A teenager gave this to me to share… the realities of living in a chaotic home.
I was feeling boring, and useless – well depressed, just like most typical teenagers. Only, I’m just not a typical teenager. I know everyone says their different, special, unique. I wrestle with that a lot.
How can everyone be special?
Let me explain my point of view in this… Everyone is different, only a select few are special, yet we are all unique in our own silly little ways. I’m not a pessimist, only rather sarcastic about all attributes to life.
I haven’t had my heart broken or anything! I’m not old enough for that. I don’t care what anyone says, I’m just not. Anyhow, I just think I’m entitled to say what I truly think, (not that I hold back anyway). I decided to write this short book, I hope it helps. I am from what you may call a ‘broken home’.
Statistically, 1 in 4 marriages end this way, (learned that in sociology). I got to thinking, how many of the kids have a keen interest in English literature?
How many have my style of writing or interesting taste in fashion? How many have my name? Well. I am unique. I’m not sure if this will make sense to you now, but I was born in Paddington, West London. Enjoy.
Past Life in North LDN:
If it wasn’t already obvious, my mum and dad are divorced. They had 3 ‘interesting’ children and were married around 7 years. They’ve now been divorced for nearly 12 years. I want to say everything went smoothly, it didn’t. Going back as far as I can remember, we lived in the Annex in a little flat. I forget if my brother existed just yet, but my head says he did.
One night, I was playing with my colourful Chico kitchen set. I would probably have fun playing with it now, don’t repeat that. I was happily cooking some fruit, (yes cooking fruit), mixing it with only God knows what. I was so content.
My theory is you will only be happy for a matter of moments; I’m working on my pessimistic side with Jesus. A shout came from the bedroom. My parents were arguing, I was told to call the police. Being maybe 3, this is a complicated request, right?
Wrong, I’m special.
I called them, and said what I was told to say. I don’t remember knowing the address, I reckon I had help there, someone must have shouted it to me. I stood by the phone, and what in what seemed like minutes the door was being banged on. When the police came up, and they did, I was moved to the side and told to go and play. They charged up the stairs and into my parents’ room, I don’t know what happened from there on.
When I was old enough to question this event properly I found out it was something trivial. My dad thought mum was cheating apparently. I guess I’ll never know.
Another time, I was playing on this almost beige coloured computer that still had a massive back on it, an old fashioned windows 97 machine. There’s going to be a lack of description here, it was more than a decade ago, so don’t judge me! It was a Thomas the Tank Engine game, and for me it was the best thing since sliced bread. We lived in a three bedroom house I think, East Link Avenue North. It was a nice area, I think. So anyway, there I was, playing this game, with my brother on this brick of a computer, and we heard a thud from upstairs.
My sister and I bolted up the white bannister-less stairs. We had, I think a light brown carpet over it, so it was relatively safe, but I question how I ran up them so often so boldly, nowadays I would be careful. She burst into our parents’ room and was ordered by my dad to go downstairs…
To be continued
Copyright ©Arinola Araba 2017
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