“Your mother doesn't love me anymore.”

I stood at the entrance of the kitchen. “Dad” occupied the doorway. Small tears welled at the inner corners of his eyes. This was our final exchange that we shared under the illusion of “family.” But this wasn't the last time we spoke. We had a few conversations after that about moving items, packing trinkets, and receiving mail that was sent to his house but addressed to me. The logistics part of any breakup. I remember these words clearly because they infuriated me. It was the first heartbreak of my life.

My “dad” gave me inaugural experiences of womanhood. He was the first man to call me a “slut,” and he was my introduction to the cinema that defined my cultural tastes in early adulthood. The “bad” came with the “good,” but the line distinguishing these categories was unclear. And so, I grew up on the line. The inbetween white space was ambiguous and intentionally hard to navigate.

In this “dad's” house, rules were bent to the direction of power, and I was taught I had no power. Never resolving one feeling before the other came flooding in, I learned to carry rage, fear, and compassion simultaneously in survival. I became fluent in the language of the dictator and carried his preachings as truths. I thought he was the first person to discover what was wrong with me. It was only a matter of time until everyone else saw it too. He met the monster, and he failed to exorcise it out of me with punitive ritual. I studied demonology to be able to see through his eyes.

Heartbreak is a bitterness that came after acceptance. But I am angry because it's the first time I have to practice surrender and I don't know how to do it. I have been frightened, but now, I feel pity. The apology he doesn't know he owes my mother is replaced with an accusation. “You don't love me anymore.” It was a profound misquotation, but arguing is futile.

The end of the road fills me with fury because we do not understand each other. This “dad's” voice was always louder, his presence was bigger, his power felt mightier, but we were leaving. He lost. I say it like that because our absence never seemed like the endgoal. I preferred to put my clothes in a trash bag and abandon my childhood bedroom if it meant I could be free of him. And that's what I did. I knew I wouldn't be back.

I am going back in time. The day is sunny and it is 2PM. The midday heat catches me by surprise. I'm overdressed and I've sweat out all my lucidity. Dehydrated delirium takes over. I'm awake but I'm moving through dreams, seeing in scattered pastels. I'm on a bus that runs through the main artery of the city. These details are the context of my last few moments in vigilance-free living.

I'm skipping past the assault. That's not the point here.

In real life, the bus stops and I follow him into the street. There are two of them, but I only have enough alertness for the instigator. The instigator is older. Late forties, early fifties, if I had to make a guess. I screamed at him, “do you touch your daughters with those fucking hands?” There are people on all sides of us. A few are caught off guard by my yell but most are familiar with the crazy woman on the bus. I embody the character they avoid. He disappears into the crowd and I'm alone. I walk across the street to catch my transfer.

Almost ten years later, in the memory, there's no men in my recreation. Instead, transparent shadows stand in and create the illusion of audience. White fog surrounds me as I step off the bus. The city's details disappear. I'm not in LA anymore, I'm in my body. I feel a lack. Someone has taken something from me that I needed. And the other one watched, and helped him do it.

That's not fair. I need what they stole. I don't want to become the person this will transform me into.

The memory continues and I am expecting anger. Anger at the world, and at the abusers and their enablers. But I just want my mom. In this memory, I am going to diverge from past reality. I don't take the transfer. I take a deep breath and I feel how much I need her. I won't get back what the men took. This is impossible. I don't want it returned as much as I thought I did, because I know that's not how it works. Time passes and along with it comes experience. But I can manage that if I am not alone. I want to believe she'll come and find me if I ask.

I'm humbled by my dependence. How did I not know that 19 was still somebody's child?

I'm coming home. The taxi drives up and down a series of hills. I drank a lot. There are many nights like this a week. My studio apartment is small, and it's clean. I don't wake up with roaches on my thigh anymore. It's the early AM. I manage out of the taxi and the night air is a knife.

The contained nausea of the car ride wants out of its volcano. I punch in the building code, and I take the elevator up to my floor. The eruption is getting stronger. The interior of the building is grey stone and when I walk, my boots make a sound on every step. I see my door but I'm not relieved. I'm making my way through the lock when it happens. Vomit runs up, sideways, and down to the floor.

I sway back and forth like all drunk people and blades of grass in conversation with the wind do. I haven't met any of the neighbors but I am hoping this won't be our first encounter. I push the door open, sliding the vomit along with it, and go inside. It crosses my mind for a brief second to leave everything on the floor until the morning.

Exhaustion hits but responsibility wins. I pull up my hair, grab a wet towel, and go back outside to clean.

When I finish cleaning, every neighbor is still sleeping. I repeat my night-time routine to clean myself. I drink most of the one liter water bottle I restocked in the fridge. This trick would work well through most of my twenties. I avoid the majority of hangovers so I fear no consequences.

I need to be up at 7AM to make it to work on time. Most of my coworkers are running similar schedules tonight. We'll all come back in the morning, and push through the exhaustion with a large coffee. Years pass like this.