A Dysfunctional Imprint

An imprint. A mold that presses you, and leaves an indelible design forever. I grew up in dysfunction. And yet, as a 16 year old sophmore plugging my ears in my car, waiting for my parents to stop arguing so I can enter the house- I hadn’t yet learned the word “dysfunction.” Nor had I learned that this chaos was imprinting on me as I sat there, ears covered, stomach turning, waiting for the signal- the relief of silence- to finally exit the car.

As a child, I didn’t know my family was dysfunctional. I was still a kid- doing what kids do: going to school, hanging with friends, going to soccer practice. No- I never lay in bed wondering, “is my house dsyfunctional?”

I simply reacted to the dysfunction.
I didn’t know. I wish I knew.
The monumental effect that this daily conflict would have on me for the rest of my life.

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