Tug of War

Writing is the only way I can tell the world how I'm feeling. This is a story of something that happened to me 10 years ago, that I still have not expressed my feelings about to anyone.

Over the summer, there was always a game my friends and I would play. It was an old fashioned game, that for some reason we always enjoyed. Tug of war is what it was called. There were two teams, and one rope. Each team would grasp it as tight as they could, leaving their hands red and blistered afterwards. Then on the count of three, the teams would pull backward with all the force they could muster up, until the other team was down. And as I would lung backwards, trying to bring the other team to the ground, I thought of my own life. How each team was like one of my parents. How they both battled each other to bring the other one down. And I thought again; this game was called tug of “WAR”, and the word war brings the thought of actual wars, where there was a purpose in fighting, like the winners actually won something. But in the game, tug of war, there is no reason to win the war. Only the satisfactory of bring the other team down. This also fit in to my theory of my parents, acting just like the team members of tug of war... Leave me as the rope. 

            Yes, that dusty brown boat rope was a metaphor for me. I was constantly being tugged between the after wars of my parents’ divorce. I was only six when they separated, barely able to understand love, and nowhere near understanding why their love didn't work out. But still I remembered the house I grew up in; a cute little house that I still call home, that was fixated right on the most beautiful 180 acre farm. It may not have been the best to anyone else, but to me every shard of grass was perfect. Every leaf that swayed on the wind, every stone, every stick, every tree, and every cloud that passed through the baby blue sky. I remember the feeling of the sweet warm wind that would Wisk across the land, sweeping the hair off my sweaty neck while playing on the swing set that I built with my dad. The beautiful composure of the horses, at the time that towered over me, with their long mane swaying in the wind, just as my hair did. I felt like I had a connection with the horses, before I could talk or even walk. I remember my mom sitting my by the fence, that held the horses in the field, and they were so intrigued by me, all 12 of them would walk over to the fence and bend their heads down to sniff me. I remember their warm breath would dance across my young, infant face; making me giggle with joy. Then little by little, as I grew up, I started to notice the bad things going on inside my once serenity house.

            I don't remember when the yelling began. But I remember it started off as just little arguments that would make me stand there, confused and a little scared. Then after that it progressed into full on rages. I remember seeing my dad’s face turn red, and my mom’s turn into full anger. And as I would stand there with my back against the kitchen wall, I would watch their eyes turn into wild animals. Like they were so full of hate, they felt nothing else. I remember watching the veins in my dad’s neck become more visible, and as the argument became more intense, spit would fly from their mouths.

After a few moments would pass, and they realized I was standing there, my mom would softly ask me to go to my room. I would run to my bed, but that didn't stop the yelling and screaming. And pushing my pillow over my ears wouldn't quench the sound, roaring through the house. Having the mindset of a four year old, I pictured my parents as monsters during those times. Because the noise that would hit the walls through the night, wasn't my parents; it couldn't be, I would think to myself. Because it was a roaring thunder that boomed out of their lungs, screaming words until they were out of breathe. And as I lay in bed, starring at the glow in the dark stars stuck to my ceiling, I asked the man in the sky everyone talked about, when it would stop. Then eventually it would.

            When it became later in the night, they would yell one more “I’M DONE” before they would stomp off to their bed room. Most nights my mom would sleep on the floor next to my bed. And sometimes, I would fall asleep to her soft cries, and sniffles; which was almost worse than the yelling.

            Then as another year passed I was now five years old. And I wondered if five was the big age, where my parents would magically stop turning into roaring monsters. But, like most of my secret birthday candle wishes, it didn't come true. In fact, I think my wish became lost in the parallel universe, because it turned out to become the opposite. Two nights later, after avoiding each other for the last couple of days, is when I saw their monstrous yelling turn even worse. I was sitting in the bathtub with the door open; probably so my mom could keep an eye on me as she folded the laundry on the couch. Then when my dad said something, and my mom replied, I remember feeling the room tense up, the way it always did before they went through almost a metamorphosis to become the growling yelling monsters. But this time when my dad walked into the living room, I had a perfect view from the bathtub of them yelling. Then as it heightened my dad shoved my mom down on the couch. In that moment, even though I wasn't mad at my dad, I became hateful of the monster that possessed my parents, way too frequently. After that moment, I jumped out of the tub and screamed “DAD” at the top of my lungs. He came over and told me it was going to be okay, and for me not to worry. Something I had to hear almost every night. My mom then walked into the kitchen and my dad followed her. I went back to the warm soothing water of the bathtub, not wanting to see anymore. After more yelling, there was glass breaking and more screaming.  Then my mom came thumping into the bathroom and pulled me out of the bathtub, and walked me into my bedroom. I stood there with a towel around my shoulders, shivering, longing for the warm water again. I heard a thump and turn around to see my mom pulling out suitcases from the top of my closet. She wheeled them over and heaved them on to the bed. I was confused and more scared, but like I usually did, I stayed quite, and just observed what was happening. My mom stomped back and forth from the dresser, then closet, then the suitcases, stuffing shirts and pants and socks.

I looked over and saw my dad in my bedroom doorway, leaning on the door frame, more sad and miserable than I’ve ever seen him, to this day even. My mom will filling suitcases and throwing them to the floor to make room on my twin size bed for more. One she had 3 filled, she turned to me and put a nightgown over me, then tied a robe round me. She waked back to the closet and grabbed a pair of dirty old sneakers that I only wore when I was playing in the dusty fields with the horses. She wheeled the suitcases to the front door, then came back for me and picked me up and set me on her hip. I could try to describe to you the way I was feeling, but it was such a complex feeling of sadness, guilt, and pure terror. Out of all the times my parents fought, it had never gotten this bad. My mom ran me and the suitcases to the car before I could even look back at my dad. It was dark and raining, and I can clearly remember the soft thumping of the rain drops on the cars metal roof top. I strapped myself in on the left side of the back seat, and my mom turned the key and the car roared to life. We drove off across the gravel drive way, and I told my mom I didn't even get to say goodbye. I knew we weren’t leaving forever, but it didn't feel right to leave without saying anything. She wiped a few tears off her face, and turned the car around. Within two minutes we were back in the drive way and my dad walked out of the house and opened my door. He leaned in and hugged me for what seemed like forever, and he said something that I would never forget. “You’ll understand one day.”

            My dad was wearing a leather jacket, and the rain had soaked it as he was hugging me. The smell of wet leather filled my nose, and to this day it's a smell the repulses me, because of the emotions that it brings back. That night we stayed at my grandparents and a while later, we got our own apartment. Then after that, when it caught on fire we moved to Cincinnati. I still visit my dad on the weekends, and sometimes I get to go back and see the farm. Ten years later, I’m still stuck between the tug of war between my parents, constantly feeling like I have to choose a side. But I’m still thankful that the fighting has stopped and my parents no longer turn into monsters. But still, I wish the tug of war in my life, was only a game.

Author's Note

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