My Experience Growing Up from Broken Family

I have learned a lot in just my seventeen years of life so far. Coming from a broken family that’s still together, yeah, my parents are still together, but they don’t even look at each other. They are just together for me and my brother . . . to make us happy . . . but now for some reason my brother hates my dad, and I don’t know why. My dad does everything for us, yet there hate for him is in describable. I always feel as though I’m stuck in the middle.

I love my mum and I love my dad . . . I would jump in front of a bullet for them any day. Little things that I see shatter my heart though. Walking to the kitchen and seeing my dad sleeping on the coach, when he paid for this roof to be over our head. My mums a woman with a strong personality, a wonderful woman . . . but she’s a gambler. She gambled away a good amount of money. which kind of left us in a financially unstable situation. Both my parents have two different philosophies on life . . . you see, my dad likes to save. he thinks for the future, he will work and work and work until he cant feel his back, just so he can pay a bill but my mum, she’s more of a sit back and let the money come to her type of woman, which doesn’t help at all.

I can see where both of them are coming from though . . . because working to hard like my dad can bring you to a horrible state where all you do it work and work, and get old, and not get rewarded. Sometimes when I see my dad I get sad, and tell him, ‘‘you are working, but it’s like your working to pay for your grave’’

My mum is a gambler, but she doesn’t admit it. sometimes she leaves the house for hours and hours, and comes back. We know where she was, but she always tells us she was at my auntie’s place . . . yeah right.

My brother is very quiet boy, not behind the curtains though. People think he is a gentleman, but his what I see as an asshole, excuse my language, but that is one way to describe him! He only listens to my mum . . . he ignores my father and me. But don’t get me wrong I love my brother. I’ve never told him this though.

Sometimes I sit in bed and cry because I don’t know what to do. My family is BROKEN . . . and I’m trying to put it back together, but it seems like I’m trying to fix a broken mirror . . . it’s better to leave it on the floor. instead of hurting yourself trying to put it all back together. I never seem to give up though. I always smile not because I’m happy. but only because my dad gets sad when he sees me sad. I try to leave the house as much as possible, but I feel guilty. One day I will somehow do something incredible and have a high paying job, just so I can come home one day and throw the money in the air and be like, ‘‘here, this is the cure for our problem’’ maybe then my dad can pay off our debts he tries so hard to pay . . . and maybe my mum can just use that money to gamble all she wants just so she stops starting fights over money.

So I’m here stuck in the middle. My mum doesn’t have a job, my dad has a job that he gets just enough money to pay for the bills and food and my brother he’s eighteen, but he doesn’t know anything . . . he just sits at home in front of the computer. Me? Well, I’m a seventeen-year-old girl with self-esteem issues. I’m not a confident girl . . . but I always have a smile on my face, always.

Sometimes it’s easier to smile rather then people asking you what’s wrong. I have people around me, family and friends, but I still feel alone. I don’t open up to anyone . . . not a soul . . . this is because I have way to much pride . . . people knowing about my situation makes me feel weak . . . so I keep it in me . . . smile during the day . . . and the tears roll down my pillow at night. People do say I’m a beautiful girl . . . compliments are always being thrown at me . . . .guys all around me . . . but I never except compliments . . . .because I don’t believe them year seven and eight were the worst years of my life. I was a chubby girl, not too chubby, but nothing I was happy about. I would see girls in t-shirts in summer and singles wearing there bathers to the beach . . . but me? I would wear a woolen thick jumper on a 40-degree day . . . just so people wouldn’t see how ‘‘fat’’ I was. I would always argue that I wasn’t hot . . . but really I felt like fainting from the heat. Once I got so sick of it ..one day I came home from school and I rapped my self in sticky tape, and wore six jumpers on a 40-degree day, and just lay in my room sweating. and told myself I wouldn’t leave the room until I was thin . . . sad, I know.

Year ten came, and with convincing from my friends, one day I straightened my hair and wore a skirt and a t-shirt . . . a complete change from having my hair tied up into a bun, wearing my three-quarter shorts, and my woolen jumper. From that year forward I was seen as a really pretty girl . . . but I still didn’t believe it . . . because it still felt like I was the old me. I felt like this was a cover up. I looked good on the outside, but when I looked into the mirror. my eyes spoke a different story . . . one of a girl who felt fat, and didn’t have a happy family to go to. So here I am sitting behind a computer writing a really long story cut short ..while I still don’t feel beautiful . . . and while my dad is still sleeping on the coach getting rest before he gets up for work. My mum, still a gambler, my eighteen year old brother still clueless, and me? Don’t worry about me . . . I’ll be fine

I love my family so much, words cannot describe . . . I would die a slow painful death for them if I had to; I would do ANYTHING for them. My family does fight a lot, but we love each other. I know it just because people fight it doesn’t mean they don’t love each other and just because people don’t fight, it doesn’t mean they don’t hate each other . . . I believe no one knows anyone’s story. NO ONE and no one will ever understand the pain I feel, no one. I wish I didn’t love them . . . just so I could be brave enough to just LEAVE . . . just so I can get away . . . but I can’t—and I will not leave until we are happy.

Works Cited

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