in hiding

It was another early morning, getting ready for school. And another car window broken. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. It had become a normal thing, really. My step-dad would go out to the car, 5:30 am on a weekday, ready to begin his commute to Indy and find the smashed-in front windshield of our 1980 Pontiac Sunbird.
The usual method of destruction would be a cinderblock. Sometimes a two-by-four. And sometimes it would look like a baseball bat. Like the one my step-dad kept in the bedroom of our trailer. Just in case he felt like coming inside. Just in case smashing the car windows wasn’t enough.
We always knew who had done it. And we were always hiding. Always trying to get more protection, another restraining order. Moving further into the recesses of the trailer park. Trying to become more and more invisible.
My step-dad’s last name is Smith. Now my name as well, it seems perfectly fitting. Like a name for the witness protection program, it has no meaning at all. A default name. It could just as well be “Blank.” That’s what we were always striving for. To become more and more bland. Blank. Everyman. Trying to blend into the background of normal American society. Trying to vanish.
Maybe that’s my problem. I spent so many years playing pretend, trying to hide, trying to calm the waves. I got good at being the eye of the storm. I spent so many years holding my breath, now it feels strange to gulp. To yell. To demand what I’m owed. To take up space.
I’m still learning how.