I sit in this room, waiting. Waiting for one of them to leave so the voices stop. I can't tell which one is right.

So I wait.

I don't have a say- it's always been like this. Ever since the screaming.

Their voices are drowned out as my music fills the room. Even as I sit here, typing this, the music plays. Anything to drown it out.
At first, I wasn't sure what happened. But I guess as the years went by, the answer became more obvious.

My mother was obsessive, controlling. My father was the opposite. Apparently it took him some sixteen or so years to figure what was wrong with my mother, too. My brother is still blind to it. He claims we're pointing fingers for our mistakes.

It might be our mistakes, but it is definitely because of her.

I still wish for a normal family: a caring mother, a still-intact father, and a brother who is aware of his surroundings.
I know the fights aren't about me, or because of me. But I still believe they are.

I go to therapy regularly- we all do. I'm not sure it helps, but it's certainly brought up covered issues.

There's a third voice, now. In the other room. She tries to calm them, tries to keep them from yelling. She doesn't get far before my mother leaves.

She glares at me, flips her hair, picks up her purse, and walks out.

My father sits in the room, he doesn't even look up. Head in hands, elbows on knees, he cries.

The therapist sees me look over and gives a sigh. "I tried," she mouths.

Minutes later my phone buzzes. I don't even bother to pick it up. I know it's my mother, wanting to apologize for her behavior and seem innocent. Why hadn't she just tried to understand?

I look above the screen to my brother, sitting directly opposite of me. He just stares out the window. I can tell he's trying to hold back tears. So am I.

This family's so messed up, I'm not even sure I can stand living with it anymore.