The second I close my eyes a new world opens up to me. All the sounds in my house that usually go unnoticed are suddenly impossible to ignore. I keep my eyes tight and try to fall asleep but I am distracted by each noise I hear – the soft ticking of the old clock near my bed, the humming of the computer sitting idly next to me, the clicking of the dates falling from the palm outside my window and onto the deck, the faint rumble of the dryer below my room, the muffled sound of my mother chatting on the telephone in the next room, the slosh of water as the bathroom faucet is turned on and off, the music flowing from my sister’s room as she opens her door followed by her harsh footsteps banging on the hardwood floor as she gets a freshly printed essay from the printer then the same footsteps back followed by her door slamming shut causing the music to become nearly inaudible, the soft taps of one of my cats’ claws tapping the floor as she scampers up the hallway, the more distant bounce of another cat galloping down the hall after being startled by the first, the cacophony of dishes hitting each other in the kitchen as my father cleans up after dinner, the seashell fuzz of cars racing on the freeway, and the occasional airplane flying overhead. I try to focus in on falling asleep, on keeping the noises out of my head, but I simply begin to hear something different, sounds closer to me - the swish of my blankets as I shift my body ever so gently, the rustling of my cat curling up – closer - my breath, my heartbeat - the two rhythms of my body harmonizing with each other creating a lullaby that rocks me to sleep while shaking awake all my dreams.
I feel safe in my room; I know the walls protect me from many of these sounds. Even so, the muffled sounds that are left are soothing to me. They’re comforting and familiar. They lead me to my favorite thing: dreaming. A dream can take you anywhere; it can be anything you imagine – a person, a place, a day, a week, a book, a wish, a hope, a fear, an expectation, a belief, a regret – images, thoughts, and memories roam freely, sometimes meeting each other and collaborating to create a bigger idea, sometimes just wandering by themselves. My walls make it safe for me to dream. They keep me from the harsh realities beyond my room. Or at least that’s what I like to believe.
Every so often, my ear will catch a noise less common. This is the noise I am always secretly searching for, but always wishing I will not stumble upon. It starts out just a voice, then another voice, then a mix of both voices overlapping once and a while, then the two voices are forced into one though they do not blend; they stay harsh and separate. I become frustrated with my walls. Why would you let this sound in? I try to ignore, I hope it will pass quickly. I hope the tone I’m catching is wrong, that there is no anger in their voices. But there is and it causes my eyes to fill, my brow to wrinkle, and my arms to shake as they wrap around my body in search of comfort. There’s nothing left to do other then to wait it out. Just wait and try not to let the words I hear echo around in my head, and yet they always do. I am standing in a room filled with bullets that ricochet off the walls and never lose speed.
I don’t fight like this. I refuse. I hold my temper and my tongue because I can’t stand the thought of being a part of the very thing that has broken me down time after time. Sometimes after my dad and sister get into a huge argument, my mind begins racing with thoughts of what I would love to say, something that could maybe make my dad realize how pointless these arguments are. Tell me: Why are you yelling? If you can tell me then go ahead, yell, scream, shatter a glass or two. Your logic is transparent, I see right through it. She didn’t put away her glass, not because she forgot, no, because she is trying to disrespect you, to rebel against your training, what you taught her, so the best thing to do? Yell at her and wait for her to yell back. Both voices raise louder and louder until I expect someone’s lungs to explode and when you’ve reached that point, when there is nothing left but embarrassment face to face, you walk away trying to uphold you dignity but you’ve lost control, you can’t contain your fury, you reach for the nearest door to hide behind and you push it with all your might in hopes that its slam can replace the scream you can no longer produce as a burning tear cuts your cheek on its way down to the earth and leaves you feeling empty. Now tell me you feel better and I won’t question you again.
