When you ask someone to define fear, you will most likely hear the explanation of something that had traumatized an individual at a young age. When you ask for an example of what a fear could be, you will most likely hear something around the areas of being buried alive, spiders, not being good enough for certain situations and clowns. There tends to never be someone who states that their fear is of one of their parents, more so their father. Your father was supposed to be the person you’re suppose to feel safe around. When you’re enveloped within his arms, that’s suppose to be your safe zone. That was never the case for me.

Growing up, I had taught myself to block everything out that came from his mouth, to always protect my brother from all of these mental situations, and to keep to myself. My brother and I had to constantly listen to stories of random people from the government trying to get him. We had to continually listen to the amount of people that he had been able to make up within his mind and how much of an impact they had on his life. At the age of 8, I had finally learned and understood that the meaning for these events to happen to us was because my father had been diagnosed with Schizophrenia, PTSD, and bipolar disorder. He had the capability to assume that he was always right and that he was a superior being. If one of us were to retaliate, he would talk down to us and tell us that we knew nothing and that we were too young to understand what he was going through. That being said, he pursued his theories that were in his mind.

My mother would sleep in the bedroom across the house with my brother right by her side and I chose to sleep in the same room with my father and every night, he would spiel to me throughout the course of the night to the point of when the clock struck six in the morning, I seemed to always have dark circles that had developed under my eyes. The topics would either go from how he didn’t trust my mother because she was working with the people who wanted to take him away to how this other group of people would take us away from this hell hole and have us live in a luxurious life. Not saying that my mother and father didn’t have well paid jobs, it’s just that Peter (my father) chose to waste their salaries irresponsibly. And once he was laid off due to his mental conditions, That’s truly when our lives became a living hell. The more time he was alone, the more time he was alone with his thoughts. The more time he had with his thoughts, the more stories he was able to accumulate within his mind.

At this moment, the questions of why didn’t your mother take you guys away and why didn’t your mother fight for her children are popping into your head and the fact is that she simply didn’t know. What she went through was so much worst but she thought it was the right decision to keep her children with their father because she had assumed that he wouldn’t do anything bad to his children. My mother was relentlessly being harassed by my father and she always fought back but it was never good enough. I remember times of when I was in my bed and I could hear Peter get out of bed and cross the house to where my mother and brother laid and would talk about his theories to my mom for endless hours. That ‘talk’ would always end into a screaming and the next thing you know, my mother would take the emergency bags that we always had prepared and we would just drive aimlessly until we either found a hotel to stay in or we would stay with our grandparents.

There were countless nights where paranoia filled the air. My mom would constantly repeat to us that we’re safe and that he couldn’t take us away. At the age of eight, you really don’t understand these words but to me, they were words of comfort. Six months went by and things hadn’t gotten any easier. My mother had filed a restraining order on Peter and had requested for him to not get us at any time during school. Peter always had that effect on people. If he didn’t get his way, he will always end up winning.

After the divorce, we were free. The tension that was inside of my chest had finally relieved itself and everything was somewhat at ease. Peter had managed to not pay the house bill and was eventually evicted. He had somehow found a way to find an apartment that he wasn’t paranoid that the neighbors were watching him and he could be with himself. The smell of his apartment still invades my nose.