Poison Disguised As Family: Part IV

Part IV: Carolina

I know my kids blame me for many things and probably think I am the worst mom. But what they do not know is what I dealt with in my own childhood and why I am so emotionally disconnected from the world.

I watched my mother get abused up until the very last beating my mother accepted, when she finally kicked my father out of the house. None of my siblings wanted to maintain contact him, but I was the only one to send him handwritten letters. They thought I was all foolish and maybe I was. I guess that is my issue. I have a big heart and I am too forgiving. I expect everyone to have the same temperament as me. I always wanted things to change. I wanted a normal family and I wanted to find healthy ways to process my emotions.

I hope I did not mess up my kids. I really tried my best. I always searched for a healthy relationship in everyone I have dated. I knew that I wanted something different than what I grew up watching, but history repeated itself.


I met him at a party. It was a set up by mutual friends and they swore he was a good guy. They told me to give him a chance and so I did. What a mistake that was. He promised me the world. But don’t they all? They appear to be pleasant, kind, and want everyone to believe the absolute best of them. Behind closed doors, they are a monster.

When I found out I was pregnant with my son, I thought he would change. It started off with a push or shove here and there. He would never apologize either. He would just carry on with conversation like he did not do anything. I would let it go because I was taught to forgive people even when they hurt you. He would yell and I could not handle it. It would make me flash back to when my dad would come home drunk and hit my mother. My mom went through a crippling depression I did not think she would overcome. We all helped her to put food on the table since my dad left. I started working at a young age to make sure my family was cared for.


When we got together and spoke about marriage, everyone thought I was insane. The smart people saw right through his act, but most did not. He would never hit me for real. He did not want to give people a reason to assume what was happening.

He did not even propose. We kind of just stumbled into marriage. We were together for 2 years and then one day we just both found ourselves in the courthouse. Nothing extravagant. I thought my life would go a completely different route. Now you are probably asking, why would you get married if you were miserable? When kids are involved, you just feel stuck, like there is no way out. I had so many expectations for what I wanted, and I feel disappointed in myself that nothing went as planned.

We did not plan for children. We stumbled into that too. He lived a double life. He would come off as the kindest person in public when we would go out which was rare. He would put his arm around me, or make me laugh, or show his affection. As soon as we stepped foot into the house again, it was downhill fast. He would yell about everything. His food being cold, how the house was dirty, how the kids left their toys everywhere, how the puppy was not potty trained. Even the dog feared him and would run underneath the bed. I do not know what caused his switch to flip. I wanted so badly for him to be good. Therefore, I stayed because I kept thinking he would change, and I stood for so long and now my kids are messed up because of my selfish decision.

I blame myself because I should have left a long time ago. When my mom died, he came with me to the funeral. But even when my mother was dying, he had the audacity to say that it would be much better that she passed away so I would not need to take care of her. He said that as I hovered over her casket. He was selfish, he wanted all my time. I could not even care for my own mother. I should have left then.

My son entered the world healthy and well and that is all I could ask for, even though his father was not even in the delivery room. He never hit the kids, but he found a way to torture us. My son, Cam, was a good kid. He did not do drugs, he got into sports to stay busy and put off time from coming home, he took care of his little sister Brooke, had excellent grades, and had a promising career in basketball. But he always found something wrong to start fights with him.


My family did not know what it meant to have a normal holiday dinner. I wanted my kids to enjoy the holidays, but it was impossible. Each year they just expected chaos or no one to show up which happened often. My sister, Lori, refuses to come visit. She comes to pick up my kids here and there, but she refuses to walk in the house. She told me countless times she does not want to be around my husband or bring my nieces and nephews around him.

“I refuse to subject my kids to that type of toxicity like you choose to do. That man will never see my kids.” She would say.

Those words she expressed to me one day over coffee are embedded in my brain. When our mother died, she did not take it well either. We were both really close to her and when she finally passed, we both lost a piece of ourselves. Our mom did not like him either. She knew the red flags were there, but I did not listen. I wanted to see the good in him, but as time went on that would slim down to nearly nothing.

When he lost his job, the home life went awry. He would drink every day, at the bar, at home, at his buddy’s house. He would blame us for everything. When Brooke was born, I thought maybe having a daughter would bring some light back into his life, give him a reason to change. Silly me.


I wanted my kids to have a shot at a normal life and I know I could not undo everything I let happen in the past. But if I take that step forward, hopefully they would see how I was trying to make a change.

Every year Lori would make an excuse as to why she could not attend our Thanksgiving dinner. She did not plainly say she would not come, but she would make these excuses because she never knew when he was lurking over my shoulder. I appreciated her doing this, but it would not stop his yelling anyway.

This year she said my niece Chelsea had the flu. My kids would always want to go over to Lori’s house, and I could understand why. My sister and I found a way to speak in code about these things.


After I took the last set of verbal abuse from him, I felt a fire form in my belly. Like I had had enough, and I was going to make the change my kids needed me to make. After all, mothers put their children first and I did not want to keep overlooking their cry for help.

