In the summer of 2018, after my father’s addiction had well and truly spiraled out of control, my mother had finally divorced him and sold the house. I was stupid enough to believe that things could only get better. They didn’t.
I was sixteen and did not yet fully understand what I had just gone through and I had no idea that the worst was yet to come. In those days I was very angry. I was angry that my father would openly choose drugs over my mother and me, angry this had happened to us, angry that it had taken so long for my mother to take action. Now that I'm a few years older, I have a much different perspective on what went on in those years, but this isn’t about that. In the summer of 2018 I did not yet know that Anger was just the start of it and that, yes, it can and will always get worse before it gets better. My mother and I had to completely reorganize our lives. First, we had to try to fit 2,000 square feet of belongings into 700 square feet of space. At the time I gladly abandoned almost all of my things. I gave them away or sold them and arrived in our newly rented apartment with exactly two IKEA boxes to my name. I didn’t want to be reminded of the bad times and I certainly didn’t want to keep anything that would remind me of my father. Almost four years later all I have left to remember him by are three of his old t-shirts and a Cat Stevens record.
In the immediate aftermath, people had two ways of reacting to the topic of my father. Some would either get very uncomfortable, change the subject, or just generally be treading on eggshells around me. Others would openly confess to me that they had never actually liked my father and they would make sure to mention that my mother was always too good for him. Family friends would come up to me and tell me all these horrible things about my father. On one occasion even my grandmother told me she never liked him. It drove me insane. None of these people had been there. They didn’t know what had gone on in that house in the last couple of years. They had no right to say any of these things to me, to pass judgment on my father, whom I had grown up idolizing. He wasn’t always a bad father, you see--that’s what made it so painful. I have wonderful memories of my father, of all the things he made sure to teach me, how he could make a weekend grocery trip into the most exciting experience. On days when I came home from elementary school crying he would take me to watch a movie. He would do this even though we really did not have the money to go see a movie and he had just worked a 14-hour shift. My father was the only person I never had to explain my feelings to; he just knew. However, in those days I had no idea how to reconcile this version of my father with the one I would occasionally encounter high off-his-face bothering strangers on the city streets. So I never dared to tell those people to stop.
When I went back to school that September I felt completely alone. I had always had trouble making friends and connecting with my peers but the last year had robbed me of any remaining social contacts. I couldn’t relate to the kids in my classes after what I’d been through and I envied them. They talked about their vacations to Greece and Croatia, bragged about summer romances and new school bags. When teachers asked what we’d all been up to this holiday season I didn’t know what to say. I was in parts embarrassed and angry. Part of me wanted people to know, to understand, and to have someone I could talk to about all this but every teen has their own issues to deal with so I couldn’t expect anyone to care about mine. Emerging out of something like the loss of a parent, an event that feels so earth-shattering to me, and then having to return to regular life was jarring. I had to change and adapt so much but everything around me had stayed the same. Trying to fit into a teenager-shaped hole when I had morphed into this large, grotesque form comprised of all these hard edges and blistering growths seemed impossible. I barely remembered who I used to be before all this or what I liked to do or how to go about enjoying anything. I suddenly lived in the city, endless possibilities at the tips of my now seventeen-year-old fingers, but had no clue where to start. My peers were going out, doing drugs, partying, having fun, and I got panic attacks when I stepped on the bus. It was miserable and lonely but I tried hard to fit in.
At home, my mom and I would scream and fight. We'd threaten each other with pots of boiling water and cutlery. It took us a long, long time to learn how to effectively communicate with one another, but we eventually managed. I resented her but couldn’t admit it to myself until I yelled it at her one night in our pathetic, little kitchen. She cried and I got a sick sort of satisfaction out of hurting her. I think it was my way of making her understand how I felt and since I lacked the words or tools to do so I made her feel the way I felt. We hurt each other a lot that year and I regret the way I treated her. These days we get along very well. There is a lot of mutual respect and we have both been able to find ways to communicate without screaming and resorting to threats of physical harm. We talk a lot now, about everything that happened. It was a steep learning curve. My mother even admitted to me that she always struggled to understand me on an emotional level and that she was glad to leave that part of parenting to my father. I know this was just as hard for her as it was for me. In very different ways but we both went through a lot. She had to do a complete one-eighty at the age of 48. I have no idea how I would have dealt with that.
In an effort not to leave this on a completely dire note, four years later at the age of almost 21, I am okay. It took a great amount of self-reflection, therapy, and a few screaming fits but I’m mostly happy now. This whole dad trauma will probably never stop affecting me completely, but I’ve made my peace with that. After I emerged from my gross, Kafkaesque cocoon full of self-pity and daddy issues, I made some amazing friends. Friends that I miss every day when I’m in New York. I built myself a support network, I’ve worked two full-time jobs and now I’m even going to college. Who would have thought? I appreciate life with all its ups and downs. Last week I even listened to First Cut Is The Deepest without crying. My dad never got better, but I did, and will continue to do so.
Aurora Schindler (she/they) is a visual artist from Vienna, Austria.
She earned her graphic design and communications diploma in Vienna and is currently a sophomore majoring in BFA Comics at the School of Visual Arts.