Broken Home

What has to happen in order for what's in my heart to remain happy? I didn't begin my life in a broken home. Later it became such. Not from abuse though. From speration.

When my parents told me I wasn't allowed to do something, it was their upbringing, their way of raising me, that let me know they wanted me to be safe.

Outside of those walls was always a different telling. Something I didn't understand. How do you know when something is ok? Someone tells you or you discover it for yourself.

Why did they send me to school? Surely it wasn't to be picked on. Yet outside the walls of my home that is exactly what happened. It's not always clear, the reason for a smile. The ability to laugh.

Why should my smile be less welcomed than yours, looking upon my classmates? What is it about my clothes that you don't like? Do they suggest that I am poor?

Perhaps we don't have much in our bank account; but that was my parents worry. It was not allowed to be mine. Maybe my hair doesn't look as fashionable as yours. But it's clean, my mom combed it for me this morning and sent me on my way.

Being is school, it was strange to learn that people went home to be hurt, to be berated and ridiculed. To be turned into the reason why things didn't go someone else's way or where someone wanted to be in their life.

I suffered no such confusion until my parents separated. Then it was like my enemies got what they wanted.

Perhaps I was angry, because I could no longer shake off the ridicule as I once had. It was tougher, wanting to be accepted while rejected from both ends. The home I knew was gone. It wasn't so bad but compared to what I had; I was happy without knowing all the reasons why.