This year I would go to Lori’s house. I would drive with my kids and we would finally have the family dinner we so desperately wanted. I packed all 3 of our bags, Chopper’s belongings, and I waited for them to get home. Luckily for us their father was at the bar, so it was the perfect time to leave. Today Cam had picked Brooke up from school and they would be taking the bus home together. They came through the door and saw the bags waiting in the front hall.

“Mom, what’s happening?” Cam asked worriedly.

“No time to explain, I want to make sure we leave before he gets back. Please grab your things and Brooke’s. I will explain in the car.”

I had two bags slung over my shoulder and I held Chopper’s leash in my left hand. I packed as much as I could, the essentials anyway. I did not bother to lock the door. He would not care, or he would be too drunk to realize.

“Buckle up,” I told the kids.

“Mom, please tell me what is going on. Why are we leaving and where are we going?” Cam asked again.

“We are going to stay with your Aunt Lori. We are going to spend Thanksgiving there and until I save enough money for our own place, we will be living there. Your dad will not be joining us.”

There was silence, but through the rearview mirror, I could see my kids looking at each other anxiously, wondering what we were getting ourselves into.

There was silence for most of the drive. I turned on the radio and we just drove along to the sound of The Beatles roaring through the speakers. Cam held Brooke’s hand in his. Chopper was sleeping soundly in the middle seat.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly and drove into the unknown. But this, this was the first step I needed to take moving forward and it felt so damn good.  

Poison Disguised As Family: Part III

Part III: Aunt Lori

My sister always had a horrendous track record with men. Not saying I am perfect, but my sister just knows how to pick them.

When we were younger, she would pick out the worst of the worst. The men who walked around like the whole world needed to bow before them and that women should be submissive. I always found this strange because we both grew up in a household where we were subjected to abuse. Our mother wanted better for us. But it’s crazy how history can repeat itself for several generations unless someone puts a stop to it. I am much stronger than my sister because I do not accept anything less than I deserve. My husband knows not to cross me. I do not play around. I refuse to make the same mistakes my mother did. But it is hard ya know when kids are involved? You feel stuck. Like you must stay. My sister never left the situation she was in and let it fester. The day that man yelled at my kids, like he had the right, was the same day I said I would never subject my children to that level of toxicity.

I told my sister directly that I would not go visit her unless her husband was not home. That man starts fights with everyone. I could walk through the door and he will have something to say. I am not the type to surround myself with negativity. My whole childhood was surrounded by it. The day my father left, there was a shift in the house. My oldest brother became the man of the house. My mother did the best she could considering the circumstances she was in. But I was thankful for the courage she was able to muster up to kick him out of the house. We made it out. Although the physical and emotional trauma we endured will always be there with us, weighing us down, we have no other choice but to keep moving forward. Our pasts would try to hold us back, always lingering in the darkness, waiting to make another appearance. I can say I have made progress. I wish I could say the same about my sister, Carolina.

Like the saying goes, the red flags are always there. How can you tell that someone will mistreat you and turn into the biggest piece of crap when you first meet them? He gave her attention and he made her feel loved, or so my sister says. I remember when they first met. Something was off, but I could not place what it was. It was the way he carried himself like the world owed him something. He was hard to please, but my sister fell for that type. I do not understand the attraction. The day I found out she was pregnant with my nephew; I knew she would never be able to leave now even if she wanted to. Do not get me wrong, I love my niece and nephew, but she really messed up there. She gave him another reason to have control over her.

I allow Cam and Brooke to come over whenever they want. Cam has me on speed dial and he calls me up whenever he needs a break from his life. I’ll drive the 4 hours to go pick them up on weekends. I did not want to live close enough to my sister and that man. I needed to be a good distance away. He was drunk all the time so he would not be able to drive anyway, or at least I would hope not. Carolina, was always tied to that house.

Thanksgiving was approaching. This was the toughest time of year for my family. Our mother has been gone about 5 years and the pain of her not being present still eats away at us. Most of my family members, including our 3 brothers have moved away. They did their best protecting Carolina from herself, but they got tired of that too. They had their own families to care for now and once Mom passed, they could not stay in town. Our city carried too much baggage and they wanted to start over. I stood behind because I knew without me, Carolina would go downhill fast.


I was in my living room, just wrapping up dinner with my family, when Carolina called.

“Hey Lor, how are things?” She asked.

I knew where the convo was headed before she even had to ask. My sister knew the deal. She was always welcome with her family over at my house for the holiday, but she refused to leave that house. She refused to leave him behind.

“I wanted to see what your plans for Thanksgiving were.” She continued.

“Car, I’m sorry to give you the news, but Chelsea has the flu, so we are staying over here. But you can come with the kids, you are always welcome. You know that.”

Silence. A sigh. A long pause.

“I hope she feels better.” My sister said.

I always knew when my sister was about to cry. And she always knew when I was lying. She did not dispute the matter.

“Well, I am making all this food, so if you change your mind, just let me know.”

“I will,” I responded. “I love you and give the kids hugs and kisses for me.”

I hung up.

I knew Cam would not leave his mom or sister behind. He was the best big brother. Even at 15, he took the responsibility of caring for them. I admired him for this. He had to grow up fast. Poor kid, barely had a childhood.

I know for certain, wherever our mother is right now, she is terribly disappointed in my sister for making the same mistake she did and for letting it go on this long.

