Breathing

When you grow up in an abusive home, you learn control over anything is fleeting.

While I could control my grades, I couldn’t control the amount of isolation my mom, brother, and I were experiencing. We were purposely moved to the middle of nowhere because in the middle of nowhere, there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no matter how awful things become. Even the police couldn’t get there as quick as one would reasonably want.

While I could control how much I practiced drumming or playing guitar, I couldn’t really control my own emotions. If I was upset, feeling mopey, or generally feeling like an irritable teenager, my dad put a stop to that in his own charming and expletive-filled way, especially if he was the reason for those emotions.

And god forbid I felt happy! If I happened to feel a bit of confidence (from where, I have no idea), it was quickly struck down by one of my dad’s many diatribes against my body and looks and how I was an embarrassment to him.

Once I moved out of my parents’ house two weeks after graduating high school, I finally felt like I had control over something. I could listen to my music as loud as I wanted (within reason as I had an elderly neighbor, but she never complained), watch whatever I wanted, and wear whatever I felt best in.

At times, I felt slightly out of control, but the feeling of being mostly free of my dad’s alcoholism and unpredictable levels of anger was like an asthmatic getting that first puff of their inhaler. It was like feeling the DayQuil finally kick in and melt away your congestion. It was like catching your breath after running lines in practice.

I could breathe.

I didn’t have to hold my breath when I heard my dad’s angry footsteps approach my bedroom door.

I didn’t have to work to slow my breathing to convince my dad I was fine with his screaming threats and insults at me.

I didn’t have to hide under my blankets and breathe through yet another fight between my parents and hear my dad push my mom around.

I could just breathe.

But then worries of my mom and brother, who were still stuck at home with him, crept into my mind.

And just like that, I was holding my breath again.