lyrelyrepantsonfire

[lyrelyrepantsonfire]

A Tale Of Woe Always Starts At The Beginning

For as long as I have been alive I can not remember a time when my parents were in love. I mean, I honestly have never seen a loving relationship to look up to as I get older. Not ever. I guess the only time I could have possibly seen my parents in love was when I saw their wedding photos. 

The first time it was clear that something was wrong is something that I look back upon when I feel particularly greasy. I think I was around the age of five, my father had a computer at the end of the hall that he spent his entire life on. One day I was walking up that hallway, for what I don’t know. Now please note that this hallway is not secluded in any shape or form. My brothers bedroom was at the end of this hall, his door opened up and there was the computer. So I toddled up to ask a question about something, maybe if I could play Wizards101 on the computer. Smack dab on the middle of the screen was a naked redheaded woman. To be honest this is not that traumatizing of a memory, although I do remember the exact image of the woman. Looking back I am glad to see her smiling in the picture as I am worried that she might have been trafficked for porn purposes. My father literally jumped in his spot when he heard me start speaking, I’ve never seen him move so fast in my entire life. It was quite startling. He jumped to close out the browser and told me that it was just a pop-up-ad. I got what I wanted that day and he told me he was working on debugging the computer. I think my mother later caught him watching porn on youtube, my brother too. Not together guys. It was a stressful time and while I can never pinpoint when the arguing started I still remember how it felt. My mother was always one to scream and yell when angry. I think I had memories of her making good points but I’m not sure. 

However the most prominent time of my parents fighting was before my dad moved out. My sister tells me that he moved out for a year or two when she was in middle school so I guess I was in early elementary school, maybe first or second grade. It was night time, my mother had told us to go upstairs but from the energy downstairs that wasn’t really needed. My sister and I went to our respective rooms and shut the doors for them to hear. We both, of our own accord, waited till the yelling started to open our doors and creep out. We sat on the stairs, my sister having me move down the stairs little by little because I was too small to make the stairs creak. I would tell her what heard when my dad spoke because he was so quiet that we couldn’t hear. That night I remember them fighting over tools. My father is by no means a handyman but he had gone out and bought hundreds of dollars worth of tools. My mother at the time was a floor nurse making just enough to keep us out of the water. My father, however, worked a series of dead end jobs, telling us he got laid off every time he needed a new job. We should’ve been okay. We shouldn’t have had money issues but my father couldn’t seem to stop himself from spending. This man grew up rich, nannied, given everything he ever wanted, sent to a rich private school that his parents bribed for their children constantly. This side of the family hated my mother, she was born poor with a family that struggled to put food on the table sometimes. To them she was low class and scummy. I could tell you nothing about the intimate relationships of my mother and her inlaws. She hid the truth from us at the time not wanting to hurt us, then she stopped going on trips with us to see them. I do not hate or spite her for this. She deserved a break. I truly wish I could help her have the life she deserves. My father was not the life she deserved or wanted really. That man drained her of everything but witnessing their divorce I do think that she loved him. Now I am not so sure. The fighting got worse and my father left under the guise of going back to school. He only graduated the first time with an associates degree as he had failed his clinical class somehow.  His parents then tired to bribe their way to getting my father a passing grade. The school kicked him out. I fully believe he deserved it. They all needed to be knocked down a peg. 

Everything sorta fell apart after my father moved out and came back. They fought and fought and fought till the world ended. And boy did it end. My parents divorced a year ago after I found my father’s list of ultimatums. I’m not sure what exact order people were told in but I told my sister first. It fell apart from there. That was one of the first times I had ever seen my mother cry and I hated my father for it. For every tear and every minute I hated him. We found out that my father, who had been taking care of all the finances, had secretly spent all the money in my mom’s retirement fund. I was never told exactly what my dad spent it all on but I was told that most of the money was spent on things like Alcohol, Porn, and frivolous expenses. She hardly had a few thousand dollars left for her entire future. He never had a retirement. We all knew his parents would die at some point and pay for that. And if they didn’t die he would ask them for money and get it. Once a spoiled brat, always a spoiled brat. 

Some days I want to scream and cry and throw the worlds biggest fit about everything above. The divorce had many messy sides that hurt and I hated. Most of all I hate my father and his side of the family. As soon as I can scream at him for everything and then go no contact I will. Screw him and screw his family. I hate them and I will always hate them for what they’ve done. 

