The next day, per my momma's request, I returned home.
Things escalated quickly.
I still remember the sequence of events clear as day, but I couldn't go into detail about them. It was almost like I was processing all the traumatic events that were happening in real time, so I can only remember going through the motions of it all. But I remember all the actual motions, and vividly. I'm aware that probably doesn't make any sense at all whatsoever, but I'm trying to explain my thought processes the best way I know how without scaring y'all away.
I want to prevent y'all from running for the hills, alright? Alrighty then.
The sequence of events went something like this — in my own unique wording:
Me bawling ultimately led to not being heard. Not being heard led to the responsible party not taking responsibility for their actions. Because their actions continued to be condoned, that led to even more of those actions occurring. More actions taking place just led to the actions being repeated regularly, which ultimately leads to the cycle just continuing, therefore, the cycle never gets broken.
I would become increasingly frustrated as things continued to be the way they were at home, bawling my eyes out like I was getting Frequent Flyer Miles per tear. Meanwhile, I hid behind a mask adorning a faux smile twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. The frustration stemmed from not being listened to about the frustrations I had with my dad at home, behind closed doors. I felt like excuses were constantly being made, hindering the severity of his anger issues.
I had a rebellious phase that lasted approximately three months of my nineteen years of age thus far, desperately trying to prove myself, only to be met with more pushback and double standards.
I'm sure you recall the car crash and that my car was totaled in the process. Even though I had Bryce offering to drive me everywhere, my Nana and Papaw didn't like me being without a vehicle. So, they found a private seller in a classified ad for a cute red extended cab Ford Ranger, arranging for it to be delivered for me to pick up at the hospital Bryce and I were both employed at the time. They arranged the payment and leasing options, I made payments to them and began making payments for insurance on it, as well. I only make mention of this because I need to do so to explain what happened next.
TO RECAP EVERYTHING THAT HAS HAPPENED SO FAR UP TO THIS POINT:
A] I'm 19 years old,
B] I'm getting married,
C] I'm in the whole wedding planning process,
D] I'm kicked out of the house,
E] I'm invited back to the house,
F] …only to have the car keys to the car I was paying for in every way taken from me
They claimed it was because I was crying hysterically, and that it wasn't safe for me to be driving in that quote, "state," unquote.
At one point between points E & F, I tried to leave my room. That's when I had this intense fistfight with my brother — an all-out brawl if you will. You must understand that my brother is a very passionate individual, especially about things he feels very strongly about and is very protective of things he values and holds dear to him. My dad was doing the absolute most behind the scenes, doing whatever he could think of to manipulate my little brother. He had been standing outside my bedroom door, listening to the whole conversation between my parents and me, blocking the bedroom door where I couldn't leave, quickly leading to us throwing hooks and haymakers alike at one another.
My mom was finally able to somewhat calm me down just enough that I was able to stop hyperventilating and got through an intense panic attack, diffusing the conversation… at least for the time being. We decided to just leave things where they were for the night, but my mom didn't let things rest that easy with my dad later that night. She ended up giving my dad some stipulations to work on making things right with our family — she couldn't have known at that point that some damage was simply irreparable. The damage done was just irreversible and beyond any chance of recovery.
My momma told my dad that she wanted him to attend a family counseling session with all of us — as many as it takes to make things better. Well, he did. The thing with that, though, is that one must go into the session with the right headspace and open to reason.
The only thing he focused on the entire session, and the only thing he was open to reason on was if it involved shifting the blame off on me… your child. My mom intervened and told him this was on him, but he strongly disagreed and refused to budge on the matter. So, I'm sure you've gathered the session didn't exactly go over well… let alone — work.
Do you remember back when I said if my cousin, Dewey, ain't happy — ain't nobody happy? Yeah. This also applied here, as my momma was not happy with my dad for attempting to push the blame off on me, and not taking any kind of responsibility and ownership for his actions.
My dad would leave his "spit cups" lying here, there, and everywhere all around the house, and… I could not even begin to tell you just how often I would accidentally chug a big old, juicy heap of already-been-chewed-and-spit-out wad of chewing tobacco.
Due to the lack of responsibility taken on his part, this was now essentially my mom taking a big old, juicy swig from a metaphorical spit cup.
Now, she's left trying to spoon-feed the following logic to my dad:
SHE IS NOT THE ISSUE.
YOU'RE THE PROBLEM.
YOU ARE.
Could you read between the lines there?
Because he couldn't.