Poison Disguised As Family: Part II

Part II: Cameron

I was rarely home anymore. I spent most of time at Jon’s house.

“Hey bro, are you coming over to my house for Thanksgiving?” Jon asked excitedly.

“Not sure yet, I know my mom is going to make lots of food. Not like anyone would come. No one comes over our house anymore. Shit is sad.” I said.

“You’re always welcome in my house, Cam.” Jon responded.

“Have to make sure my mom is okay. I also can’t leave my sister behind.”

“Bring little Brooke too, she’s also welcome. So is your mom. You’re my family.” Jon said as he jokingly punched me in my arm.


Jonathan lived a few blocks away from me, that’s why I was always over his house. I dreaded the walks back home. My thoughts would flood my brain, my body would tense up as I would walk up the steps through the front door. My mom would always be in the kitchen cooking, my sister on the living room carpet usually with her dolls or playing with our dog Chopper. That was her best friend when I was not home. I just turned 15 last year, so my mom lets me walk to and from Jon’s house. We also live in a good neighborhood, so she trusts that I will be okay. I want to bring my sister with me most of the time, but she must stay with my mom. She is only 5, so my mom worries.

Jon’s mom would always have a plate set for me when we would walk home from school. I would rush home, drop off my bag, change my clothes, grab my basketball, check on my sister and mom, and leave again.

“Where are you going?” My mom would say worriedly.

“Same place I always go, Ma.”

“Will you be eating over there?” She would ask.

“Is that even a question?” I responded.


I would put off coming home for as long as I could. My dad would often pick fights with me as soon as I would walk through the door. He would be on beer who knows what number and he would be fumbling through the house.

“Where have you been, you little shit?”

I would often try to walk past him, heading up the stairs to my room.

“Don’t you hear me talking to you? I asked you a question.”

“My friend’s house.”

“Well, your mother made dinner. So go show her some respect and eat. She didn’t slave away all day for you to go eat at your dumb-ass friend’s house.”

“Not hungry.” I muttered.

That is when it would go bad. He would fumble towards me, grab me by my hair, and throw me towards the kitchen. My mom would be standing in the doorway, tears swelling up in her eyes, but she would remain silent. She would never stand up to my dad even when he did this to her kids. She was frightened.

My sister would cry. She would run in between my dad and me and put her hands up and yell, “STOP.” My sister should not have had to defend me, her older brother, when our own mother should have. My dad was smart. He would never blatantly hit us, he would push or shove, slap us. But he never left a mark. This was the trick. My dad would never hit my sister, only me. He would push my mom around too. Often put his hands in the air, resembling a fist and threaten to hit her. She would cover her face.

I would take my sister out of that house as often as I could. I would ride bikes with Jon and his little sister and Brooke would come along too. I always asked my mom if she wanted to come over and hang with Jon’s parents, who were the coolest people I knew, but she always shook her head no. It was like she knew if she left the house and dinner was not ready by the time Dad got home from the bar, she would hear his wrath. I felt bad that I could not do anything.

I did my best to take care of my mom. I would talk to her here and there. Hang in the kitchen with her. Tell her about my days at school and how I was two points away from having a GPA that would get me honors. I had made the J.V. basketball team at school too.

My mom would drive us to school every morning and drop Brooke off at Kindergarten. Our schools were on the same campus, but two different buildings. Dad never came to our schools. I don’t even think he knew what they looked like. My mom would come to parent-teacher conferences, her body drained, and her mind foggy with other thoughts.

My teacher would talk to her and she would sit there and nod with a blank face. I’m not sure she even knew what was being said. I always had good reports from my teachers. But the feedback was always the same.

“Cameron has good grades, but I wish he would participate a little more in class or talk more with other students. He tends to gravitate towards his friend Jonathan.”

“Yeah well, they are best friends.” That would be the only response my mom would make the whole conference.

We would leave and go back home fearing the next occurrence.


Thanksgiving was a week away. My mom would cry the most during this time. She knew no one would come and she would be left with all this food. I came home from school and she was sitting at the dining room table. Brooke was by her side. My mom held her head in her hands. Brooke was consoling her.

“Ma, what’s a matter?” I asked.

“Aunt Lori cannot come over for Thanksgiving. Your cousin Chelsea has the flu.” She said as her voice cracked.

As young as my sister was, Brooke even knew that was an excuse to not hurt mom’s feelings.

“You and Brooke can come with me to Jon’s house, Ma. It will be okay.” I tried to reassure her.

Ever since our grandma died, my mom has been out of it. Not like her life was easy anyway. But at least grandma helped her stay sane. Our grandpa left years ago. My grandma stood married, never giving him a divorce, but she kicked him out of the house after his last drunken bender.

Funny how history repeats itself, I thought to myself.

Silence At The Dinner Table

The imperious sound of forks clinking against the china plates is what she hated most as a child.

They would have family dinners and not speak to one another. Her siblings spent most of their time at their friends’ houses, and her parents always fought. It was rare eye contact was made and silence would loom over the table. Everyone would part ways and go to their own rooms when the silence would become too overbearing. Her mother was unhappy often so that meant being locked away in her room when she was not cooking or cleaning. Their father was mad at the world and took his personal failures out on the family.

