when I was 24 I moved out of my mother's house into a rented flat. I had always dreamed of that moment but of course, I had no idea of the mental toll moving out would entail. especially if you need to furnish the entire house and you live in a 60 year old apartment that had been empty for over a year.
my mom was against it. I get it, she thought me moving out was because I was unhappy, but I was just tired of not having my own place. I'm the child of two divorced parents who've made me have two separate houses since I was three. my dad on the other hand had pestered me for years on end, ever since I turned 18, to move out of my mother's house. he'd always find a moment alone with me and start asking when are you going to move out. I'd usually just answer I don't know, and he'd get into a psychotic rambling on how my mom was toying with my head and I was basically subdued to her power (what?) so I'd stop listening. so, you know, when I signed the contract I told him I had found my own place and felt very happy. I thought he'd be happy too, but I was just met with... nothing.
my mom helped with 90% of it. she was there for all my five panic attacks. she would carry bags back and forth from my car. she was there when I lost my keys and when I had to sign the lease. she washed each and every one of my new dishes and cups, helped me build my furniture and change the mirrors in the bathroom cabinet. she also cleaned out the kitchen, the bathroom, paid for the paint. her husband paid for the fridge and the delivery.
moving out took weeks. there was radio silence for days on end from my dad. he wouldn't even call, and I was busy trying not to fall apart between work and moving houses. my car would also consistently break down, so it was difficult knowing whether or not it would make it to and from the apartment every time I set myself to load another batch of books and CDs in the trunk. obviously, I had no time to call him either. what good would it do? I would've appreciated the thought, a hand, something. words of encouragement. instead it was just empty space.
he did give me some furniture. from his house, I got my nightstand (which I love), the futon (which was really useful), a foldable wooden table (which was super handy for the kitchen), a salt lamp, a jewelry box, a few books. him and his girlfriend helped me get the futon back home, which was easy to pull apart and then put together once we made it. it was just a bunch of bits and pieces and luckily it all fit in the elevator. he came into the apartment and didn't even wait for me to pull up the blinds: he took a peak inside and said, nice! then said he was in a hurry and left.
I didn't hear from him again in days. I asked if he could help me fix some light fixtures but he didn't come. I asked if he could fix a leak in a pipe but he didn't come, either. I called a plumber, which ended up being better because I needed to fix all the taps, the shower head, unclog the drains and fix the leak with sealant in the kitchen sink. so that's fine, the plumber was what I actually needed.
I often wondered if there was a problem with him and me. I didn't ask. I didn't have the guts to tell him I was hurt, as I would usually do. I didn't like to bother him with my problems because he'd use it against me later down the road. so I'd just pretend I didn't care for as long as I could pull it off.
between all the coming and going it was my second anniversary with my boyfriend. on may 10th we went out for dinner and then we came back to my new apartment to watch a movie. it was incredibly cold inside the house and we had no heating.
we settled on watching secretary, which kept me entertained for hours. my dad texted me during the movie, but I didn't answer (I didn't get to the phone). he called me later in the evening, and the first thing he asked was, are you alone? which sounded pretty violent. I always get uneasy when he starts the calls like that, and he always does a variation of it (is your mom there? is your boyfriend there? are you alone?).
he wanted to complain about how I was a terrible daughter for not reaching out to him during those days. I had been moving from one apartment to the other, dealing with flooded kitchens, cockroaches, the coldest apartment ever, fitting a fridge in the smallest elevator ever, running back and forth with my old car (which ended up breaking down shortly after the move was over!) and most of all, dealing with the difficulties of leaving your childhood home. so I was suddenly a terrible daughter who didn't care about him, and he was the best father ever, and I never asked for help because I was selfish. I had no chance for rebuttal because he did what he always does: he screamed at me over the phone, pleading like an infant that I paid no attention to him, and hung up.
I just remembered all of this because I saw a poster for the movie secretary pop up on twitter. and the truth is I barely recall the movie but I remember everything about that fucking conversation. I feel like I've been stuck in his endless cycle of violence for years and it's wearing me out. he does this fucking thing all the fucking time. then he comes back and asks for forgiveness and me, being the idiot that I am, I always say yes. then he tries to buy my trust with money and when he doesn't get it, it starts over. it's always about him, he can't think outside the reality he's created for himself. never in a million years it would've occurred to him that I was in fact dealing with a lot of things, and I would've appreciated a loving and helpful parent, just like my mom was. no. it was about him, like it always is, and always has been. I'm just my mom's puppet and basically, an idiot. the idiot kid.