Backseat

I still sit in the backseat of the car, peering over to watch my parents argue. The car is filled with my high-pitched pejorative mother’s screeches, combined with the roaring voice of my father. They continue to argue over another mindless topic, what to cook for dinner, how to raise their kids, or how they cannot stand the sight of me, yet another day. Whether big or small, they’ll find a reason to disagree. For all the 17 years I have been alive, I have always watched my parents babble words of insult and hatred at one another. Though they are blood and one that I called family, they never felt that way. The arguments always felt out of my hands, something I had no control over. Ironically, most of the conversations were about me, how I'm too fat, how I speak too much, or how they wish I weren’t born. None of their concerns were ever communicated to me face-to-face. In their defence, what could they say to a ten-year-old? But, they still did not do an excellent job at hiding their emotions. I sometimes wonder if both my parents are bipolar; one second, they yell and scream their wishes for my death, and next, they coddle me into their arms and say I am the reason they possess so much wealth.