The Happiness Project by M K (top ebook reader .txt) 📕

not allowed to break. It is a tormenting feeling, as if you are trapped in a situation that you won’t get yourself out of. That is exactly what it is, we are trapping ourselves in a situation that we are keeping ourselves in. If we don’t care about their opinions, then we are free. But, some of us are cowards and I mean me. We don’t want to be judged and when we are, we try to fix that aspect of ourselves that made someone feel compelled to judge us. But, if we can not change or do not want to change what we are being judged by, then why should we worry? I want to be who I am and I am who I am. So, at this moment I won’t hold back. I won’t care about your judgment. I am being honest today and It feels great to be brave for once. Try it with me and don’t tell me you don’t feel alive. I feel alive at this moment, so lets enjoy it together. The yellow house~

 

I think about the yellow house a lot. The yellow house, is my description of my childhood home. It is the first home I remember and it was extraordinarily beautiful. It had three rooms, many windows and a country side view for miles. There was a mile long stretch of pistachio trees across the road our house. I discovered nature at this home and my love of trees and of the stars. I loved our giant yard, with the towering trees and even the frightening sound of Coyotes howling in the distance at night and the shadows of the monstrous trees from my bedroom window. I have three sisters and they were my only friends. My life was very good. I always had food, a warm bed and the world to entertain me. I felt safe in that home and I was comforted by the Rose garden in the front and our six dogs. I loved the swing in the front yard and exploring with my sisters. Everything was perfect, until I noticed that it was not. Our mom was always home and she would spend her days reading us books, taking us outside to play, showing us flowers, trees and teaching us about the world. My favorite books was, “Good Dog Carl,“ if you have ever read it as a child, you understand.

My mom always used to tell us scary stories too. My favorite was the Apple Tree Monster. It was a story about four little girls who go into a forest to pick the apples from the apple tree. As the little girls are picking the apples and having fun, the apple tree suddenly springs to life and says that he is going to eat them because they have stolen his apples. The little girls all run home and scream for their mom to save them. The mom rushes out of the house with a shot gun and BANG, blows up the tree and they all watch the tree and its apples fly into a million pieces. In the end, the mother get all of the apple pieces and makes enough apple pies to last them a lifetime. My mother was my hero, even as a child, so I loved that the mother in the story saved the day.

I was always happy, like I said, until I noticed some things. I did not know it then, but my father had a drug problem. He was hardly ever home and I didn’t care as my sisters and my mom were there. When my father was home, he was angry. I remember one day, when my father was home and he had cooked dinner. It was dinner time and he called us all to the table. I didn’t want to go, so I dove into my moms closet and started getting out her pretty clothes and trying to fit In them. I got her red lipstick too and put it on my face and drew on the mirror in front of me. It was a lot of fun and I didn’t care about dinner. I was only three years old. Because I didn’t come, my father came and got me and he wasn’t nice about it. I remember that he yelled and I was afraid. The memory is fuzzy, as if I were in a dream. Nothing big happened, so I am sorry if I disappointed you. All that I remember, is that my mother did not allow him to take me away because I was happy doing what I was doing. I just sat on the bed crying and feeling that I had done something wrong. I felt strange and if I had done something VERY wrong. I know that my dad had overreacted and I was just a child, wondering why I could not continue to play. But, It felt different then ever before. Maybe it was because, the only time my dad talked to me, was when he was yelling. I don’t remember a time clearly, when he wasn’t unhappy. He was always nervous, pacing and frustrated that he needed to take care of us. That was when I first realized, that something was wrong in my perfect world.

I will not explain everything little thing that upset me. Most of the things that happened, were moments when my father was a little too rough. He would pull our arms as he carried us, or even spank us when we didn’t do what he said. He was a fearful figure in my mind, although he never severely abused us and he never harmed our mother in a physical way. One memory haunts me and It is a memory from so long ago. It wanders into my mind very often and I need to get it off of my chest. It is a story that my sisters know well, at least three of my sisters because my youngest sister was not yet born. My dad was home this particular morning and me, my twin sister Eileen and my younger sister Victoria were sitting at the breakfast table in our front room. The table was covered with food I remember. There were pancakes, home made cinnamon syrup, milk, juice and some bacon. It was a good morning, but our mom was not there. She wasn’t usually around when my dad was. It was mostly because she wanted our father to spend time with us, and she was also disgusted to be around him. He had lost many jobs and he couldn’t hold one for long. Every night, he stayed at the bar down the road from our house and drank, while our mother took care of us.

My mother told me once that she brought us all down to the infamous bar and asked our father to come home, because she needed help. He told her that he would be home soon and she could do nothing more but believe him and take us home. Once again, our father did not come home and she was very upset. At 1am, my father was still not home so she drove up to the bar and wrote: “ASSHOLE,” in red lipstick across his windshield and left. I like that story, because it makes me laugh to imagine my mother doing that. It is better to think about the funny things about it, then how much she may have been suffering when she did it. She had four daughters and was all alone, all day and night. It must have been torture to feel so unloved by your own husband. He picked a substance over us, but I have long ago forgiven him.

Back to my story, at the breakfast table. We had been at the breakfast table, enjoy our day, despite my fathers obvious aggravation at something. I remember that me and Victoria started fighting for a certain reason. I think we were fighting over something stupid, like who would get the last piece of bacon. I regretted fighting with her in a matter of seconds. I was three and Victoria was two years old. As we were bickering, my father jumped out of his chair, wrapped his large hand around Victoria’s small arm and yanked her out of her high chair violently. Me and Eileen watched him hold Victoria by the arm as he carried her to the front door. You need to know, that outside our front door is a wooden porch covered in splintering wood, some stairs made of stone and a long fall for a child. Our father opened the door and threw Victoria onto the porch as hard as he could. We watched her slide on her stomach across the wood and spin in a quick circle, before the door slammed behind her. Our view was cut off and I was horrified. I was scared and I knew that something bad had just happened. Our father sat down at the table and covered his face with his hands. We were dead silent. After a few minutes, he got up and left. We don’t know where he went, but we were happy he left. I remember going outside once I heard his noisy truck pull out of the driveway. He was gone and everything seemed okay again. The next thing I remember, is going outside to find Victoria. I went through a sliding glass door through my parents bedroom, down some wooden stairs and that is where I found my mother and Victoria. Eileen was beside me as we walked up to them.

My mother was sitting on the ground and Victoria was in her arms. Victoria is sobbing and so is my mother. Me and Eileen see them crying and we begin to cry too. I can not explain my emotions at this moment, because it troubled me so much. I was upset that Victoria had been thrown out our doorway, and that my dad had done it. I had not known that our father was coming down from drugs, because I did not know what drugs were or the effects. All the understood was that our morning had gone wrong, because of my actions. I had been fighting with Victoria, so I must have been the cause of my fathers anger. Because Victoria had been closer to my father, he had grabbed her first and it was all my fault. I was ashamed and I could only think that I had caused this pain. We were all crying now, because of me and I didn’t understand anything else. I only know now, that it was not my fault. My father had problems and we were only children who he took his troubles out on at times. It isn’t right and it isn’t fair, but it happens to many children. It happened to our family and it brings me pain, although I am grown now. That memory haunts me. I wish I could have been the hero in that moment, but I had felt like the villain instead.

The breakfast incident had not been the only one. The interesting thing about memories, is that we keep the ones that affect us the most, although they may be terrible.