Too Little... Too Late.

Growing up in my house was interesting. My mom was sick for most of my younger years. Being the youngest of three children, I was Daddy’s little girl, though not the little princess. I was always a bit of a tomboy and enjoyed helping my dad with construction projects around the house. I have also always been independent by nature and refused to let people convince me I couldn’t do things for myself.

But when my mom passed away, shortly after my ninth birthday, everything changed. Everyone worried about my Dad since he had just lost his soul mate, the love of his life. They were all concerned about my brother as well, the oldest, my mother’s first child, the only boy, who was 16 at the time. They were very close. And my sister was having a rough time too, she was 14 at the time and everyone stressed about how hard it would be for her to cope with the situation. All while I was pushed aside. Literally, figuratively, and emotionally.

“Don’t worry about Dean. She’s fine.” I’d hear them say. “She’s strong. And she’s young. Hopefully she won’t even remember this whole disaster.” And they were right. I can’t remember it. But I can remember feeling entirely neglected.

Before my 10th birthday I was already taking care of myself, feeling like I was the mother of the house. Which felt awkward to me since I was the youngest person there and had the least “motherly” experience. I was woken up bright and early in the morning to help my Dad prep for work. Nothing huge: making his morning tea, ironing his work clothes, and packing a lunch. Then I made the rounds to wake up my brother and sister to make sure they had time to eat breakfast before they left for school. Once everyone was gone, I would shower, make my lunch and put myself on the bus.

Coming home in the afternoons was always harder than the mornings. I never wanted to go home. I looked for any excuse to stay after school. But going home was inevitable. When I got there, I was alone. My brother was at his part time job, my sister out with friends usually, and my Dad still at work. I had about an hour or so to myself. Which was usually spent doing the family’s laundry, cleaning the house, and starting dinner.

By the time we had finished dinner, I cleaned the kitchen, and finished the laundry, there was little or no time (or energy) for me to do my homework. Needless to say my grades suffered tremendously because of it. I just wanted to relax. So I retired to my room and read under the blankets hoping everyone would just leave me in silence.

At about 11:00PM I would go downstairs to wake my Father, who like always, fell asleep on the couch. I would try to convince him to go up to his room. He never wanted to. I’m sure the bed felt dreadfully empty and it was hard for him to swallow. At this time, I would hear my sister in her room chatting away on the phone with her friends.

About an hour or so later I would be awoken by screams occurring between my Dad and brother as my brother would return home from work. Shortly after the screaming ended, the front door would slam as my brother would leave again. He just couldn’t be there anymore. And I understood that. I think my Dad did too, he just couldn’t accept it.

Life for me went on like this for years. Until I turned 14 and starting drinking and experimenting with drugs with some of my friends. At this point I was babysitting to get money to support my partying ways. Which in turn required that I pay rent. [By the way, my brother and sister never did.]

By the time I was 16 I was drinking heavily (regularly) and had relied on various forms of drugs daily just to get through the days. The nights were my own. I had developed insomnia (from what a physiatrist explained as post traumatic stress) and spent most of my nights in my room painting abstract pieces, gluing an assortment of objects to my bedroom walls, and writing hateful song lyrics with permanent marker all throughout my room.

Just a few months shy of my high school graduation (which I’m still not sure how I pulled off) my Dad couldn’t handle my lifestyle anymore. The drugs were getting heavier and more expensive and my anger was overtaking all emotion in the house. I was told to leave. For good. And never come back.

I packed my things that night and crashed with a friend for two days until his parents were no longer ok with me being there. I spent about a month or so being homeless, roaming the streets in the middle of the night and taking showers at different friends’ houses in the mornings before school until I got an apartment near my high school, where I lived with a roommate, paid rent until I graduated. I was also going to night classes in Manhattan at FIT after I had been at school all day. I was just 17.

I have been living on my own ever since.

I eventually cleaned myself up right around my 19th birthday. I spent a few days locked in a spare bedroom at my friend’s house while his parents were away on vacation. Once everything was out of my system I returned to my apartment and removed all of my “friends” from my life. I worked very hard at multiple jobs, saved my money, and moved to Manhattan.

And NOW after all this time, my family worries about me.

“You shouldn’t be walking the streets or taking the subway at night by yourself.” – What they mean is: I wish you would fly on your magic carpet home. Or take a cab for a million dollars a month. Because that’s safer than mass transportation. And much more realistic.

“I wish you’d get a roommate.” – What they mean is: I wish someone else lived with you so that when you’re not at home at night, and you don’t answer your cell phone, at least there’s a chance I can grill your roomie until I know where you are and who you are with. Because if I don’t know, we’ll have nothing to talk about tomorrow.

“It might be possible that you drink too much. And when I say too much, I also mean too often.” – What they mean is: You’re an alcoholic. Ten bucks says you’ll start using drugs again.

“You should start settling down. A good man around the place to take care of you, look after you, and protect you is probably not a bad idea.” What they mean is: Are you ever going to have kids?!

“You know, I would sleep a lot better if I knew you were safe at home at night with the doors locked, rather than out walking around.” What they mean is: Please ditch the social life so I can stop giving you the guilt trip. [But, secretly, I sleep fine every night anyway.]

“Did you hear about the young girl that was murdered in her apartment this weekend? She was close to your age and I think you live nearby to her, no?” What they mean is: See what I mean? I told you New York was a dangerous place. Murder only happens in the Big Apple. Never anywhere else in the world.

It’s amazing. This is the most safe I’ve been (financially, emotionally, mentally, etc.) in my entire life. And this is when they worry the most.

Get a grip. I’ve been taking care of myself for the last decade and a half, what makes them think I need their help now?

[[Alright. I know they mean well. And they love me. And I appreciate all of that. More than words can say. Which is why I’m venting about it here and not telling them how I feel about the matter.]]