Hallie's Story: I Don't Know Who To Love

Don't get me wrong; I love my parents; they truly mean the world to me, and I'd do anything for them. But I can't stay under the same roof with them any longer without losing my mind. Today is finally the day I'm moving out-heading off to college, which feels like an escape from a pressure cooker. After what felt like an eternity spent in a gap year, I finally decided to take the plunge into college life.

It wasn't driven by academic ambitions or career aspirations; I simply needed a break from home, a reprieve from the chaos that constantly surrounded me, a break from the never-ending arguments between my parents, the incessant nagging, and the overwhelming feeling of being a burden to my mom. I just needed to leave.

For as long as I can remember, my parents' marriage has been fraught with tension. The persistent discord has been a fixture in our home, so much so that I've found myself wishing for a divorce for them. Their fights often spiralled from petty disagreements-like the simple act of closing the toilet seat or keeping shoes off the carpet-only to escalate into dramatic accusations and hurtful insults. I once stumbled upon a condom and lubricant in my dad's car, a revelation that whispered secrets of infidelity, but that's a different story for another day.

They weren't particularly discreet about their struggles, and my two sisters and I were well aware of the emotional chasm between them. Yet, they somehow managed to create an environment where we felt loved and cared for at least until my dad made a disastrous financial mistake that set our home on edge. Suddenly, the shouting and anger became our daily soundtrack, and before long, it was directed at us-especially towards my mom. Conversations turned toxic, riddled with insults and raised voices that echoed through the hallways of our home.

Mom transformed into someone I hardly recognised: dramatic, hyper-sensitive, and always on edge. She insisted on early morning clean-ups, expecting us to rise at the crack of dawn and tidy up the house. If we missed even one day, chaos erupted. I couldn't shake the feeling that she had taken a dislike to me, which was complicated by the realization that I bore a striking resemblance to my dad. Any mistake I made seemed to trigger a torrent of complaints, while my sisters escaped her wrath. I tried my best to please her- waking up early to make breakfast, and tidying the house on days when I felt like I needed a little extra sleep, but none of my efforts seemed to matter. In those moments, I was just labelled lazy.

This resentment began to fester, particularly towards my older sister, Grace. It was painfully clear she was the favourite-she could sleep in, defy Mom's orders, and even snap back with little more than a playful eye-roll while receiving nothing but praise in return. The youngest, Martha, seemed blissfully ignorant of the family dynamics; she was always immersed in her phone, navigating her own world, rarely considering anyone else's feelings. This left me in the middle, a chronic people pleaser, longing for harmony, even at the expense of my own happiness. As long as the family was at peace, I was fine being the one who felt sad and unappreciated.

During all this turmoil, my dad was my anchor-not because my mom had failed me, but because of the unique bond we shared. From a young age, he treated me like a princess, showering me with love and affection that made me feel special and cherished. Even during financially challenging times, he found ways to surprise me with little gifts or special outings, showing his devotion in ways that spoke to my heart.

It was evident to everyone how deeply my dad loved me, a sentiment my siblings and even my mom recognized. They often manipulated our relationship, asking me to serve as a messenger-pleading with me to convey their wishes to him in hopes of scoring treats or outings. I didn't mind, as it felt like a game to me. I enjoyed being the bridge between them and my dad, often reaping a reward with a small gift, a sweet treat, or simply witnessing the spark of happiness in our home.

With that established, let's return to the story. I was headed off to college, and the excitement within me was bubbling. I was finally escaping the toxic environment that had consumed my life for a year, travelling eight hours away. Grace was accompanying me, already a sophomore at the same college. She drove us in her car, and I remember tearing up during the drive because, despite everything, I had grown attached to my home. Leaving it behind was bittersweet, stirring up emotions I didn't expect at all; I would miss my parents, no matter how chaotic life had become.

After a gruelling twelve hours on the road, exacerbated by traffic, we finally arrived. It was dark, and the unfamiliar surroundings made it hard to take in everything at once, but I sensed a thrilling reality ahead. We were to stay in one of the school's accommodations, but, unfortunately, Grace and I were assigned as roommates. The thought made me groan internally; while she was family, we had never been particularly close, and I harboured resentment towards her. We had shared a room all our lives, and I longed for something new and refreshing. However, my options were limited; with only two more years until she graduated, I could manage for now.

As night fell, one might assume I'd be too exhausted from the long journey to stay awake, but excitement coursed through me like electricity. I found myself wide awake, imagining the vibrant experiences waiting for me-my future friendships, the people I would meet, and the adventures that lay ahead. I could feel the possibilities stretching out before me, an exhilarating prospect that soothed the turbulence left behind in my childhood home.

You'd think that after spending a gruelling twelve hours on the road, I would feel utterly spent and fall straight into bed. The truth is, I was drained, but an exhilarating thrill coursed through me, making sleep impossible. I found myself daydreaming about the next four years of my life: new adventures awaiting me, the diverse people I would meet, potential friendships blossoming, and, most importantly, the prospect of boyfriends. If I'm being honest, I had never experienced a real romantic relationship before.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. I did have someone who came close, but he wasn't technically my boyfriend. Let me clarify: from seventh to twelfth grade, I attended an all-girls Catholic boarding school, a setting that didn't exactly facilitate interaction with boys. Even so, I crossed paths with KC, a family friend, at a birthday party. Our connection sparked a flurry of online conversations that felt meaningful, yet we had never met face-to-face. Because of that, I hesitated to categorize him as my boyfriend.

After we graduated, KC mustered the courage to ask me out for real, to take our online connection into the realm of something more. I paused before answering and ultimately said no. But why?