everything that’s ever happened to me.  I believe that suffering can lead to greatness. In the words of our great President Lincoln “I will prepare and someday my chance will come.”