They are not deserving of my love or my praise. They stole my home from me. They stole my life from me. They tried to make me seem like I am not a person because I’m depressed. And most importantly they stole everything from my mother. I hate them. 

[lyrelyrepantsonfire]

Lets start at the very beginning.

Eighteen-ish years ago. AKA 2002

Early (or late depending on how you look at it) 2002 my parents had a new bouncing baby girl on their hands. I was quite a normal baby and come to think of it, nothing much happened in these blissful years. To be young and naive is a gift, I regret giving away the gift of that simple life as I knew it. Born youngest of three, as the baby the world was supposed to be given to me at the drop of the hat, or so I was told. 

My family and I lived in a three bedroom house on some beautiful old street, my parents called it historic but I’ll never remember what it looked like. I do however, remember my brother around age seven (7) playing with train cars. I think I’m aged two at this point. My mother and sister tell me he used to be nice. My dad says he still is. Following the memory of my brother playing is one of my sister throwing me off of a bunk bed. I had taken her space, interrupted her life. My crime at the time was taking a jar of peanut butter up into her loft bed. She threw me off the bunk, luckily I landed on my bed five feet or so below. 

Now friends I will say that my memories of life at this age are confusing and jumbled. I don’t know the order of these things as my parents do not remember them happening and so have had to piece them together like a puzzle. The following events do not exist in any memory other than my own. But still, I remember. This one is near and dear to me friends, I live in a land locked state in the USA , always have. But in my young age I remember climbing a slide to look over the fence at what I now know to be the rolling hills of my childhood, and in those hills I saw the ocean. The horizon gave me peace and excitement, at two years old I dreamed of travel and adventure. After, I have a memory that fills me with dread and sadness. It holds no consequence however as the only harm that happened was to my imagination. Little two year old me was handed a box of goldfish, a big tuppaware box, and told to carry it outside. Or maybe to hold onto it. I was bawling and this is one of the first memories I have of me in the third person. In my mind I can see myself, a chubby little two year old, eyes half shut crying and only opening when spoken to, two fat little fists clutching that box of goldfish for dear life, absolutely just heaving with sobs, pin-straight brown hair all frizzy and a mess with Dora like bangs sticking out everywhere. We were moving, and some part of my mind remembers a vague kitchen attached to a living room in some odd open way with the front door next to cabinets; all tied together with the idea of a moving truck outside the door. 

When we move I remember nothing else, well almost. I remember putting my hands in wet cement to mark who we were at the time. All three sets of my sibling and I’s hands are still there to this day. After this I have another third person memory. It’s my third birthday, I think, the first birthday in the house and mom has made a cake. It’s a lovely little carrot cake with a bright orange carrot piped on top of stark white icing. Truly it was beautiful, I’ll never forget it. In my mind I have the image of me and my siblings, my sister and brother, sitting around a dark blue children’s fold up table. There are only two chairs and my brother and sister are using them, one is red and one is yellow. I’m left standing on the edge of the carpet where kitchen tile meets living room carpet. I blow out the candles and clap my fat little hands together, happy that life is easy. I do not remember my wish, I do remember that it did not come true. 

Skip birthdays four and five, this is where life starts to go down hill and I leave you with the last memory of the post. We have a big fort out in the back yard, two swings, two slides and a whole lot of fun. I loved every moment of it. I wish I used it more. The joy of swinging on a swing is like nothing else. Were it not for rona I would gladly do it again this instant. Anyway, chubby five year old me has thinned up, I have been diagnosed with a mild case of ADHD and put on strong meds. I’m starting to stop eating. This day I was fighting with my brother and went outside to breath. Sitting on the swing I think about the afterlife, my mother is raising us to be christian. I think about life on that swing, the memory seen through my little eyes with hands grabbing hard onto the chains. “Life is like a video game isn’t it?” I think to myself, remembering how the others talk about being alive. “So what happens when you die? Is it like me logging out of a game and moving on in the real world?” I try to imagine it and feel sick, my eyes are zooming out and all I see is black. It only happened for a few seconds and that was it. I’ll never forget the feeling of that moment. 

[lyrelyrepantsonfire]

An introduction to all my friends.

Hi. For the sake of anonymity my name is Lyre and I need therapy. Like many people I can not afford this and since I have heard about therapists telling patients to document things I am going to document my entire life. I hope you enjoy the ride and I hope your life is easier than mine. Although I do not mean to sound so melodramatic.