A void, an empty space that now replaces what once was sweet-filled. It swells up to the point where it hurts to breathe, it hurts to see, it hurts to live. You are the victim in that you have been harmed intentionally. You live with the wounds that fester and leave your skin boiling. You live with the hopes that one day you will no longer be the oppressed, but that leaves you with only one of two options: to be the bystander or the new oppressor.
As little kids or even maybe still today, most of us are scared of the threats that obside from our closets. Yes, the monsters that live inside our closets. The monsters that thrive off the sweet, succulent smell of our sweat that would pool onto our brows once the sun died out and was rebirthed as the moon. In my Disney-filled childhood, my only knights in shining armor were my father and mother. My parents wielded their shields and just as fast as the monsters disappeared, I was sleeping in their bed, safe and sound, wedged in between them. I can’t begin to describe the warmth I felt every night. It was as if winter was blazing on around me, and I was in my own little winter wonderland, blanketed in a bubble of comfort and belonging. Little did I know that the monsters were never in my closet; they were always hidden in the bubble, with me.
I am extremely fortunate to have been born into a family in that I can live an extremely comfortable life. I have been able to afford tutors, go to camps, buy thousands more wants than needs, but this very life I was so fortunate enough to have always had its price. From a young age, I heard stories of how my father came into America, the land of promise and hope, as a teenager with no money and no connections. He worked hard to help his oppressive family. One where his father drank so much he’d beat his own sons and wife, and bring barely enough money to the table. On the other hand, my mother grew up in a wealthy family, like how I was, however with one wrong business move, her family’s business went bankrupt, and she lost everything in terms of comfort. Therefore, I’ve known all my life that both of my parents have sacrificed more than I could ever imagine to provide a better life for me.
I guess you could say, their experiences and dedication that they continued to show inspired me from a very young age to work hard. I mean I worked brutally hard to maintain near perfect grades, and I tried my very best to be a well-rounded person. I practiced sometimes until my fingers bled to make my parents proud when I performed in violin and piano concerts. After long days of doing school work and practicing my instruments, I would go directly to swim practice where I would try my best to win. Whenever I would “succeed,” I remember always looking into the audience or the crowd for my parent’s reactions. More than anything, my biggest dream was to make them overwhelmingly proud of me. More than anything my biggest fear was disappointment.
In fear of failing, I would occasionally bring home math questions for my father since half the time I couldn’t understand what was going on in my accelerated classes. I remember vividly when I was around eight year old, I brought home an algebra question. I sat down with my father, my hero, at our warm, oak dining room table. We sat there for about 3 hours, him trying to explain the problem to me, however, as each minute ticked by, his anger and frustration would continue to pool into his eyes until he could not see the young, broken girl who had tears welled up in her bambi-like eyes shaking in front of him. The only site he could see was one of weakness. My tears were like a red flag that would make a bull go ballistic. His horns reached its bullseye, and my head shook. At the end of the day, he would leave to go smoke and drink, and just like that, the red would leave his eyes and he would be my hero again. My hero would come back home, caress me, and explain to me in a manipulative way how it was my fault for making him mad. The worst part was, I believed him and kept forgiving him for the next nine years of my life.
Now at 16, I remember as the fireworks of red, white, and blue went off, I came down stairs ready to go watch these little acts of pure energy burst off into the night sky. I remember I chose a magenta sundress with little hibiscus flowers stitched on it. I remember finishing off my personal attire with my favorite high top, navy-blue converse. I remember the feeling of pride I had felt in myself in that I was happy for the first time in a while with how I looked, but then I also remember the way my father looked at me. His stone-cold eyes painted the utmost disappointed look on his face. The disgusted picture that was portrayed next illustrated the following scenes: one, he demanded me to change into a more “feminine” attire, and two, when I “argued with him” he voiced out, “forget it wench,” and we never ended up leaving the house that day. For the first time, I didn’t feel like it was my fault. I don’t know exactly how I felt, but something new, inside me, begined to form.
After a couple months, the weather was just beginning to feel invigorating. It was a time when one could see their icy, frosty breath as they exhaled. It was a time where change was happening all around us. But this was also the time when I had just gotten into another argument with my father. It was dark out, the monsters were all around me, lurking in the shadows. My father was driving me home from swim practice, and we were screaming at each other. Before I knew it, I remember my head hitting the cold, frosty window as he angrily swerved the car back and forth just as a fish's tail swishes back and forth as it desperately escapes from its predator. I remember crying for him to stop, but he couldn’t hear my pleas for forgiveness. It was as if I was screaming for help, in a stadium of people, where no one could hear me.
Now when the weather warmed up again and the early morning sun had the potential to revitalize any aching spirit, I remember I was running late to school. My father, who had to drive me, was going to be late to work, and most of all, I remember my teenage temper reached its breaking point. I yelled out, “stop, nagging at me” when he asked me why I wasn’t prepared nor organized. Before I realized what I had said, the sword of my knight in shining armor had stricken its foe. I remember the stingy my head had felt, and I remember blankly staring down at the car door handle, unable to comprehend what had just happened. When the car stopped in front of the school, I don’t even know how I leaped out of the car; my legs were numb, and they felt as though they had no structural supportage of any bone in them. As I walked into school, tears welled up in my eyes, but they were unable to flow down freely down my pale cheeks. I was trapped because how could I receive comfort when in order to receive aid I would have to tell someone what my hero had done. The same hero that somewhere deep inside still loved. I grew up hearing from others, “Becky, what does it matter, your family is richer than mine, and you get handed everything,” so I thought even if I did tell someone, what did it matter. At the end of the day, what ended up hurting the most was when I watched my mother stand by my father’s side as I confronted her about what he had done, and even more when my father told me, “I am not sorry. You deserved to be punished.”
It’s just funny now since I can’t really say that my parents are the villains in this story because I am the true monster. Despite understanding that my parents do love me just not in a compassionate showing way, I can not return the compassion that they have given me. Now that I am 17, when I get angry, I slam my fist into the kitchen counter just like my father does when he loses control. I watch my mother’s strong, dark brown eyes flash into a scared, fearful bunny eyed look when I yell awful curseful statements that no daughter should be yelling at her own mother. When I am angry and hurt, my face contorts to a grinch-like disposition, and I feel the urge to hurt others the way I have been hurt. My human empathy is turned off as if one turns off a light switch. It’s almost as if I can’t see; it is as if a red film is covering my eyes. I am blinded with rage and sadness. I can’t even control the monster inside me. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to see, it hurts to live. You begin to realize you were never the fish swimming away from its predator; you were the predator waiting all along this whole time for its next victim. The worst part is bending and hurting others doesn’t feel wrong in the moment. You just never realized that you were the monster all along because you always thought that the monsters were outside, in your closet. I guess they were always so much closer than you could have ever imagined.
No matter how many times my parents tell me the sacrifices that they’ve made to support me, I can only sympathize with what they say, but I will never truly be able to feel how they have felt. So at night that lonely, anxious feeling I get awaiting for my monsters to prey on me is misguiding. In the end, I just need to look at myself in the mirror, and the monster is looking right back at me. One day, I just hope that the monster in me will be big enough to induce fear into all the pounding hearts that surround me. I hope they hurt as I have. I hope they fear the monster that I have become.