Isabelle, Izzy for short, dreamed for a normal environment. Her life had been like looking through a window. She would observe others and their family dynamic wondering what she did wrong that she could not have that. She fenced herself in for all these years. She had built her walls so high due to all the emotional abuse she had to endure. She wanted to be free, but she was frightened. For so long, she did not know what it meant to live.

Her brother turned to drugs when he realized their home life was complete shit. Izzy thought he would be the most successful. Justin had it all together. Athlete, girlfriend after girlfriend, straight A’s, he had the world at his fingertips. The switch flipped. Something in him changed. He did not have the motivation or the courage anymore, letting life get the best of him. Things took a turn when she thought her brother had taken it too far. She knew something was up with him when he would come home, barely able to stand up straight, eyes bloodshot red and hardly open, he had no clue where he was or how he got home.

Justin would fumble towards his room, but he would find himself in the bathroom passing out on the floor. Their mother was sealed away from the rest of the world. She never checked on them or their younger sister, Morgan. Izzy would talk to Justin often and explain how if he got a scholarship for college, he could leave this place for good and chase his dreams. Justin wanted so badly for their mother to give a shit. He wanted to feel a connection with her, and he never did. Their mom was lost, a mere body with no soul.

Justin would hang out with the wrong crowd. It started with weed and Izzy always knew when he walked through the front door because she thought a skunk had found its way into the backyard again. The drugs offered Justin feelings he could not get at home. Izzy wanted so badly to help him, but she was struggling too. Their mother refused to see that the kids were a mess. The toxicity in the house was a stench that would never go away.

Izzy was at school in her English class, which kept her the sanest. Her phone buzzed. She slipped her hand into her jean pocket, taking her phone out carefully as her teacher would not see. She held her phone under her desk reading the name that popped up on her screen: Nathan. He was Justin’s best friend. The message read, “You need to get over here now.” She immediately gathered her belongings and slipped out the back door. She drove her mom’s old Honda the 20 minutes to Nathan’s house. He lived on a crowded suburban block. Families there always seemed to have it together, children playing out in the yards and riding their bicycles. Must be nice to have a normal family, Izzy would think to herself. She worried about her older brother and she had to care for her younger sister. She became the mom when she so badly wanted to live her life too, but she had no other choice.


Nathan was the one who introduced her brother to weed. He was a good kid, but he did not come from a stable home life either. He had started a a huge fight in the courtyard of their high school one day with Justin. Anger was common among the two of them. Izzy did not remember the story well, just from bits and pieces she heard from Justin. Her brother had been in the parking lot walking to his car, and in the process, he ran into Nathan and his band of misfits who were known for causing trouble. They hung out in the back lot by the dumpsters getting high and causing chaos for anyone who passed by.

“Hey man, you know you’re not supposed to walk through here.” Nathan yelled.

Justin kept walking to his car with his head down and his hands in his pockets. Nathan approached him and said it again grabbing his arm this time. Justin broke out of his grip and said, “Listen, don’t touch me.”

“You got the wrong dude.” Nathan responded with a smirk.

That was it, downhill from there. They fought and somehow from that fight they ended up becoming the best of buddies. Weird what brings two people together, Izzy thought, but it worked.


When Izzy got to Nathan’s house, the stench was overwhelming. The mix of weed and Tostito pizza rolls was one she knew all too well. Nathan lived in the basement. Not sure how because the chill was unbearable, she always wore a hoodie when she knew she was going there. It was always 15 degrees colder down there than the rest of the house. He slept on a beat-up couch with a lousy pillow and flimsy blanket. His TV was situated on the floor with a few DVD’s. There was one large window which sunlight seeped through. Pills were sprawled across the coffee table. Nathan was in the back-corner hovering off Justin. Izzy ran over.

“I, I, I don’t know what happen. He was fine, then started acting strange, and then fainted.” Nate said.

The bags under Justin’s eyes were dark and consuming his face. His hair was disheveled, and his body felt cold. Izzy lowered her face to his checking to see if he was breathing. He was, but the breaths were low and sporadic.

“I’m so sorry Izz, I didn’t know what was going on until I saw the pill bottles.” Nathan said as anxiety overcame him.

“I don’t want to hear it, Nate. You don’t think I know what you guys are doing?” Izzy responded as the fear made her voice crack.

They both managed to pick up Justin struggling to bring him to the bathroom.

“Nate turn the shower on,” Izzy croaked.  As the ice-cold water dripped from the shower head, Justin was sitting upright against the wall, as Izzy proceeded to stick her finger down his throat. It took 2 times, but he managed to vomit. Justin slowly came to consciousness after coughing uncontrollably, as his pale face regained its color.  

“Damn it, Justin, you could have died.” Izzy muttered as her voice raised another octave.

Nathan brought Justin some crackers to settle his stomach.


Once Justin started to come back to reality, Izzy drove the Nissan home. She parked the car in the driveway lopsidedly, left the key in the ignition, and just sat there in silence with her brother. Their mom was home locked away in her room again because the light was dim but seen through the curtain. Luckily their dad’s truck was not there.

“I’ve never done that before. I didn’t know my limit.” Justin managed to say breaking the silence.

