My parents divorced in 2001.

I was 11 years old.

It was November of my sixth grade year.

My father said that he wasn't happy. He worked twelve hours a day at a well-paying job, played his guitar for the rest of the night in his converted garage, coached my soccer games at the park a few blocks away, played chess with my brother in our remodeled kitchen, watched Star Trek on his huge television, slept in a 40x40-foot bedroom, and had the freedom to do whatever he really wanted to do. We went for family vacations. We had a dog. We had a great house in a great neighborhood. But he wasn't happy.

Nevermind me or my brother, or my mom. He wasn't happy.

My mom worked at the school district for eight hours a day; took care of spoiled little me, my teenage metalhead brother, and my two abused/gothic cousins; kept the huge house clean; had a full dinner on the table before my dad got home; did all the grocery shopping for a six-person family; kept up good social standings with the neighbors; kept everything in line for him; didn't do anything without his permission; didn't ever make him angry. But he wasn't happy.

I chose to live with my mom, because my dad had the tendency to be short-tempered and mean to me because he wasn't happy. We moved into an okay duplex and were lucky enough to get a nice landlady that gave us new carpet, fresh paint, and a good deal. I remember the first night that we spent there. It was dark, and we ate take-out in the empty bedroom, in the duplex that echoed because it had no furniture. I hated that duplex because mom made me change the laundry, and the dryer was in the garage. We did most of the laundry at night. I'm afraid of the dark.

My dad didn't try to talk to me for a full six months. When he finally did, I was so angry at him that I didn't want to see him. I was forced to, because he had visitation rights since he paid child support every month. I think he only gave up custody of me to my mom because he didn't want me. At least, that was the conclusion that my eleven-year-old mind came up with. I believed it for awhile. I hated him, though sometimes I didn't know why. I didn't miss him, because he worked twelve hours a day and the only times I ever got to spend time with him was my soccer practices, where I was expected to be perfection, and because I never was, I got yelled at regularly. He called and whined that he missed me. I threw it back in his face, because that was what he wanted. He was lonely. Good riddance to him.

I became a little shit in my junior high years. For three years, I misbehaved, talked back, was a spoiled brat, lied my ass off, got horrible grades, missed dozens of days of school. In the second semester of my seventh grade year, I missed a straight month of school. I nearly got my mom fined $700, flunked every class that year, and only made it to the eighth grade because my teachers didn't want to keep me. I flunked through eighth grade too. I didn't get any A grades until my sophomore year of high school. And got away with it by guilting my mom. I'm sorry for it now, but at the time, it was my way of getting back at both her and my dad for splitting up. It caused me more trauma than it should've.

I'm 16 now and have a better relationship with my dad. The best I figure why that is, is because he feels enormously guilty for what he wanted. He spends money on me that he doesn't necessarily have, and tells me just about every day that he feels sorry for what he did, and that he's not any happier with his new girlfriend and her kids than he was with us.

That makes me feel good.