Let me paint you a picture. There’s a vicious storm raging. But, not just your average snowstorm. In the middle of said storm there is a girl about nine years old. In her mind she can hear nothing; she has no thought but, ”How much longer until I snap?” She holds her head in her hands and lets the tears that have been pricking her eyelids stream down her face; each one like a glacier, carving its way down her cheeks. She can’t take it anymore. The screaming and the yelling are too much to bear. Even in her four walls of sanctuary with music pumping through her, there is no hiding what is going on outside her door.

Starting from the time I was in the third grade, my parents would argue. It was never a yelling and screaming affair, but it was enough for me to notice. Over time, the arguing would escalate, but it never reached a breaking point. They would come close to one, but they would suddenly be very aware of the fact that I existed. The fact that I existed was the only thing that kept our family sane. Because I was there, we still ate as a family and my father would still be his humorous self, amusing me with his silliness. The happy memories of our family time were like an apple in my hand, sweet and solid. But apples don’t stay fresh forever; they begin to rot and waste away.

The summer before I entered 4th grade, their fights started to gain volume. I began to retreat into my room whenever I heard the sound of their voices rising. I learned to tune out the exclamations of “You aren’t telling me what I want to hear! You always say the wrong thing.”, and “Well it’s not my fault that you can’t take a joke! You expect me to always know exactly how you’re feeling and exactly what you’re thinking and when I make one mistake it’s the end of the freaking world!”. The skill of being able to push all of the negative emotion into a tiny little box in my brain that I thought could hold worlds seemed so useful at the time. I got to the point to where I could go on autopilot without feeling or hearing a single thing. The memories of summer vacations and family dinners were beginning to slip through my fingers, as if someone had taken a bite out of the apple and then left it to drain of its juice.

The problem with being on autopilot, however, is that after a while, the box that you stuff all of your emotion into starts to crack at the edges. As much as I tried to make the box stretch a little more, the inevitable happened. It broke into a million little pieces that seemed to be too small to put back together. I could no longer hold in my emotion. I began to “act out” if you wish. School was just a formality that was in the way of me and my sanctuary, so why do the assignments that required no skill whatsoever to do matter? And why pay attention to someone telling you something you already know? It’s not like the fourth grade was going to determine my future anyways.

The only part of me that remained exactly the same was my love for books, probably because they were a gateway out of the hell I thought I was in. The dialogue from the characters would blast over the arguing and yelling enough for me not to hear. But one night, even the words of J.K. Rowling couldn’t overbear the words pouring out of my parents’ mouths. It was the middle of March, so going outside to avoid it wasn’t an option. I had no choice but to sit and wait it out. That night was the only night that I have ever even thought about harming myself. As I sat there trying not to listen, the idea more than popped into my head. I thought that maybe it would distract me from what was going on, since nothing else was able to. Drastic times call for drastic measures, they say. But, somehow a voice of reason made its way into my insane thoughts, and I couldn’t believe that I was even considering doing that to myself.

Shocked and confused, I stared into nothing until I couldn’t keep the tears back anymore. One by one, they began to stain my cheeks and drip off of my chin. The tears I had held in for so long were leaving my eyes at a pace unknown to man. My skin not yet touched by acne was covered in red splotches, making it look like I had the chicken pox. I had never felt more alone in my life. To anyone looking in, my simple but welcoming home would’ve seemed inviting and warm. One step inside would’ve changed their perspective, though.

From that night on, things went from dysfunctional to horrendous . My father would go on three day long walks that he needed a suitcase for. My mother would sit staring out the window for hours on end. I continued on autopilot, eating when necessary and going through the motions daily. I never said anything that could upset either of my parents. Never asked questions as to why they were fighting all of the time. Never put even a toe out of line for fear of drawing attention to myself. In a way, I was thankful for school because it meant that I wasn’t at home.

However, when school ended, my world brightened. I spent days at a time at my pseudo grandma’s house. Those days were the happy ones that I pushed through my days at home for. There I could be myself and not worry about being seen and not heard. There I could spend my day outside playing with a friend who I’d known as long as I could remember. There it never snowed in the house, for there the house was a place of peace.

Even in the summer, it would snow in my house. There was no thread of love between my parents that I could hang on to. My father, who was in the landscaping business at the time, worked late and I rarely saw him before after dinner. In the end of June, I went to my “grandma’s” house for a week. When she drove me home, I could see the snow from my driveway. When I walked in the door, both of my parents were sitting at the table, arms and legs crossed. My mother was unreadable, emotionless. My father, on the other hand, was like a book in front of my eyes. I knew what they had to talk to me about even before, “Sit down, honey. We need to tell you something.”, burst from my mother’s mouth.

After the conversation that I had dreaded for months and months, my father left the house with a suitcase packed with my last strands of hope. I knew then that my parents were never going to be together again. My world, already crumbling, was blown to bits and scattered on the floor.

Finally, after my father had been gone a while, I found the snow in my house beginning to melt; a faint spring being ushered in. My mother began to open up again and be herself, and I began to find joy in things again. Dinner became fun again, instead of being a burden. Time went by at a normal pace instead of each moment being agonizing and lasting forever.

When I returned to school in the fall, I did so with as much of a spring in my step that I could create. I was like a new person compared to my fourth grade self. I was still angry at my parents for chewing up my world and spitting it out, but at the same time I was thankful for the fact that they weren’t together, because it meant that no more snow would fall in my house.