The Apartment

On a warm autumn evening, I perched atop the highest branch of my favorite apricot tree, watching the sun fall below the mountain peaks. The sky was a delicate pink. The beauty of rural Utah awed my young mind. I was in a euphoric daze until I heard my name called from the house, it was my mother inviting me back inside for Family Home Evening. I hesitantly climbed down from my tree and slowly made my way across the rocky field we considered our backyard. I dragged each foot deep into the dirt hoping the ground might sense my need and swallow me whole. I opened the door and heard a cringe-worthy off-tune rendition of, “I am Child of God.” My family sat down together in the living room of our cramped two bedroom apartment attached to my grandparents’ house, all eight of us.

I made eye contact with my father; I could see in his face that tonight was not going to be a good night. He has a specific expression, or lack of one, when he’s angry. His eyebrows relax out of their constant furrowed state, an icy gleam covers any emotion in his eyes, and a soft smile peels back his lips just enough to see his teeth clench. Cold anger isn’t an emotion for him; it is his personality. The tension in that house was always tangible. One wrong move and you’ve set off a tripwire. I made a wrong move that night—what began as a religious family meeting quickly snowballed into an argument. I only remember bits and pieces from nights like these. I don’t know what snarky comment I made or what complaint I had decided to voice. I remember the fear. I remember trying to leave. I remember the pain I felt in my back from the corner of the door-frame. I remember the pain deep in my chest from the elbow that held me there. I remember the hot tears that felt cold compared to the burning of my cheeks. Time stops when you’re an object; when you’re a rag doll thrown around by the child who never really wanted you in the first place.

I don’t remember getting to my bed; I remember lying there for a while. Once I had control of my breathing, and my tears stopped dripping from my cheeks, I stood up and carefully made my way back toward the eye of the storm. I figured if I apologized soon maybe the consequences wouldn’t be as extreme as they had been in the past. I took each step one at a time, steady and precise so they were inaudible. As I turned into the kitchen, I heard them discussing. Their words were hushed and hard to decipher. I leaned into the wall trying to get a feel for how well my plan would go over. In the midst of mumbles I heard my father’s voice distinctly as if he was speaking to me face to face. The words cut like jagged glass digging into every loose strand of self-worth I had.

“Every time Mikaela speaks I want to ram her head into a brick wall.” Silence followed, the conversation continued. No one came to my rescue; no one stood up for me, not even my mother. My body went cold, and every emotion turned off like a light switch. I was numb.

The bruises lingered for a couple of weeks. I knew that when one injury disappeared, another would replace it. I would count days between the old and new; it was my way to see if things were getting better. Handprints on my upper arms replaced the marks on my back and chest. My mother watched and said nothing. I used to be angry at her, confused and hurt by her lack of action. He held my limp body above the stairs, and she sat, on the couch, blank. When his face turned to stone, composed of cold anger and violence, hers turned away.

I can remember a time when I wasn’t afraid of my father. I must have been 5 or 6 years old. We built a snowman together. We searched the entire yard for two perfect twig arms and raided the fridge for a carrot nose. Snow was dancing softly across the sky. When we finished, we drank hot cocoa topped with whipped cream. My parents divorced a couple of months after that. Obviously, a child that young does not understand the complexities of legal separation but when both parents are suddenly absent, the oldest kid picks up the slack. That was me. I took care of my only other sibling at the time, Haylee. We slept in the same bed together for years because the fear of being alone raided our dreams every night. Haylee and I have never been best friends. We’ve never been enemies either. We are each other’s survival.

My sister and I lived with our father’s parents while our parents were taking time off to grow up and figure out their childish mess. My grandparents took us to the Dinosaur Park in Ogden one summer day, and I fell in love. I decided I wanted to become a paleontologist. I signed up for a time slot at the public library and used one of the ancient computers that take three years to load a web-page to find more information on the Mesozoic Era. I checked out every book I could find on dinosaurs and read every line eagerly as if I needed knowledge as much as I needed air to breathe. I vividly remember my dreams crashing down when my grandfather told me I could not be what I affectionately coined a "dinosaur doctor" because college is not for women. I was reminded of my place in the home every day by him; I was to cook meals and do laundry, nothing else. I was eight.

