Laying on the soft piece of carpet left over from our recent flooring change, I spent a few minutes in the backyard in deep introspection. I laid there, as the hollow husk of a human being that I am, thinking about my childhood. My family has always had a fragmented infrastructure.

Concepts such as warmth and happiness that are normally associated with family do not exist for me. Growing up, I was always surrounded in an incredibly discordant atmosphere. Consistent tension and arguing, I wonder how my family ever fell into this pathetic state. I cannot name how many times my parents have kicked me or my older brother out of the house. Looking back, I realize my upbringing was truly the opposite of stable with the constant verbal and physical threats.

My parents and older brother's relationship reached a breaking point some time when I was in 8th grade. It was a stressful time. Every time he was out of the house was a chance for them to kick him out. They locked him out numerous times. To let him inside was a physical act of defiance. If I were to do so, I would be kicked out. Imagine how frightened I was, since I was only a child and torn between my loyalty to my brother, moral beliefs, and fears for my well-being.

One night, my brother returned home after spending his afternoon with a group of friends. Not allowed to let him inside, especially with my parents' presence there, I waited until 12 AM and placed a pink stool outside of our fence. He stood outside in the rain for me to give him that chance. If I opened the front door or garage, my parents would know that he was home. Along with that, the noise would wake them up.

Over time, my anger has subsided, becoming a dull ache embedded between my chest. Sometimes, I no longer think I am angry at my parents, but upset at my powerlessness, and when I cry, I do not know if I am angry, but I DO know I am frustrated because this is how it has always been and it will forever remain this way.