Dysfunction Junction...

Dysfunction Junction, a funny term I name my childhood.

Ok, it was not always dysfunction junction. It was for some time, kind of like "Leave it to Beaver." I know this sounds weird, but it was. When we lived in Queens, I remember an elementary, idealistic childhood. I remember playing in the streets with my friends, Chinese takeout on Fridays, and ballet lessons. I remember feeling safe and secure. I remember parents that seemed like all the other parents on the block we lived on, working-class folks that lived a fundamental life. No frills, hand me downs, but very happy.

Then something changed.

We moved up, like the Jefferson's, to Westchester county.

It was a very different life. The expectations changed. My parents seemed very stressed out all of the time. Money was always the topic of conversation in our house. They bit off more than they could chew; they wanted to give us a better life, but at what price? Arguments were a daily occurrence. My father drank, my mother bitched, welcome to Dysfunction Junction.

My father would come home from work and fall asleep on the couch. I always thought this was normal until I got older. I realized that he was not just "tired" from work, but in fact, he was loaded from drinking all day. My mom grew quiet; her mouth was always pursed in a perpetual state of "pissed off,' and they did not really talk to each other anymore. They were like two ships passing in the night. The communication was always one-sided, one person talking at the other or yelling at the other, the other person looking past and nodding like they were listening; there was no listening, there was no anything.

I think when my mom met my dad, she had other expectations in mind. She had this suburban, stay-at-home mom, fix dinners, and PTA meetings. What she got was broken. Buying food consisted of the day-old meat section, dented cans, and moldy bread. The house was always in a perpetual state of disaster. Nothing ever really got fixed; it got ducted taped. The roof leaked, bugs got in, mold ensued, and misery followed.

We were afraid to bring our friends over. Furniture was whatever my dad found in the trash or brought home from the job. A conference table doubled as a dining set, a cot was a makeshift bed for my sister. This was normal for us, but not for our friends. We opted out of bringing anyone over. Most of my friends were affluent, they would look at our house like we were the Adams Family, but they shook it off for some reason. 

The arguments were frequent, almost nightly, and always about money and not enough of it to go around. These arguments would boil to ahead. One night my dad got so frustrated he took one of the kitchen chairs and smashed it so that it looked like a mangled up piece of pretzel on the floor. He would get so frustrated with her, my mom, that's what he did, he smashed things. Then after the boil, he would calmly go into the living room with his beer and paper in hand. Like the big pink elephant in the room, they would act like nothing happened, even though, as children, we would be scared and frightened.

My mom would cry, and then she would shut down. Who could she talk to? Her mother, my grandmother, never liked my dad. She looked down on him. What would she say? "I told you so." My mom was really alone. She would drink too. I guess if you can't beat em, join em, right? So there they would be, two bombed parents sitting on the couch night after night, ignoring each other.

The atmosphere was always oppressive to me. It was like living in a big dark cloud. Sadness, gloom. I hated it.

I remember thinking how excited I was when I turned 16. I could leave the depression; I could drive! I would venture out and not return until dark. Sometimes I would just drive around by myself, just so I did not have to sit there with them and watch them, two miserable people co-existing with each other.

My dad was not a horrible person though, he was kind, he was sensitive. He just did not know how to express his feelings; he was socially awkward, an introvert. He preferred the company of his books, music, or paper over people. My sister says I am a lot like him. I think she is right.

I have, in essence, turned into my father's mini-me.

My mother was outgoing; she was artistic. My dad never encouraged her to pursue her talents, and my mom did not have enough self-worth to say "screw you" to him and do what she wanted. So instead, she lived a life of quiet desperation.

My loyalties leaned towards my father. I am not sure why, but I think because he always confided in me. I realize now, in retrospect, I was his emotional spouse. He did not talk to my mom because my mom did not listen to him, but I was an open and eager recipient of his words. I ate them up; I loved having those words spoken to me because that was what I thought love was. I was his confidant, his favorite. I would agree with him, nod, smile; I loved that he looked to me like I was something special to him.

I resented my mother. I felt like it was all my mom's fault we lived in Dysfunction Junction. I would toss scenarios around in my head "If only she were kinder to my dad," if only "she was not such a bitch, things would be better." I blamed her for my dad's drinking, for why he was the way he was.

Years later, I realized It was a two-way street.

When my mother passed away, a friend told me that she understood why my mom ended up the way she did in the end, a sad, sad woman. She said to me, "Look at the era she grew up in; maybe she thought she had no choices." It dawned on me that perhaps this was the case. My mom did what she needed to do to exist, to survive. After a while, nothing seemed to matter to her; she simply lived, ate, dressed, and existed. There was no spark anymore; there was no joy.

I always thought that my mom could have made different choices. Why, if she was so unhappy, why did she stick around? Why not leave my dad? I think she stuck around because she was scared of the unknown. The comfort in dysfunction was all she knew. The box that she married was better than the one outside.

What would our lives had been like if she had left my dad? I don't know. Would it have been better? I look back and am grateful that I had parents, that I exist, that they decided to have me and raise me. But I also think about how unhappy they were. It makes me sad. I wish things were different now; I wish that they had moved on to other lives, even if that meant lives separate from us.

I wished there were no Dysfunction Junction to talk about, but this is what I know. This is what made me who I am. Dysfunctional? Yes, maybe, in some ways. But also a strong person, A person that can deal with drama and issues.