Abandonment

There are different types of abandonment. You can be emotionally abandoned or physically abandoned somewhere. Being emotionally abandoned is something that I have gotten used over the course of my short 17 years, but being physically abandoned was something I never thought would happen.

When I was little, I was a “daddy’s girl”. Hell, DaDa was my first word. Every morning I would wake up early, knowing my father was watching Tv in the living room. I’d go out and lay on his chest, cuddling him until I fell back asleep. I felt safe. I felt loved.

People don’t usually just disappear all of the sudden. They gradually distance themselves until you get the hint that they no longer want to be near you. I’m not really sure if that was the case with my father. It felt like he just suddenly didn’t want me anymore. He wasn’t even subtle. He stopped spending time with me. He stopped telling me he loved me. He stopped asking how my day was, and when I tried to talk to him it was simply “go away”. That’s it. Go away. So I did.

Eventually the only time he spoke to me was to criticize me, insult me, torment me. It seemed like he took pleasure in making me cry, making me hate myself. I found myself avoiding going home just so that I wouldn’t have to be near him. I stayed as late as I could after school, joined clubs, played sports, and had sleepovers whenever I had the chance. Every once in awhile I would make an attempt to find the father I once knew, but my attempts were always shot down.

Despite all the times he called me ugly, called me fat, called me stupid, I still loved him. How could I not? After all, he was my father. I was his “little bird”, his “B”, his “princess”. It wasn’t until the night he physically abandoned me that I finally decided that enough was enough.

We were driving somewhere (I don’t remember where, it doesn’t really matter, and I don’t really care). Ironically, I didn’t even want to go out with him in the first place, but I had gone anyways because he promised that we would get treats. What can I say? I have a sweet tooth. We were stopped at a red light in a big intersection crowded with cars.

The thing about my father is that he really likes picking fights over stupid things. His favorite part is blowing it up to make it seem like the other person is the bad guy.

We started fighting over the stupid radio. He only wanted to listen to songs that he knew I did not like, just because he knew I’d get angry. He started screaming at me. It was the usual “you’re the worst kid” “you are stupid and selfish” crap that came out of his mouth whenever we are in a room together. I couldn’t take it anymore and I snapped back. I screamed at him that I hated him, that I didn’t want to be anywhere near him anymore. He unlocked the car doors and told me to get out. I looked at him bewildered. He repeated himself and raised his hand like he was going to hit me.

Physical violence is rare these days between us. He spanked me until I was well over the age to be spanked. I think he only stopped because it was now considered abuse. But every once in awhile he can’t help it. He gets so close to doing it that it usually scares me off.

I opened the door, looking out at the traffic that was beginning to move once again. I stepped down to the asphalt below and shut the door. He turned his head back to the windshield and drove away. He never looked back.

I ran across the street, trying to avoid getting hit by the cars racing towards me. Once I was “safe” on the sidewalk, my emotions bubbled over. I began sobbing. I was shaking in anger so violently that it was as if I was a cellphone receiving 50 spam texts in a row. I looked around me, hoping to see him come back around the corner to get me. I felt my heart sink to the pit of my stomach as I realized he was not coming back. Panic began to bubble up in my chest. Goosebumps spread across my entire body and I felt cold inside.

I took my phone out to check my map app. I had no idea where I was. Curious, I looked up the approximate time it would take for me to get home by walking. It was 3 hours. Glancing up at the sky, I knew that I only had about an hour and a half left before the sun would go down completely. With my eyes trained on my phone, I began walking in the direction it told me and it did not take 3 hours.

It took much longer…

After hours of walking, I finally began to recognize my surroundings. I knew it would only take 30min or so to get to Cucamonga Middle School. It was dark and I was scared. I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl was kidnapped near that school several years before. And then a dark thought snuck its way into my brain……. I didn’t care. I didn’t care what happened to me. My family didn’t care about me, I didn’t really have friends, and I just didn’t care about myself. These thoughts are dangerous for me. To feel like I’m slipping into the numbing despair that I had been trying to escape since middle school was terrifying. It seemed suiting to have these thoughts as I walked towards the school that contained my worst memories. It was at that school that I first lost my will to live.

When I got to the school, I sat down on the steps and gazed out at the track. The field glistened under the street lamps, damp from the sprinklers that were on just before I got there. I felt lost. I didn’t belong there when I was a student and I definitely didn’t belong there as a high school student. Not that I really felt like I belonged anywhere, but still….

I sat there for about an hour before I got the guts to call my mother and ask for her to come get me. I was afraid more afraid of her not caring than I was of getting in trouble. I’ve run away from home many times, been kicked out just as many. I usually end up wandering Rancho until I knew my parents would be in bed and then I would sneak back into the house, unseen in the darkness. They never go looking for me, never worried.

When I called her, she demanded to know where I was and what happened. It was 9PM. She came to get me and the ride home was silent. It reminded me of the silence when she picked me up from school after finding out that I was a self-harmer. The cold silence.

We walked into the house to find my father lying on the couch, watching Tv. Perfectly content. You could see that he did not care where I was. My mother began to scream at him and I ran to my room. I sat in my bed and put my headphones on, but I could still hear them. He told her that it was my own fault, that I deserved it. She threatened to call the cops and report him for child endangerment. The argument continued all night until she kicked him out of the house. It was weird for me to listen to because it was the first time she had ever defended me. I’m not sure what time he came home, but he did.

That night was the end of the relationship I had with my father, and the beginning the the relationship I now have with my mother.