I am a child of broken people. I come from broken dreams, busted jars of over-processed cheese, tears, and psychotic accusations slung to and fro by people who had me to fill a void in their lives.
Between my father’s anger and my mother’s psychosis, being a kid was hard to maintain. There are no more muffled taunts and threats spewing from mouths in the next room. I no longer stay awake to hear the nuances of lost hopes and love exchanged to catch a hint of blame toward me. Still, many nights I lie awake, for no good reason, anxious, alone, my wife asleep, pretending everything will be alright.
Children rarely grow to remember cracks in pavement. We are taught to look for imperfections. As a child, Disney World looks pristine. Rust, faded paint, and zippers on characters exist, but go unnoticed. With a proper dose of whimsy and belief, even the worst of childhoods contains moments of idyllic bliss.
My parents, despite their lesser demons, displayed moments of intense love, creativity, even humor. Somehow, the best and worst of me began with them. I have my father’s blue eyes and childishness, my mother’s face and creativity; my father’s anger and hands, my mother’s selfishness and chin. Like painful, familiar ghosts, memories of my childhood stain my present. The good never outweighs the bad.
I did not always know I had a unique childhood. It was a process, a discovery. Like most people in a similar situation, it took my relationships outside of my family to put a spotlight on my history. I thought all families fought. I thought they all lived in sexless homes. I thought I was normal. The hardest part about being me is knowing I am not normal. Whatever normal is, and my belief is there is no normal (but I am biased), I am not it. I am something else, something strange. And not because I choose to be, but because my family chose for me.
Anthony Sadler 