Curb

I sat on the curb in front of my one-story tan colored home, and cried. To this day I believe I have never cried in such a way, never was it filled with that much purity, never has it been so painful. That night I learned everything I need to know about hate. Hatred for people, yes, but more so for myself. In those hours sitting on that street, in front of that house, in those clothes, I hated myself more then anything in the world. And that is something no 7 year old should have to feel. That Isn't something anyone should ever have to feel. But I did.1

My mom was a wonderful parent. We had always been open, and closely intertwined with one another. My father was a mystery to me, and to most who talked to him. He was a funny man, but lacked that little spark for parenting. My pparentsdivorced when I was 6, an age I hardly remember, yet I do recall most of the proceedings, it is what happened afterwords that is etched into my mind forever. 2

My mom remarried and gained custody of us, but we had visitation with my father and his new family every other weekend. I missed him all the time, and when our visits would approach I would get increasingly happy. He used to make Sunday breakfast, if only to ease the pain of another weekend gone by so quickly. The thought of Sunday breakfast with anyone else still appalls me to this day. He was my hero. 3

He would pick me up every Friday after work, at five sharp. I would sit out on the sidewalk waiting for him, just staring down the street to see his pick-up round the corner. This particular night it was mid-autumn, with a healthy breeze and a cold nip in the air. I ddidn't care of course, I would have sat there in the freezing snow waiting for him. And then it was five. And he wawasn'tthere. I just sat, waiting patiently. I got worried as six rolled around, he was never really late. My mom told me to come inside, but I refused. What if he drove by and saw that I waswasn'taiting and left without me? I sat back down. My mom retreated back into the house, possibly to call him. It was then that I started crying. For some reason, I just knew that he wasnwasn'tming that night, or any night for that matter. My worst fears became reality when my mom came back outside and told me the news. He had moved, no, he had run from us. He deserted me. And as I sat on the cold curb, I remember thinking nothing except what I could have done wrong. What I did to make him leave. That night was the night I learned about self-doubt, and coldness that didn't come from the air outside. I learned about depression and questioning everything you've ever done. I learned that not everyone you think you love can be trusted, and the more you let the people you care about get close, the harder you will fall when they let you down. 4