family
Family unites us; but it's also a challenge. All about fighting to stay together, and loving every moment of it.
Shattering The Pedestal
We have constantly been fed the myth that our parents will strive to do what is best for us, that they have our wellbeing as their priority. But what if this is a lie to make parents less accountable for their more destructive actions? This gives them an excuse to claim "I was trying my best, I only wanted to do what was best for you!" and to then be expected to be forgiven because it was in our best interest.
By Julianne McKenna4 years ago in Humans
Driving with a Disabled Dad
Driving with a Disabled Dad By: Esther I. Kim Part 1: Driving Lessons He was socially awkward and couldn’t make eye contact. My friends would laugh at him when he would blurt out the wrong things at the wrong times. He didn’t get along with the other adults. He worked as a janitor at my school to pay the bills. He had Aspergers. He was my Dad.
By Esther Kim4 years ago in Humans
The Teddy Bear & The Beast
Hi, I’m JJ and my mom is a hoarder. If you’re not familiar with that term I would love to explain it to you. Miriam Webster defines it as “a person affected with hoarding disorder” which is super descriptive and helpful. In less sensitive terms it just means you can’t throw shit away. Yes, it’s a compulsion that is typically treated with therapy but saying that would have ruined the punchline. Anyway growing up in a house stacked with newspapers, health and safety notices plastered to my front door, and a room full of baby dolls from the 80s hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park. I’m 20 years old now and my boyfriend was bugging me to take him home for the holidays. Bringing him into a hazmat zone to ring in the New Year didn’t really sound like a good plan. I decided instead of telling him the truth, I’d just clean my mom's entire hoard. To get some real work done I had to get my mom out of the house. So, I told my dad to take her to my aunt’s for the day. I try to get in the front door. It’s stuck so I start shoving, it barely moves. I push harder when I finally get through the door, I notice piles of milk cartons in my way. I only shove the door about a quarter of the way open and I have to turn my body and carefully shuffle through. The beast has grown, he’s gotten taller, his breath is smellier, and his fur is thicker. I’m freaking out, the walls feel like they are closing in. There’s so much shit! I brought in one package that I wrapped in brown paper. I’m gonna put my mom's valuables in this pretty box for her and the rest of the junk is going to be hauled off and dumped, burned, bulldosed; I don’t care as long as it’s gone. I make my way through the house sorting through mounds of trash and I find a pink butterfly clip I used to wear everyday when I was a kid. One time I tried to use elmers glue to keep it in my hair forever, my mom stopped me… thank god. Now this next part I feel a little guilty about, I put it in the box. I mean I don’t have to throw everything away at once right? Get this, the next thing I know it’s hour 3 of “cleaning” and I find myself lying on a pile of newspapers reading one from 1969. The headline was the Apollo 11 moon landing. I mean that’s gotta be worth somethin’ right? I threw it in the box. Then I come across this stack of everything I drew as a child. I mean everything, even the finger painting I did of Bill Clinton when I was 12. Which just by hearing that concept I think we all agree… I’m a visionary. I put that in my box so fast it was a no brainer. It came time for the attic which was the most dense part of the house; I sorted, sweated, and sanitized that hot box of death until I had dust bunnies running for their lives! Once I was done I noticed there was a little yellow button on the floor. I picked it up and noticed it said “Teddy’s Toys” on the edge of the button in fine print. I remembered my teddy bear as a little girl had three yellow buttons on its tummy. Without a thought I put it in the little brown package. The house now looked livable, you could not only see the floors but you could lick em’, the dishes were no longer mount everest, and there wasn’t a fire hazard in sight. It wasn’t till I was half way back to my car that I noticed what was in my package labeled valuables: a plastic butterfly clip, a newspaper from 1969, a finger painting of Bill Clinton, and a little yellow button. After years of writing my mom off as crazy I finally understood. She just sees value in the little things, and like me at this moment, has a little trouble letting go of the past. I grabbed a ribbon from one of the trash bags tied around the brown paper package and set it on my mom’s doorstep. I figured if she kept these things all these years she deserves to hold onto them a little longer. Oh and I almost forgot to mention I brought my boyfriend home for Christmas and my parents loved him.
By Jazzy Hawley4 years ago in Humans
The Quiet Ones
They say my dad never seemed to get angry. The years I spent with him; I never once saw him lash out. It didn't matter if I failed a test in school. It didn't matter how many fights I got in. All he would say to me is, "Johnny, you've got to control your temper. Find an outlet and pursue it."
By E.L. Martin5 years ago in Humans
My Mother Threw Me Away
I was born in February of 1977. My mother had just turned seventeen years old and had no desire to settle down and be a parent. She was a wild child and liked to have a good time. Responsibility wasn't one of her virtues. Don't get me wrong, she was well-loved, and was one of those people that others said, would, 'Give you the shirt off their backs.' However, she had zero maternal instincts and didn't want any. Not as far as I was concerned anyway.
By J.B. Miller5 years ago in Humans
The Encounter
I was about six years old when I first discovered sharks. I was laying at the foot of my parents bed watching tv in their bedroom as was our pre-bedtime ritual. We had just gotten cable for the first time and had a channel called HBO. My parents were watching a movie and my eyes were glued to the television, watching a shark terrorize patrons at an amusement park. I would later learn that the film was called Jaws 3, and it was indelibly etched into my memory. I cheered as the shark was blown to bits at the end and my parents declared it was time to go to bed.
By Mike Saska5 years ago in Humans
Built by six hands
You know they say you have to learn people's love language. It's how they communicate their feelings. Born in 1945 in England, my father may have never quite been given the tools to share his emotions in a conventional way. It's not that I don't know he loves me, of that I am absolutley assured. It's that he has never said it. It's like a speech impediment. I know he wants to. I know how proud of me he is. I feel that. I see it in his face. Telling me though? That's a hurdle too high.
By Simon King 5 years ago in Humans
Chocolate Cake or Duct Tape
“Chocolate cake it is,” she thinks. After just having endured another torturous four-hour screaming match, Eliza comes to the same conclusion as she always does: “Greg and I are just a little upset right now, but some homemade chocolate cake will fix it.” To her, it’s really just simple logic.
By Calista Marchand-Nazzaro5 years ago in Humans
Dad’s Favorite
It was my 25th birthday, so I invited my parents to come celebrate. I grew up with the most bland of foods. That’s what my dad liked. An extra grain of salt and he would rant. Spices, especially Garlic was sinful and led to rage. Chocolate was almost a daily part of our diet, because it was his favorite. Dad ruled and there was never any question of that. Mom would remind me to be tactful. Meaning I was required to cower, quietly, and of course, seething.
By Jerrie J Paul5 years ago in Humans
