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Dear Teddy, Why Do My Parents Fight?
What do I do when my parents fight? I sleep under a blanket of tears and hold my teddy tight.
I was six when I grew up way before my age. In the age of endless laughter and mischief, I understood the game of life with its ups and downs. The adversities, changing seasons, and little moments of joy taught me about life when I was too naïve to comprehend.
Being a child of an alcoholic father and a submissive mother had its consequences. I was a by-product of my father’s rage and my mother’s meek temperament. Of course, I was supposed to be weird. Sometimes I felt as if I switched between the characters of my parents, not knowing when it became my disposition. While my parents were usually busy with their chaos, I struggled alone, with no one to hold me back.
Days were easy because of school but nights were tough. Because the nights were tough, the days were not so good either. I was trapped in a vicious cycle. Every night was a drama. Every night was a chaos. Every night was a suffocation and every day was pretension. Every day was about waking up behaving as if nothing happened last night.
One night it was because of less salt in the food, the other night it was due to an untidy room, the next night it was…