“You scared the hell out of me.” Izzy responded as the tears began to form in her hazel eyes.

Another long pause of silence.  

“You’re the only one I have besides Morgan. I can’t afford to lose you too. Mom is completely lost, and I need my brother to help me through all of this.”

“I know Izz, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to work through my own shit. I know I lost myself for a while and this has been taking a toll on you.” Justin said as he looked towards the floor, fidgeting with his hands.

Izzy stared out the window of the Nissan focusing on the dim light coming from their mother’s bedroom. The light that somehow foreshadowed her mother’s cry for help.

“We have each other and we will figure all this crap out. I want to get mom and us out of here and work towards a better life. Just give me a chance to make the changes and do just that.”

Izzy looked at her brother. Justin looked drained, like this life had taken all the color from his face.

Okay,” Izzy mumbled.

Moving Forward

I was taught at a young age that being strong meant big muscles and hitting the gym every day. Little did I know as I got older mental, emotional, and spiritual health would be more of a focus. How can someone go to the gym if their mind just isn’t in it that day? We are not motivated to move or get out of bed. We all have those ‘off’ days and this is okay. Self-care is of the utmost importance.

I let go of lots of dead weight over the years. Lots of friends, family even, and relationships I thought were good for my health and I was wrong. I was blind. I just wanted acceptance and that social interaction. With all the experiences I’ve been through I have come to realize that if someone or something is weighing you down or is not allowing you to grow, making you feel inferior, this is unhealthy. I would rather be alone than in bad company.

I was burning in the fire and everyone stood by and watched. Instead of grabbing my hand to help me out, they threw more gasoline on the fire. I was choking and could not breathe. The smoke was too much to bare. Why was no one helping me? Why were they all just standing there?

But that’s the thing, right? You have to trust the other person with your heart, and you are taking the chance to be vulnerable. You show them every aspect of yourself and they take advantage of that. You choose to surround yourself with a certain crowd and you expect them to be the ones you trust most. And they often turn out to be the ones who break you down. In my experiences, I have been holding myself back for so long. Letting go of certain goals and wishes that I so badly wanted because someone else told me it was a waste of time. Or I would speak about something, my passion seeping through my words, and they would respond with a mere, “Oh that’s cool,” or “Can we talk about this later?” This whole time I have been searching for validation from others, I did not see that I am my own person, I should not feel guilty for wanting something or feeling like it’s merely a waste. I have chosen the wrong people to be in my circle. Jealousy is often the root of this issue. They do not want you to be better than them. I have quickly learned that you need to surround yourself with people who challenge you and want the absolute best for your future.

I am trying to reconstruct myself. I was so influenced by social media and other girls and society’s rules. I thought I needed to be what everyone else needed to be.

Everyone has tried to change me. Tried to make me act differently or think differently. Why can’t I just be myself?

All this time I have wasted allowing others to tell me what to do.

I refuse to live a mediocre life determined by someone else’s vision.

I choose to make it extraordinary, as in the words of Robin Williams.

Ongoing Battle With Loss

You were rotting away in the hospital, and what were we doing?

Celebrating Christmas Eve.

What type of people were we?

He stood with you as the ventilators breathed for you. He was bone tired. You could see it in his face. The lack of food and sleep had gotten to him. He refused to leave the hospital as much as we begged him to. He did not want to leave your side. He wanted to be there when you finally took your last gasp. You did not look like you.

I remember my mom asking me if I wanted to go into the hospital room to see you. I do not like hospitals. It’s the same aura of sadness in each one. The same overwhelming smell of Clorox. I had seen the insides of too many during my childhood, as I had to sit there helpless watching certain family members wither away. You were one of my favorite people on this planet and I did not want to see you in that state. My mom took my hand and led me toward the room. Before we entered, she said, “This may be the last time you see her, so say your goodbyes.”

How many times did I need to go through this? How many people did I need to lose?

I did not even know what to say at that point because I felt like I was talking to a stranger. That was not you.


How could a family even celebrate a holiday when someone was in the hospital fighting for their life?

I was angry. Everyone went on about their evening like nothing was happening. It was like two different worlds. Everyone gathered around the tree to exchange gifts. Every fiber in my body wanted to scream. I did not want to be there. It was like we were pretending. Pretending to be this happy family when we were all in fact broken.

The tree was situated in the living room and surrounded by the sofas you all sat on. The dining room table was full of food. I thought to myself how can anyone even eat right now? People were laughing. Telling jokes.

Are you all mad?

I would have traded all those gifts under the tree for your recovery. But that isn’t how it works right? People are taken from us when God thinks it’s their time and we must accept it? For someone who grew up in a Catholic family and attended Catholic school, I always felt like I could not decide for myself what I wanted to believe in. It was kind of forced upon me. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in God. But I’ve been angry. I’ve wanted to yell and ask why he had to take my loved ones from me. One of the people who showered me in love since the day I was born.


People went in for second and third plates of food. Kids ran around the house playing hide and seek. The adults were on glass number 5 of wine. Christmas music played in the background. I felt like my body was there, but my mind was not. I was floating around this house. I wanted to yell and break something.

How could you celebrate and drink and laugh? Was I the only one who loved her?

