the timeline

when i was four years old
i remember, every night
my mother would turn on the fan in my room.
it didn't matter
if it was freezing cold in there,
when it was bedtime,
the fan went on.
and i hated that fan.
i hated that fan.
because the fan sounded
like daddy yelling.

when i was seven years old,
my dad left for a year.
he left in a blaze of anger and alcohol,
after a midnight fight with my mom
that left me with images of my mother dying
in the middle of the supermarket
and me, standing there,
not knowing what to do with the cart.
because when you're seven years old,
and your dad tells your mom,
"you're gonna die in front of your daughter,"
you never, ever think
it's going to be
at the hands
of your dad.

and when i was seven years old
and my mom yelled out the window,
"somebody call the police!"
while my dad cornered her in the guest room,
i suddenly realized that
no, mommy and daddy were not yelling
because there was a fire.
something was much more the matter with that.
and did you know
that in grade school
they teach you to make fire escape plans with your family
and they teach you nothing
nothing
nothing at all
to deal with this.

and when i was seven years old
and i started to cry because i was scared -
not of anything that was actually happening, really,
but more just scared because
i didn't understand -
my dad turned around
and picked me up
and carried me
out of the room and down the stairs.
and i started screaming
because the last thing i saw as we turned the corner
was my mother
standing there
looking more frightened than i have ever seen her
before that or since.
and i can't help but think
how it must have torn my father apart
to pick up his little girl
and hear her scream for her life.

when i was eleven years old,
my brother became violent
out of his own confusion
for what happened while he slept
back when i was seven years old.
and my mother
my mother
sent him away
to live with the man
who had threatened her life.
my father.

when i was thirteen years old,
i used to hide in the garage
while my brother and my dad went at each others' throats
over fights that i started.
i used to hide in the garage
and cry in the back seat of the car
while my dad held my little brother against the wall
by the cuff of his shirt
about how my brother
ought to still love
my mother.

when i was fourteen years old
my mother kicked me out too.
and i went to live with my dad,
who spoiled me rotten.
and everything was fine
until i said the wrong thing
and my little brother
had to come and take my dad out of the room
before he hit me.
and even after i moved back in with my mother,
i never told her,
and i never will.

when i was eighteen years old
i tried to kill myself
twice
and after the second time
my mother kicked me out again
because it was all too much.
and i lived by myself
and was as happy as i have ever been,
because finally i was alone
and there was nobody around
to hurt me
by loving me.

i am nineteen years old,
and what i know now is that
when i was four years old,
the fan did not sound
like daddy yelling.
daddy was yelling.
and when i was seven years old,
my dad
threatened the life
of my mom
in front of me.
and my mom
thought that she was going to die
in front of me.
and my dad,
this dangerous man,
picked me up and took me away
and my mom
just
watched.
and she never came after me.
and she let me go.
and i am certain
that even just a little bit
i broke my father's heart
when i screamed for her to help me.
and when i was eleven years old,
my brother became violent
because nobody ever took the time
to fucking explain to him
what happened that night
while he was still asleep
and why things happened the way they did
because i heard the fan
and i know now
about the yelling
but he
never
did
and nobody gives a fuck.
and i am certain
that my little brother,
my baby brother,
was beaten by my dad
while i hid like a fucking coward
in the fucking garage
at thirteen years old,
and that's why
when i was fourteen years old
my brother
knew how to save me.
and when i was eighteen
i tried to kill myself
because i was fucking tired
of everybody trying to love me all the time
because i have seen
all my life
what love is.

and at nineteen years old,
ladies and gentlemen,
no fucking thank you.

because at nineteen years old
i know
that being loved by someone
means being hurt over and over again
and being hurt because you hurt them
and being loved by someone
means never
never
never
forgiving them
for not coming after you.

(because i know it's easy to read this
and think my dad is the bad guy,
but my mother let him carry me away
after threatening to fucking MURDER HER
and that will always hurt a thousand times more.)