They say Communication is the key.
Well, that's why we are here, to find out if what they say is true or if they are just liars. I hope it's the key. I hope it fixes what's been going on. Because I can't take it.
I can take the few swings, insults, and vulgar. It's the hatred and being so damn helpless. Just standing there, watching, crying, it's what is killing me. I guess coming here is the only chance we get for any help at all. If it doesn't work... well then I don't know what.
It's been getting worse. We should've came when the physical abuse started. That's where we should've drawn the line and taken the signs that help is needed. I don't want them to split up. It would cause more damage to me than any hand, fist, or curse could ever inflict.
Deep down, I love them. And they got to love each other too. Once you love you can't stop. Right? That's what I've been taught. But these last couple months my parents have been proving that they don't care anymore what example they show me or if they follow what they tried and teach me. All they do is get into each others faces. They get so into it, they don't notice me. Spying. Listening. Cracking. Shattering.
I want them to be happy. And if they aren't happy together...
I can't even complete that in writing.
Nobody wants to witness their family falling apart. Nobody wants to face the reality that maybe all love doesn't work out. That the fairy tales shown to us as little kids are just fairy tales and that they can't come true. Because once you find love, you want to grab onto it. But if your own parents may have let go when of it when they weren't looking, then it makes you scared. Scared that it can happen to you. All because that reality is closer... it's in your own home. It's always ringing in your ears, echoing along with the shouts of the parents. How can something that use to be so pure, delightful, and bright turn into something completely ugly and devastating? I don't know. They don't know. So maybe someone, somewhere, might know.
So here we are. In the waiting room for our first family therapy session. Which may have never been scheduled if my teacher didn't get worried and called. My parents aren't even in the same row of chairs in this room. My father is in the back. My mother in the front. And somehow, I'm the one stuck in the middle. And that's the worse place to be in the fight.