My head was spinning; my mind cloudy. My disappointment was boiling to the surface. My legs managed to carry me to and from, but I did not feel like myself. I felt like my soul was back in that hospital room with you.

The host of the party gathered everyone around the table, asked everyone to raise a glass, and made a toast. I thought, this is insanity.

Then the phone rang.

I stood there by the foot of the mahogany table and watched the expression on her face shift from a smile to something serious.

She did not even have to say anything. I knew it.

You had passed away.

I was mad at the world. Mad at all of you. You all stood here pretending to care. I had spent most of my childhood days with her. Where were you guys then? You gathered around at this god forsaken party to celebrate a holiday without her here. If you loved her, you would not have indulged yourself in alcohol and plates of food.

Why didn’t you spend time with her when she was still herself? Why didn’t you call or come visit? Life is hard enough already, don’t make it harder by being phony. I was angry. I felt like no one cared. Not one single person.

That’s how it works right? People do not care about you when you are alive and well but will gather around your casket at the funeral and speak about how loved you were.

Bullshit.

Where was the time to grieve? Where were the tears? The sadness?

This was supposed to be family?

I went outside. I needed air and to rid myself of all of you.

Savior

It was your 80th birthday and it was the first time I had ever seen you cry.

The family gathered around the dinner table in your apartment, not sure how we all managed to fit in there, but we made it work. We had family come up in from Puerto Rico. We all knew the disease would grow worse so we threw you this party while you were still you. You were not big on celebrations or gifts. My mom did not listen. She invited everyone and they all came. This showed how loved you were and how influential you were in our lives.

My mom bought you a vanilla cake which you loved. You sat at the head of the table. You wore a blue shirt with white polka dots. Your hair was brushed back and your nails polished. You sat with your hands in your lap under the table and you were looking down. I don’t think you liked the crowd very much. We all stood there taking pictures, but I didn’t. I stood there watching you; your every move. I kept thinking to myself, “Abuela, smile, it’s your birthday.”

I wish I knew what you were thinking in that very moment. You knew you were not yourself and you did not want your family to see you like this. I wanted so badly to take your pain from you and wish the sickness away. Everyone knew it would progressively get worse and we all wanted to savor our time together a little while longer. The doctor had given the prognosis and told us you would have moments where you would come in and out. You would shift back and forth between memories.

We sang you happy birthday. Certain family members said a few words and there was not a dry eye in the room. We shared laughs and tears. Our cousin from Puerto Rico wrote a story about you and how loved you were.

It was silent as she spoke. She paused during certain points to catch her breath and hold back the tears she knew would form. The words she spoke were full of warmth and love, but even still, they did not capture the woman you were and the influence you had on this family. I do not think any words can really do you justice, Abuela.

Then it happened. You raised your hand from beneath the table and you covered your eyes. You were crying. You were overwhelmed. Were you sad? Happy? I wish I knew.

This memory has been etched into my brain. I had to make sense of it, listen to my instinct, and write the story.


Such a cruel disease for the strongest, kindest woman we all knew. The Alzheimer’s ate away at your mind, body, and soul. With each bite it took more of you. Your ability to walk, your ability to eat, your ability to talk, your ability to embrace us in a hug and tell us you loved us. Your body grew thinner and colder. And with each passing moment, you were losing yourself and becoming weaker. We did everything we could to keep you here with us.

We would never be the same without you and I think we all have been a little broken ever since you left us.

But you gave me the strength. You taught me how to be strong even when I feel like my feet cannot carry me anymore. How to keep pushing forward. How to have faith that these dark times do not last.

You saved us all.

The Outcast Learns Acceptance

For as long as I can remember, I have felt like an outcast. Like people did not understand me. People resented me for reasons I do not know. Whether it was family, friends, outsiders I barely knew. People have always felt the need to label me or tell me why I was not good enough. I have felt like I was fed exed into this family. Being half Hispanic and half white, things never felt like they connected. My mom is from Puerto Rico and that side of the family speaks fluent Spanish. I grew up listening to Spanish music, eating Spanish food, and being around my relatives who were of an olive complexion and here I am, a little white girl with pig tails who felt like she did not belong.

My mom would tell me stories about how people in the family would say I was too white. I would have uncles and aunts who commented and cousins too. I tried so very hard to fit in, but what was the reason? Family is supposed to accept you and love you, right?

My dad’s side of the family is white, hence my name. I juggled trying to connect these two parts of myself because I am constantly greeted with doubt, hate, and uncertainty. “How can you be hispanic with that last name?” I had extended family members in Puerto Rico even ask me why my mother married a white man. Most of my relatives have dated or married into a Hispanic family; not my mom. She chose my dad. They were a blind date set up by friends of theirs; they met at a Halloween party. My mom tells me stories about how my dad was not her type. When she first saw him, she said he was short and showed up late which she did not like because my mom is a very punctual person. She said she was attracted to his personality and how he included my brother with lots of activities like going to the movies, etc. My brother and I come from two different fathers. Hence, another reason I feel like an outcast. We both have different names that are on two different ends of the spectrum. He has a fully Hispanic name and looks like my mom. Here I am, white girl with a completely white name. People would comment and whisper things like, “Is that even your brother? You must have been adopted. You guys can’t be related.” This would make me so angry. I did not care if he had a different skin tone, different name, different father. HE was MY brother and that was that.