I have blurred memories. I don’t know whether it’s because I won’t let myself remember or if it’s because I can’t. I remember broken dishes, a cracked door, a shattered window of a car, a broken chair leg, a slap, and apologies, always endless apologies. I was never in danger. I never felt like I was in danger. It was all superficial and it never really had anything to do with me. That may be another reason why I don’t remember; half the time I probably didn’t even actually see anything, that is, until later. I saw a pile of what used to be a plate or a glass in the trash confirming what I thought had caused the crash in the kitchen earlier. I saw a long scar in the wood of my mother’s door that made me wonder whether or not it would snap the next time she slammed it shut. I saw one of the kitchen chairs lying on its side in the dining room with the bottom of one leg lying starkly beside it. I did see the car window crisply melt away after my father threw the door against our car, and I did see my father’s hand suddenly connect with my sister’s cheek. But in any one of these cases, if asked why, I wouldn’t be able to answer.
I can’t say that I remember the apologies because there were so many and they were always so similar that I can no longer differentiate between them. These apologies were always coming at me. When I was little, I needed them; they made me feel like something had been resolved. But as I grew older, I began anticipating the apology as the argument began. It became increasingly difficult for me to sit in my room and listen when I knew someone would attempt to take it all back in an hour or so. And even so, it still hurt. In truth it hurt even more. I knew that the blinding tears in my eyes were caused accidentally and that my parents were always sorry, but how many times can you let the same accident happen? An apology does not erase what you’ve done and it does not fix it. It is a plea for forgiveness. I am done answering that plea. My heart, my body, my mind all can’t take it. I can’t stand watching the same cycle loop over and over.
On one particular random day after one particular random fight, something began bubbling up inside me. It was a silent fury that I had to voice. I didn’t want to tell my parents face to face because I didn’t want to give them an opportunity to forget one word I said, so I wrote. The blade of my pen cut words deep into the paper, soon to be cut deep into my parents’ minds. When I finished scribbling out my anger, I composed it neatly on one crisp grayish-blue piece of construction paper. I didn’t want to sign my name because it was obvious who it was from but just as an extra reminder I still finished it off with my name introduced by a little dash, not sincerely, not from, not love, just a tiny hard line then Rosemary. I folded it over and wrote a short Mom & Dad on the front, binding them together so that neither could blame the other. I left it on our kitchen counter and went to sleep wondering whether either of them would even say anything to me about it, but knowing it would hit them hard.
I know my mom read it, though she never said anything to me, or not that I remember. It made sense; I had said I was sick of hearing apologies. I said their apologies meant nothing to me, that they didn’t make me feel better, so of course she wouldn’t say she was sorry. I guess she just couldn’t think of anything else to say. I feel distance between my mother and me. We don’t talk much even though our rooms are right next to each other. She is and sarcastic and smart. She can lose her temper easily depending on her mood, but she mostly goes between making fun of the new principal at her school and laughing hysterically at the Daily Show or the Colbert Report. She comes off as solid, but I know she is unstable. Once upon a time, she was that superhero mom with no weakness, always there protecting me from any sort of peril. But I’ve seen her cry. I know she could open up to me but she’d rather stay that superhero. I had no expectations for either of them, so I wasn’t disappointed by her response.
My dad walked into our living room the next day as I was lounging on the couch watching TV. I reluctantly turned to look at him because I could tell that he was waiting for me to acknowledge his presence. His eyes were red and his face was heartbroken. His mouth opened slightly as if he was about to speak, but then pursed tight to hold back the tears that he didn’t want to let spill out along with his words. I could see a million unspoken apologies trapped behind his gaze. I accepted these apologies because I knew he wouldn’t say them. I knew that he understood and I knew he would never forget. Eventually he gave in, allowed his eyes to become a little more blurred and spoke, “This…” he paused, “This is really beautiful.” His words floated heavily in the air before he turned and left the room. I saw that he was still holding the piece of cloud-colored paper and I could tell he would never let it go.
This was about a year ago and I guess it helped. I don’t think I’ve heard them arguing since then but it’s not better yet. The words that I can’t quite remember are all impossible to forget, or the feeling of them. That pain will always be in my memory even though it might not hurt. Just like the sounds I hear in my room. They will always be there if I listen for them, but they don’t always keep me awake.