My mother worked graveyard shifts at the Baylor hospital on the east side of Dallas. My father worked day shifts at the local welding shop a few blocks from our rundown apartment complex. My mother and father would come home exhausted from working to the bone, but my father’s mental issues never made the situations any better. Manipulation, lies, and overthinking were laced in his words; venom tainted his entire vocabulary. He was psychologically insane, and I had to live with it for years on end. There was no end to his madness.

There was, however, one distinct night where my whole world came crashing down. The universe that had been carefully woven with beautiful lies and fantasies came hurtling down to the real world, the world I despised because it was the same world I had to share my living with my father. My mother came home from her dreaded long shift at the hospital and of course, my father was having one of his “manic nights”. My brother and I were both in our rooms, but I was the child who suffered from insomnia. While I was climbing down my bed, on the other side of our closed door, my mother was being eaten alive by my father, figuratively. My father was enraged by the idea of my mom coming home late, “You whore! Of course you went out with your little friends. Look at you dressed the way you are!” These were the horrific things that my father was spitting at my mom; it was nonsense. My mother was laying on the bed, taking all the fire my father was spitting at her. She was crying— in my entire life, I’ve never seen my mom cry a river with such pain like she did that night— seeing her in that state crushed the soul in my small body, I snapped.

Since I was born, every family member would mention to my mom that I would have the most rage out of her three children; the look in my glossy brown eyes held fiery, they held chaos, madness. “She will be the one to destroy those around her family in order to protect her family, but when her own blood crosses her, she will eat them alive. There is something living inside her, controlling her small mind and body.” When I found out about the things my family would tell my mother, it made me believe that the family, who majority have some sort of witchcraft coursing through their veins, put a curse on me. They pinned a label on me since birth, and it’s something that I live with, a beast attached to me as if we are conjoined twins. 

    The rage within came washing over my body. I remember black veiled my eyes, but the beast allowed me to see bits and pieces of the things I did to my father. As if the beast was showing me cut scenes of a horror movie, I remember the flashing scenes of me grabbing my father off my mother and my small body pouncing on his. Cut to my mother screaming for me to stop, then my small hands picking up chairs or whatever was near me and seeing those objects fly across our tiny two bedroom apartment. Everything became clear after I heard the muffled screaming and the front door slamming; it felt like an earthquake. Vision still coming back blurry, my mother’s rough hands grasped my arms and shook my body, examining my face trying to see if it was the real Daniela in control of her body again or if the beast was still there. My body was drained of energy, as if a vampire sucked all of it out of my body, I couldn’t speak or move my arms— I could nod my head and my blinking slowed. Everything was spinning and moving in slow motion— she wanted me to speak to her and respond to her answers if I’m “in there.” What does that even mean? In there? Of course I’m inside of my body; why wouldn’t I be? Oh right, she took over and now mom is worried if I’m alive, she’s making sure the monster didn’t eat me like some sort of a midnight snack.

When I came back to my senses, I noticed how trashed our small apartment was. There were chairs, glass, and holes in the walls everywhere… all because I lost control. I couldn’t control the beast within my body, I questioned my mother on her well-being, completely forgetting that I had injured my entire body to protect her from my father. After we settled down and she cleaned up the disaster that I had caused, she explained that I had a glossy look in my eyes and explained why I felt so different in my body. I lost control of my anger and allowed whatever lives within me to take the control panel and do as it pleased, which meant kicking my father out of the apartment and dumping all his belongings over the second story railing. After that night, all his clothes were picked up by his sister and he didn’t return for a few weeks. My father didn’t try to contact, visit, or come get the rest of his belongings because he was ashamed that his first daughter completely ripped him apart for causing so much trauma. 

It took years to recover from the trauma that my father caused the entire family. My mother slowly distanced herself from my father and relied on her friends for support, my brother found out about what happened and started talking less to the entire family, my baby sister was a clueless newborn, and I was sent away to therapy. My brother and I spent about 30 days in therapy to help heal from all the trauma my father caused. Doctors diagnosed my brother with severe ADHD and I was diagnosed with severe anxiety and mild forms of depression, and severe anger/temper issues. Through all the years of medications, self reflection, and therapy I had come to the realization of how or why I lashed out, because the beast within myself is the same as my father’s. My mother always reminded me that all my pent anger and outbursts were passed down to all her children from our father’s side, which all makes sense. I had found hope after she reminded me of where my actions are coming from. It wasn’t the therapy, not my mothers encouraging words of “you can do this”, but it was my own mind telling me that I wasn’t like him. I am not the same as him, we do not have the same aggressive tendencies, and I will never be him. No matter how many times the family will mention how similar we are, no matter how many times people will compare me and him as an insult, I am not my father. I am my own person and any issues within me are my own. After all the years of suffering, I finally felt the warm and fuzzy feeling of hope, all my problems washed away from my body and I will forever hold onto the warm feeling for the rest of my life.