My mom’s side of the family speaks fluent Spanish. My dad’s side does not. The relatives on my father’s side mostly married another Caucasian person. There was always a disconnect between my mother’s side of the family and my father’s side. It felt like an all out war and I did not understand the cause. I felt like I was standing in a field, while both sides of the family stood at each end waiting to attack. I stood there trying to decide which side I wanted to fit into most. I wanted so badly for both sides to come together.

We would get together at family parties and what not. But it never felt right. I had relatives on my mother’s side look down on my father because they saw him as this white man that my mother should not have married. My grandma did not choose sides. She did not resent my father or me. She welcomed us in with open arms.

My brother would often make hurtful comments. He never claimed me as his sister. He always made me feel rejected because of the father I come from. The pain from this has been unbearable. I have aches in places I never even knew existed. People in this family have looked down upon me because of the man I call my dad.

I have had people cut me out of their lives, resent me, talk badly about me, and not even give me a chance to form my own identity because I always lived in his spotlight. People assumed I was the same make as him, they wrote me off like I was nothing and I did not even have a chance to prove I was different. When I was a kid, I always felt like I was treated differently and I always wondered why.

I remember one Christmas party at my aunt’s house and I was 9 years old. While everyone exchanged gifts, my cousins received the best gifts any kid could ask for. I received a card. Kids love gifts during Christmas and here I am at 9 years old wondering why I was not included. I felt the tears start to form in my eyes. But even at 9 years old, I did not like to cry in front of others. My dad would tell me that was a sign of weakness. My mom saw I was upset and took me outside. I was always on the backburner. Always the after thought. My mom embraced me in a hug and said, “It’s okay mama. You will understand when you’re older. I can’t explain why people act the way they do. You have to be strong.” I wanted so badly to be strong, but how strong could I have been at 9 years old?

There has always been a disconnect with both sides of the family, struggling to connect both sides of my nationality, and trying to juggle the day to day pain of me feeling like I do not belong.

“Oh you’re just a little white girl, what do you know? You have a white father, you aren’t Hispanic. Why did your mother marry a white man? She could have done better.” These comments have been sketched into my memory and I want so badly to forget.

This really hits close to home because I have always felt marginalized. There were certain family members who welcomed me in with open arms and made me feel included, like I was not crazy for thinking that I was an outsider. I just wanted people to accept me. Not look at my skin complexion, or my last name, or the fact that I am half white. I always wanted to belong. To something. To a group. To a family.

I guess this is why I am so big on family. When I have my own children, I will never allow them to feel less than or like they are not good enough. It should not matter the color of your skin, or how ethnic your name may be, or what family you belong to, or how many friends you have. You should be accepted for you and no one should make you feel inferior without your consent.

I have battled hating myself for who I am and where I come from. I have hated my name. I have wanted to feel more Hispanic. I felt this need to rid myself of my white name to feel more Hispanic. To prove to this family that I do belong. I have wanted to climb out of this skin. I have tried to claw my way out. To breathe. To feel something.

I am a person. I am a human being. Because I do not share the same skin complexion as you or the same last name, I am very much a part of this family. I have struggled with accepting who I am and the family I was born into. My thoughts matter and my voice matters. What I have to say matters and I want to say these things because this has been boiling to the surface for almost 24 years of my life. So I sit here in my kitchen, with the sunlight seeping through the dining room window, and I write. And man does it feel good to tell this story. As I release these thoughts I feel a sense of healing. A sense of acceptance. A sense of grieving. A sense of finally realizing what truly matters. As the saying goes, you cannot choose your family and you cannot control the actions of others. You can choose how you respond to these actions and whether you want it to have power over you.

I choose to be strong. I choose to be me. I choose to be whole entirely on my own without the approval or validation of anyone. I stand tall because I can. I accept myself because I can. I no longer wish to allow these people who never gave a damn about me anyway to have power over me. They have no right to say these things. I have found comfort in the arms of friends who have become my family. God has given me these obstacles to learn how to love myself. To have hope. To stand tall. To make my voice heard. He has given me this talent to write so I can tell my story and hopefully inspire someone else to share their story.

All these years of wanting to fit in and you know what I learned through it all? I choose to be the outcast. I choose to be different. You do not like me? You do not accept me as your blood so be it. Life goes on. It has been an all out war trying to accept every aspect of who I am. You think I will allow others to make me feel less than when I already struggle with acceptance?

You never claimed me as your blood then, do not claim me when you see the success I will create.

“You Were Meant To Do This.”

“The saddest thing in life is wasted talent and the choices that you make will spare your life forever.”

~ A Bronx Tale


I was 4 years old when my father brought me to my first Tae Kwon Do class. I come from a family of athletes. My dad played football during his young years, my brother played as well and baseball too. He even tried martial arts, but he quit. Certain family members of mine also competed in martial arts. It was inevitable for me to join some sort of sport. I would play catch in the front yard with my dad or practice football plays when I got a bit older. I was never part of a team, until I started martial arts.

