Away from Home
This story is not my own — it was written based on an interview with a person about their experiences of stress, trauma, and personal growth. It was a collaborative process of story-telling. Details have been omitted to protect the person’s anonymity, and this article is published with that person’s consent.
In the first year of the pandemic, while the world was falling apart, we were healing. We picked up the broken pieces of our family life and found a way to put them back together.
Looking back now, I think I was ten when my mother stopped being happy. Perhaps it was a far too familiar story: my parents had grown apart, but they needed to stay together for the children. In my late teenage years, things got much worse: frustration grew, arguments got bigger, the periods of strained silence got longer. When my mother finally packed up and left, it was no surprise. In a way, it was even a relief.
Then the pandemic hit. As the world came to a halt, our life moved on. I saw the difference in my father; he visibly became more relaxed and at ease, not only with his family, but with himself.
I was always close with my father, but over the lockdown, our relationship became the strongest it had ever been. Our days were spent together — working, talking, reflecting. I saw myself within him; we shared the same interests, same opinions, same philosophies. Not only that, I also felt he had been through what I had — depression and anxiety — and come out the other side with maturity and self-reflexivity. It was comforting for me, perhaps through him, seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, imagining the man I could become.
Just as suddenly as it had started, the lockdown ended. All the stress of everyday life came back at once. I started a new university degree. My father had a new partner. He was busier — professionally, intellectually, socially. There were more important, interesting things to do, rather than spending time with me.
My father was around less and less, and when he was home, he was becoming more tense and stressed, especially about housework. I felt he was resentful. Resentful about having too much housework to do. Resentful about needing to do more housework than he wanted to. Resentful of his children for the same thing, ironically, my mother was resentful of him for.
A few days before my exam, I was studying at the dining table when he told me that I needed to clean up. I said I would clean when exams finished. As he walked away, I could tell that he was angry with not getting what he wanted.
An hour later, he came back, this time to give me a piece of his mind. He yelled at me for an hour straight. He didn’t seem to need to stop for breath. Some things, he repeated over and over — as if he had run out of things to say but he just wanted to continue yelling.
I had never seen him this angry before. Rage filled the air as tension swelled. His shouts echoed across the small room. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember being afraid. Afraid that he was going to become physically violent, that he was going to hit me across the face, that I wasn’t going to be strong enough to fight back. So, I stayed still, and I didn’t say a word. When he was done, I packed up my things, walked to my room, and closed the door.
I stayed in my room for three days.
I tried to continue studying for my exam. My sister passed me notes under the door, telling me she had heard the argument, letting me know she was there if I needed her. When I knew my father wasn’t home, I snuck out to get food.
On the third day, he came in, and I knew things were at the tipping point. I knew it was not right that I was so afraid, that I wasn’t feeling safe, that I was sneaking around in my own home. My room was the one space left that was mine, and as he walked in — still complaining about me not doing the cleaning he had asked me to do — he took away the last piece of my sense of safety.
I only asked two questions. I don’t remember what they were, but I knew what the right answers were. I wanted him to apologise, to say that it was wrong for him to be threatening, that it was all going to be ok and we could figure all of this out after my exam. The questions were a test, and he failed. He saw nothing wrong in what he had done, and I knew I could no longer be in denial about what had happened and the kind of person that he was. I knew it was time for me to leave.
I packed two sets of clothes, $500 in cash, and my notes for the exam the next day. As I walked out the door of my home, I couldn’t bear to look at him.
I don’t remember if I was crying, but I think I was sad. Sad that he had proven that he wasn’t a good person. That he didn’t care that he had hurt me so deeply. That I had lost the man that he was in my life.
Little by little, I have tried to repair my relationship with my father. But no matter how hard I tried to deny that his actions were intentional, I didn’t feel like I could respect him anymore. Questions remained unanswered, and I needed closure. So I called him, and I once again looked for the only thing I had ever looked for — an apology for forcing me out of my own home. He said he didn’t regret any of it. He said he would never apologise.
I don’t believe he loves me. At least not more than he loves himself.
I live out of home now. It hasn’t been easy, but I have learnt to live independently, recognise my own needs, and take care of myself. For a long time, I was away from home; but I have rebuilt what home means to me. Even with my family life broken into pieces, life moves on. I move on.
After my sadness, pain, and disappointment, came a sense of acceptance. I wanted a perfect figure in my life, but people aren’t perfect. When you think someone is perfect, you set yourself up for the grief that is inevitable the day you lose the perfect person that you have constructed in your head, only for temporary comfort and reassurance. You deny them of opportunities for growth and improvement.
I think that people are good, and I am grateful for the good people in my life. And just as I’m able to accept the faults within myself, I accept the faults within others. I have become more resilient with my own emotions, and more patient with helping others in recognising, accepting, and dealing with theirs. I know who I want to become — and that knowledge isn’t built on any unrealistic perception of an idealised exemplar. It’s built on my understanding of who I am, how I can support myself, and how I can support the people around me. It’s built on my pride of what I have overcome.
