Alone But Together: Growing Up with Busy Parents

The ugly duck in a crowd of beautiful swans. The black sheep in a flock of white. A red rose in a sea of daisies. Alone. A word that I have grown to understand further as time progresses. During my childhood, I had two well-payed parents, a two-story house and the ability to receive almost anything my heart desired. However, with this came forgotten recitals, missed parent-teacher conferences and unnoticed accomplishments. I rebelled in the only way I knew how; I completely stepped away from the person I was. 

As a child, I would act as a delinquent to gain a sliver of attention from my parents. However, I soon realized my behavior created the opposite effect. During my solitude, I created a game to keep myself enthralled during the times I was left alone. I began to observe the people and things around me. I concocted a story for the person. A past, a present, and a future was created for a stranger that I had never met. As I grew, I started to try and predict the things that would occur based on the things I observed. My game was my sanctuary. I created a world in my head that was near perfect. Due to the creation of my world, I often lost touch with reality.

The person I had stepped away from years ago started to resurface. My parents were absent more and I stopped taking notice. My game allowed me to create stories of a happy family without needing to physically experience one. I began to write my stories on paper, the world that was all my own stepped into the sunlight. I started to mask my feeling of loneliness with writing. It became my escape from reality. My game became my crutch to get me through rough days. I found my dreams and aspirations. I discovered my desire to become a lawyer, to help others who cannot help themselves. My writing equipped me with the opportunity to solve my problems and face my fears in writing. I was able to write out every scenario and decide how to best live my life.

Writing allowed me to solve my problems with my parents. I wrote down what I wanted to say. It took me three journals, six pens and about two months longer than expected. I realized that the neglect I felt growing up impacted me more than I thought. I realized that my parents were not these monsters that I perceived them to be, they worked hard and long to allow me to live the life I was accustomed to. All the words I wanted to say rushed out of me like I was holding back the answer to a question I have known all along. The night it happened, I was allowed to be the me I hid in fear of getting hurt again. I was allowed to be happy and learn to grow in a positive way. I learned that dreams are amazing, but what is the use of them if I do not have anyone to share them with. 

That one night did not solve all of my problems, I did not wake up the next day with a perfectly connected family. However, we began to heal and we have been recovering ever since. My parents and I are learning to understand and acknowledge that we are not alone in the world. We have each other. My life may not be perfect but I am becoming the me I want to be.