My dad would hold my hand everywhere we went. Crossing the street and on the sidewalks too. I would always say, “Oww Daddy, you’re squeezing my hand too tight.” We lived not too far away from the school. My dad drove the Camry and parked on one of the side streets.

We got out of the car. He asked, “What do we do when we are crossing the street?”

“We look both ways,” I said.

We checked twice each way and walked across the busy street to the school. The school had a burgundy colored awning and clear double doors. My dad opened the door and told me to go in. Being that I had watched my dad train in both Jiu-Jitsu and Tae Kwon Do, he always told me, it was a sign of respect to bow when you enter a Dojang (school).

Without even realizing, I bowed as soon as my dad opened the doors. I was immediately drawn to the big crowd on the red mat. Everyone wore white uniforms and I was fascinated by the high kicks and the sparring I had observed. Everything was almost like a blur, I tried to focus on one person at a time. I enjoyed the sound the gi’s (uniforms) had made when the students would throw a punch or kick. The instructor at the front of the room, who would soon become one of the most influential people in my life, would give commands and students would immediately respond with an action. I loved it all.

I sat on the bench on the side of the mat with the rest of the families watching. My dad sat there in awe too and he would explain what each movement meant and how to execute it. My 4 year old self was overwhelmed with the need to get on the mat. I wanted to be one of those people with the fancy technique.

When class was over, my dad introduced me to the instructor who told me to come back and try a class. I would join the children’s class on Saturday morning. I was a little too young to begin, but there was an exception made for me because he knew my father. The starting age for children was typically 5 years old. They had trained together back in the day. He told my dad to have me wear comfortable clothing.

I came back to the school that Saturday morning. My mother joined my father and me. We ate some breakfast, in this case, oatmeal because my mom wanted me to grow strong and she said oatmeal would help with that.

We arrived. I bowed. I took my shoes and socks off and got on the mat for the first time. It was like I was meant for this. The time I had watched my dad train definitely played a role in how I interacted with the class that Saturday morning. My dad had showed me how to throw a punch and how to curl your toes back when doing a front kick. I absolutely loved the freedom I felt when doing these techniques. I felt like a super-hero.

That was it. The beginning of my martial arts career. I went back every Saturday after that and I finally had a uniform of my very own.


My dad used to say, “You are talented without even giving your 100% effort. Imagine you gave 110%.”

I would get angry when he said this. But, he was motivating me to do and be an even better martial artist. Of course children want to hear the approval or validation from their parents. My dad was different. Instead of telling me what I did right, he would tell me all the things I did wrong and how to improve. He definitely had a different strategy, but I would not undo anything that has happened so far. His parenting and training techniques have also applied to other areas in my life. I always do my best, but I always strive for more. I want to be the best.

My dad always says, “Do not waste your talent. You were meant to do this.”

I would not be the person I am today without my dad taking me to my very first class.

The Road To The Top Is a Lonely One

For several years of my life, I have put my happiness in the hands of others.

Time and time again, I was disappointed. And what a lesson this has been.

What I have come to learn is happiness is a choice. You choose to wake up and be positive or you can choose to allow the troubles of yesterday to ruin today. I have dealt with my fair share of disappointments. And this has been because I expect others to bring me happiness. I seek approval, validation, and for others to like me. How quickly this has changed.

I have lost friends and family. People who were supposed to stay in my corner. I have been in relationships where I was belittled and did not feel like myself. I always did things to make others happy when I was miserable. Out in the public eye, I seem to have it altogether. Behind closed doors, I have struggled and overcame this need to please.

For quite a while, I felt different. Like I did not belong to certain groups of people. I always felt this need for more. This need to be challenge and stimulated. I shared different interests than everyone around me. I’ve been at a constant war with trying to maintain my craft while everyone around me just did not agree because they did not understand me. I do not think anyone has, except for one person, my grandma.

I have cried for hours. I have been angry. I have been depressed. I have felt let-down. I have felt like a failure at every turn. This is bound to happen for a starving artist such as me.

Every time I have felt happy or positive about something, I would often ask for the approval or opinions of the people around me. Family, friends, boyfriends, the works. They never seemed to understand my drive or why those things interested me. I was often met with negative comments or about how I’m crazy for liking that or I should not even waste my time.

This has been my fuel.

I have used this to drive my writing, my art, and whatever else I wish to succeed in. I will show all of these people who have said little of me or have turned their backs on me. But, let me set the record straight. I will not be doing this for anyone, except me.

The road to the top is lonely and I have to be willing to be alone. To really zone in on my work and get the job done, without the stamp of approval of anyone else.

Words are just words, but sometimes they sting. I guess I am still learning how to be on my How to give it my all and the best I’ve got.

No one can take my passion from me. Or my drive. My work ethic or my craft.

I am tough. I am strong. I have overcome adversities. I have proven people wrong. No one can have an opinion about something they have not done.

I believe if you were to ask some of the most successful people how they dealt with this particular issue, I can imagine them saying that they really focused their attention on their work, rather than what others had to say. They did not allow someone or something to take them off their path.

I no longer choose to place my happiness in the arms of another. My life is determined by me and how I want to live it. People will always have something to say, that is a given. Let them talk.

Be happy on your own. Be whole on your own. You got this.