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I’m sitting in my bluish chair, feet on my ottoman with an old T-shirt covering it — protection from my little orange lion, Simba’s sharp nails.
Driving through L.A. today, I wanted to rip my face from this skull and scream FUCK. Sometimes it’s good to lose your mind for a second. Otherwise, I’ve been doing well — losing weight not for aesthetics, but because of a fatty liver gifted to me by my parents. I’m saving money in my Acorns account — you’d be surprised what that little app can do. I’m selling enough to survive another day.
“Today, act like the version you will become.” Before I even open my eyes, that line rings like a melody, waking up this machine of flesh.
7:55 a.m. — my studio/garage is silent.
8:00 a.m. — the front house is already revving up like a tea kettle on the stove: disagreements, old arguments, past trauma sliding in like, “Good morning, just here to remind you this is you.”
“Roberto, move your van. I’m running late.”
Oh dear old Dad — how sweet to start us off with a good morning. Well… your type of good morning.
“Cat, I’ll walk you in a bit. I’ll be back.” Simba looks at me while cleaning his paws and I think, I wish I was you.
Dad’s wearing his old hat, body leaning left on his cane, glasses sliding down his nose.
“Good morning, Dad.”
“Ehh… oh yeah.”
I smile and go move my white stallion of a van — my workhorse. Thank God for her.
Mom looks stressed.
“Hey, Roberto… I want to ask you if you and your dad can take the van of merchandise to the street because your sister can’t be leaving her car outside. She’s tired of removing her car battery every day.”
And yeah — she removes the battery because there’s a cholo who shows up sometimes to steal batteries and flip them for twenty bucks.
So I understand.
But unloading that van is like a workout at the ghetto Gold’s Gym — it takes up to two hours to offload.
Sister… you’re home all day. I’m not even mad because I get it, life is heavy — but damn. We’re out here sweating in the hot sun. Just a little consideration.
Before the thought even finished, my mom was already talking to my dad.
“Oh no. Oh no, oh no… fuck. Do you know how long it takes us to empty that van? Look at me — my fucking leg hurts. You know the problems I’m having with my mom… fuck… fuck. There’s nothing I can do right… fuck.”
The sobs of a father.
“You haven’t done anything bad.”
“Yes, I have.”
“So have I, Dad. It’s okay. Just do better today.”
We’ve never had the greatest relationship, but I can still see him as a person. Sometimes people carry too much, and it would be nice to be asked, “How are you doing?” before the order of the day.
That doesn’t excuse him either — because he does the same thing to us. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe we can still be the example.
This morning I spoke calm. No yelling. No cursing. No judgment. I put my arm around him.
“It’s cool. You can cry. Relax.”
“Fuck, Roberto… I’m tired. There’s nothing I do well.”
And I didn’t see a father. I saw the boy.
The boy bullied for polio. The boy whose grandmother called him Cojo — the one who limped. A mother who didn’t show love and beat him like that was normal. An 8-year-old kid punished for beans on the stove — beans he was told to watch while she took her daily nap. A kid who wanted to play outside and got yanked back in for an ass-whooping.
“Go home, guys… I have to go inside. Mom’s calling.”
That flashed through my head for a second — not as an excuse for his behavior, but as a reason to treat him the way we all want to be treated.
Later I tried to talk to my mom about the loop. I won’t bore you.
I described what I saw and why it played out the way it did. And somehow… that calm still got interpreted by my sister like I was “against” somebody. Then you get the ignoring, the cold shoulder, the little emotional chess moves.
Sister standing in the hallway…
“Good morning, sis.”
No response.
I guess she’s mad… again. And again. Like always.
And honestly? It’s kind of funny — not because it’s harmless, but because I can finally see the loop.
Here’s what I’m learning: I’m not responsible for people’s interpretations. If you don’t ask me a question, there’s nothing for me to chase. I don’t respond to signals. I respond to communication.
I think a lot of families split for the same reason: we get stuck seeing only ourselves — our feelings, our story, our pain — and we don’t take time to see the room around us. We don’t see impact. We don’t see patterns. We don’t see the other person as a person. We see a combatant. Like we’re all in a coliseum, swinging at symptoms instead of caring for the human underneath.
I can listen. I can love. But I can’t do anyone’s inner work for them. Everybody has to work individually.
So today I’m choosing something simple: I’m stepping out of the arena.
No chasing. No fighting. No proving. Just clarity.
“Dad left past noon… so I guess he wasn’t running that late. Haha.”
Question: What’s a “family loop” you had to step out of?
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