The chair at the end of a dining table has been empty for as long as I can remember. Usually it wouldn’t bother me, my day would go as usual, the same old routine. Wake up, go to school, finish assignments, walk home alone, step by step filling up my lungs with pleasingly cold air, finding peace in solitude. Every day I would pass by a park brimming with kids and their parents, overflowing with joy. But this time, something was different. At the furthest corner of the park, an empty bench stood. On it sat a man with his head down and a bottle in his hand. As he watched the kids play, he remained motionless with a proud fatherly smile on his face, and his bitter sobs broke through the silence. The obvious sight of guilt on his face suggested that he was experiencing a loss or grievance. It struck me: the empty seat, that old, rotting chair belonged to my father. The seat was left abandoned, clearly useless for the owner. The hollow space behind the table was just like my heart—something was missing.
I was always alone; there was never an urge to make friends because I struggled at finding common interests with other kids of my age. I was fine by myself. Growing up lonely and naïve, I have built a delusion around me, this fake reality where everyone is happy, not a single clue of how things really are. The slight feeling of reminiscence would constantly tickle the back of my head for years, but I could never put my finger on what it was. What is the science behind those little fragments of memories from when I was little? What affects the factor that makes us suddenly conscious as a kid? The first memory I recall is when I was about a year old and I’m lying on my favorite Barbie-themed blanket. My father is playing with me, tickling my feet, and I feel that indescribable joy as I look over to see my mother laughing at our silliness. That was my first ever memory, but also the last where I was genuinely happy around him.
One random Tuesday when I was 6, I suddenly felt this new emotion: I was real. The realization of being a human being was a strange feeling, and that is when everything that surrounded me revealed its true colors. As I looked out the window, the world became duller, it lost that dreamy saturation, and the atmosphere in my family wasn’t so happy and lovely. Every day, I heard my parents argue over the phone; my father was in America while me and my mother were in Ukraine. He always said how much he missed me, and would visit us time after time, at least that’s what I remember. He came to me bearing gifts, and as the excited kid that I was, I was happy that my father did not forget about me. Only now do I realize the hint of manipulation that I was put through from early childhood. He would gift me things to make up for the time he was away, and leave. Once I moved here, every day I watched his addiction become worse. His drinking issue went from once a week to every two days, to every day, and sometimes even twice a day. What they say is true: a kid needs both of their parents. In my case, I only had a mother that taught me to be the caring, loving, and independent person that I am, or so I think I am.
I don’t remember the last time the table was set for a holiday and everyone gathered, because it would always end up poorly. No matter how tired my mother was, she would try to make it memorable for us, cooking our favorite food and making a festive atmosphere, but it was always ruined by my father. A single drop of a drink would change his whole attitude—he would develop delusions, blaming the rest of us for his problems—and his constant aggression towards my mother only started a fire inside of me, which I did not know how long I could keep together before it burst into flames. I lost all human communication with him—that trauma affected me in the worst ways. Despite telling myself that I was fine with being alone, I always longed for the feeling of support. I could never have a healthy romantic relationship because I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like, my self-esteem dropped drastically because I blamed myself for every little thing, feeling like it was my fault that my family wasn’t harmonious. As I grew older, I realized that I lost interest in everything; I never acquired a hobby, so I developed a tendency to copy others’ leisure, I would mirror actions, words, and thoughts, fully convincing myself that it was my thing, simply because I did not know any better. But none of my self-convincing worked. Because my low confidence overpowered my interest to learn, I constantly heard my inner voice say, “you won’t make it” and “you won’t succeed.”
When I look back, that chair wasn’t just empty, it was covered in dust and spider webs. That empty chair has been there for a long time. Whenever I came to work at the movie theater, a place full of fun and laughter, I constantly noticed fathers having playdates with their daughters. Of course, I was jealous to see the little girls hanging out with their dads, but it was good jealousy. I’m glad that they can have the father-figure in their life that I could never have. Since the day when I realized that I could change things around, I’ve been working on becoming more independent, and participating in collaborative work to build up my human-to-human connection, anything it would take to change my future. I finally realized the number of opportunities the future holds for me—I truly can do whatever I put my mind to. Despite the pain that I have gone through, it built the person that I am today. I would never wish for my child to experience the heartbreak that I did from my father, and I promise myself that I will never be like him. I let that old chair rot in the back of my head, because I know that soon, I will get a new table.