During the second grade, my parents started dating again, we eventually moved in together and recomposed a somewhat nuclear family. I was ecstatic to get away from my grandfather! Little did I know, my father was in the beginning stages of his eight-year unemployment which would eventually land us in that cramped two bedroom apartment attached to my grandparents’ house. He sat at the computer every morning, turned on World of Warcraft, and played into late hours of the night, only stopping to urinate or pop a frozen dinner in the microwave. My mother worked every day to pick up her man-child husband’s slack. I recognize now how much she did for our broken family.

I spent the majority of my time at Hyde Park with Haylee because our home was sad. We would race down the slides, and I almost always won. I grew up quick, and in addition to learning a superior sliding technique, I also learned how to be an adult. I kept Haylee and myself safe. At dinner one night after a long day of sliding, my mother announced she was pregnant again. I questioned her sanity. Another burden placed on my shoulders, another child under my protection.

My father never understood the communication barrier between a baby and an adult. He would visibly fill with rage when Elena cried. When Dad got mad, I threw myself in place of whoever was in the line of fire. Instead of being a child, I became a barricade. Several times every day I would quietly pull the baby from his grasp and receive the brunt of his anger. I was the caregiver of two at the age of nine. Over the years I gained more siblings, all girls, all beautiful and perfect and innocent. I raised each one carefully, hoping they could keep their childish innocence just a little while longer.

With the incredible financial instability eight-year unemployment causes a family of eight, my parents moved us into the tiny two bedroom apartment attached to my father’s parents’ home. The apartment broke my father. Our strained relationship completely imploded in that apartment; I lost all trust in authoritative figures. He hit me, he threw me down the stairs, and he pinned me against walls, among other cruel punishments.

In the midst of all the trauma, I found solace in my favorite apricot tree. I watched beautiful sunsets and amazing sunrises through the branches. I watched birds build nests and lay eggs. I convinced myself not to end it all in that tree. I had plenty of time to discover my strengths, the strengths I may not have gained without my family. I raised my siblings as my own and created amazing relationships with them. I grew up at a young age because I was forced to be more mature than the adults in my life. I found a passion for learning because it took my mind off my situation. I would never place someone else in my position, but I became better from it. I am strong; I am empathetic, I am loving, smart, and responsible.

Since the apartment and all that happened there, my family has bought our own house. It’s still cramped and full to the brim with dolls and hairbrushes from the six girls who live there, but it is better than the hell hole of a living situation we were in before. I confronted my fears head on and reported my father to DCFS, one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make. My father has since stopped any and all forms of physical abuse. Our relationship is strained, and we are far from close, but I am safe now.

Sometimes I feel guilty for placing blame on my father because I recognize that his father raised him. His father, the man who would spank me when I cried because emotions make me weak. The man who told me I was not to have an opinion in his house. The man who called my sister and me ugly every day just to remind us not to get too cocky. My father’s actions were his own, but many of them were taught, even ingrained into him as normal by his parents. I concluded that his childhood caused him to be awful, but if that is the conclusion to be found here then that creates an issue for me. If he was the one to raise me what does that lead to? Will I do the same things to my children as he had done to me?

With that logic, I decided from a young age I never wanted to get married, because in my reality all men hurt me. From a young age, I was determined not to have kids because I refused to continue the abuse. After years of therapy, medication, and help from great friends I have had time to chew and swallow my past. I have realized that by making these choices, I would give more power to the people that I hate. Taking from myself the joy that a family can have is unfair to me. Making life decisions based on the actions of my abusers would only give them even more control over me. I will make my life mine. I will not cower in the face of fear. Just because my father made the worst of a miserable situation doesn’t mean I have to or will do the same. I am stronger because of my experiences. I don’t know for sure who I would be without the childhood that I had or lack thereof, but I love the girl that blossomed in a rocky patch of dirt.

Oh, and I am going to college. Thanks, grandpa.