A house does not a home make. chapter 1

My parents got divorced when i was 5. This isn't something that really differentiates me from the pack. I know that 1 in every 3 people will get a divorce, i am one of many really.

But being 1 of 3 was really the catalyst for everything. I wonder sometimes if my parents knew what they were starting when they met at St. Mikes hospital in Toronto at the age of 16. Stupid question.. who ever knows what their starting.

I only have one memory of them being together. I cant be sure about how old i was when it took place but i remember me and my little brother pat, along with my mom and dad, at a park in Toronto. I was on the monkey bars, my brother was in the sandbox. It was afternoon, sun shinning and my parents were playing catch a couple feet away from me. Even at that age, the sight of them interacting caught me so off guard that the image is still stuck in my brain. The lime green monkey bars, the sandbox just underneath me, the dark green grass, my parents throwing a ball back and forth. Years later i mentioned this moment to my mom, she remembered it too actually. She said it was the day we looked for houses, told me i must have been four. strange what memories seem important enough for your brain to keep.

The divorce never really effected me. Lots of people speculate even now if it was hard for me or not, and i always tell them it was actually a relief to have them apart. At the time my disinterest in the entire thing worried my parents. I guess they thought i was bottling it in or something. They ended up taking me to see a therapist soon after the split. I refused to talk to the woman. I just sat in that white room, with her staring at me all sugar plums and rainbow-like, determined not to talk about my feelings. I remember when she finally got me though.

She asked if i wanted to play with any of the toys she had. I learned later in life this is called play therapy. The therapist figures out how you feel by viewing what you play with and how you play.

I told her i didn't want to play, i asked her if we could just get this over with. Ya, i was 6 and i actually asked her to get it over with, i was brave then apparently. This took place in 1993 and trolls were all the rage then in case you dont remembr. I mean i loved the damn things. i used to have a shit load of them and i would sit in my room by the window rubbing the little jewels in there belly buttons hoping my wishes would come true. Usually my little wishes were trivial stuff like " pleaseeee let my Zia give me permission to buy a fudgsicle tomorrow." ya... i had big dreams.

So the reason i tell you this is because the therapist had a troll pen. The body of the pen had pink and silver glitter inside of it that floated around as you moved the pen from side to side. At the top of the pen was a troll with a tuft of pink hair and a pink jewel in its belly. I wanted that pen soooo bad. So as i'm asking her to move along with the questioning, I'm eyeing this pen. Trying hard not to show her that i want the damn thing. But she noticed... she gave it to me.. and i spilled my heart out to this woman.... i sold out for a troll.

My parents stopped bringing me there after a few weeks Turns out the woman was a horrible therapist.. she kept trying to convince my dad to go back home to my mom everytime he came in. I knew that lady was up to no good the whole time.

On my last visit she gave me this picture book called "Daddy isnt comming home anymore." I made fun of that book for years. Drew moustaches on the mom and horns on the dad. i wont lie to you guys though, stupid book made me cry the firs time i read it, its probably the reason i had to trash the thing. Therapist 1, Connie 0.. guess she got the reaction she was hoping for.