Late night rant.

Twenty-three years old, and I finally found the guts and courage to run away from home. That might seem to be a satirical statement, but it’s completely accurate. I remember being at the age of 10 and packing a bag with my favorite barbie, my Minnie Mouse t-shirt and one of those plastic koolaid drinks with the twist-off tops — ready to run away to the park after being banished to my bedroom for whatever irrelevant trouble I had caused. Other instances occurred as I struggled to grow through my rough teen years, but I never, ever really ended up going through with it. But this one… it was as real as it comes.

After a shocking and unnecessary altercation with my father, filled with pettiness and rage over something so unworthy of such anger, I was left speechless. Despite having a million witty and hurtful comebacks flutter through my mind, I found myself still unable to lash out and talk back to him. Already twenty-three, and still unable to disrespect my father even with good cause. In the midst, all I can remember is feeling my lips part and my jaw slowly drop in such astonishment. Maybe it was because I was taken aback and blindsided by the loud dispute, or because I had flashbacks of my abusive childhood that I never talk about — but that was my only reaction: Jaw-dropping silence.

After a last threat, which was that I needed to find my own way to wherever I was getting ready to go to and to pay for my own car’s air conditioning repairs in the upcoming days — he stormed off, driving my car when his was simply in the driveway. I called a girlfriend and told her I’d have to cancel our plans, and she found my flakiness unacceptable and drove over to pick me up. After a long night of excessive drinking and sweaty dancing, my boyfriend picked me up from the club… From there, I staggered into my house, grabbed a duffle bag of clothes and essentials, a few pairs of shoes, and my school books — and hauled ass out of there. I also proceeded to pick up my car the next morning.

I only lived at my boyfriend’s house for a week before my mother called me to come home for Easter weekend. I’ve been home for three days technically… I’ll go to work, come home and lock myself in my bedroom for the remainder of the night. My long nights at home consist of watching episodes of The OC, smoking hookah by myself, sipping hot tea and popping hydrocodone pills while laying in bed. My father and I still haven’t spoken at all about the incident… And the tension and awkwardness that follows the two of us being within two feet from each other is beyond any distance I’ve ever had from him before. I guess it was only a matter of time before his old ways came back.

Except this time, I’m twenty-three years old and won’t stand for his power trips of establishing his much needed respect for being my family’s only bread winner and male authority figure.

I’m not a kid anymore, Dad. Try again next time.