What Was the Rush? / Reflections on a Toxic Upbringing
Introduction
Today, while browsing a real estate website, I came across an en-suite for a master bathroom. Itâs something Iâve always wanted, and it triggered memories of my fatherâs frustrations about not having one. He often compared himself to others, feeling envious of his brother-in-lawâs home, which prompted him to take on an ambitious project: turning half of his bedroom into a walk-in closet and bathroom. He decided to tackle this endeavor alone, armed with tools he had accumulated over the years â many of which were duplicates. The house became a chaotic scene, with tools and construction materials scattered everywhere. My father would misplace a tool, buy a replacement, then find the original again, all while claiming it was somehow our fault â the children â even though we rarely touched his tools unless ordered to put them away.
A man sitting on the floor surrounded by flooring in boxes, reading an instruction manual with his hand on his forehead, suggesting frustration or exacerbation.
Chaos Under Construction
Building the bathroom and closet became a drawn-out saga that lasted for years. My fatherâs bedroom was directly above the TV room, which meant there was no ceiling in the TV room until he completed all the plumbing. This added to the ongoing chaos of our household. Tools and construction supplies filled every nook and cranny. My siblings and I often joked (only to each other and never near father) about how any empty space in the house would inevitably be filled with something â often junk.
The landing between our bedrooms was a disaster zone, cluttered with items we had to navigate daily just to get in and out of our rooms. It was a fire hazard, yet it remained that way for months. Still, our rooms were our sanctuaries, places where we could exercise some control over our environment â until he decided to build that damn closet.
This is how the TV room frequently looked, except there was no ceiling. Just add a couch, a desk with a computer, and a TV, of course.
The Damn Closet
I was around 12 when my father emptied the two closets in his room, clearing out the accumulated junk. In hindsight, it seemed like my parents were hoarders. They stuffed boxes full of clutter and piled them in my sisterâs room, which was larger than mine. Their clothing was hung on rolling clothing racks â three of these racks were rolled into my room and shoved under my loft bed, effectively taking up half of my personal space. My desk, which I had carefully organized, became a victim of this invasion; my belongings tumbled to the floor in disarray as they moved the racks in.
Something like this
âBecause it wouldnât look very niceâ
Then came the instructions. They announced that they would come into my room anytime they needed clothing. The clothes were to stay there indefinitely, and my room would now be referred to as their closet until their new one was built. I was not to complain about it. I BEGGED them to leave the clothes on the landing area, which they had finally cleared. It made more sense this way; they could access their clothes without invading my space and privacy. The answer was a simple, resolute NO, and their reason?.
âBecause it wouldnât look very nice,â they insisted.
This infuriated me. How could they prioritize appearances over my feelings? The chaos in the TV room, the constant mess and construction debris piling up around the house â none of that seemed to matter to them. I felt a swell of resentment as I considered that if a guest were to come over, we would spend days cleaning to present a polished image, but they couldnât spare me the inconvenience of their clothing on the landing? If guests were a concern, couldnât they just roll the racks away temporarily?
I held my tongue, knowing that voicing my thoughts would lead to punishment â yelling, grounding, and more, possibly violence. The unspoken rule was clear: never address the elephant in the room. The elephant being that the image they worked so hard to maintain was not grounded in reality. We didnât have a nice house; it was chaotic and poorly maintained.
This is what our house would have looked like on a daily basis.
The Real Reason
I believe my parents put their clothes in my room to shut the door on a never-ending project. My dad started it despite a full-time job, four kids, and other hobbies. My mom was home all day on disability, yet she had to live with his decision. She hated change, and seeing clothes in the hallway would have been a constant reminder of this unnecessary project, which would likely take years to complete. In her delusions, imagining my room as a luxurious walk-in closet was easier than confronting the reality of a project that had no end in sight.
This is a representation of speaking to my mother. She wanted so badly to live a in her delusions. She would deny, viametly, wrongdoings and injustices within the family. Sheâd rewrite stories to suite her force narritive that all was good. It was frustrating and heartbreaking speaking with her. She would not help or change the situation, she would simply change the description of the situation to make it easier to ignore.
My father, on the other hand, was driven by his ego. He didnât want the reminder either, but for him, it was more about pride. He viewed himself as too successful to need a hallway to store clothes. He rarely considered our feelings â everything revolved around his comfort. Any decision he made was about his happiness, not ours. He often reminded us we should be grateful for the roof over our heads and the minimal food and clothing he provided.
He was always angry, even when happy, he was always on the verge of explosive anger.
Emotional Reaction
I cried so much after the clothes were moved into my room. I was 12, just beginning to develop a sense of self, and my room was my sanctuary. Suddenly, it was invaded. My older sister came to talk to me when she saw I was upset. I told her how unfair and invasive it felt, and her response was dismissive: âStop complaining. You should see how much stuff they put in our middle sisterâs room. This is nothing. Get over it.â Her words cut deep. I felt even more alone. Growing up in an abusive household, my siblings and I typically supported each other when things were unfair. This time, though, I had no one on my side, and it left me feeling completely unheard.
I felt so alone and unheard.
Retaliations
I retaliated in two ways. First, I rearranged my room. My mom had said, âItâs so great! We can walk right in and access the clothes like a real closet!â That was true. My bed was against the back wall, making the room feel spacious. But I didnât want my room to feel like a perfect closet, so I moved my bed to a different wall, making it harder to get to the clothes. I even used the clothing racks as walls to create a little desk area. My mom asked me twice to move it back, but I refused. I was 12, feeling petty, and wanted some control.
My second act of defiance was writing a list of rules. It went something like this:
Do NOT enter without knocking first!
Wait for me to answer before coming in!
Be quiet and donât wake me if Iâm sleeping in MY room.
Etcetera
Like this but with the rules, I also coloured it and made it pretty
Before my parents could see the note, my oldest sister came to me again and told me to take it down. That she has made bad decisions like this when she was angry too. That it wonât help or do what I think it will. I understand what she meant, really. That my father, the narcissistic tyrant would see the list, rip it down, yell at me using colourful, hurtful and aggressive language to express that in HIS house, he could do what he wanted and that I, a mere child who has and is nothing without him, will NOT tell HIM what to do.
However, her advice hurt me more. I could not understand why she was so adamant about disagreeing with me. I just wanted to be heard, and I felt that no one was taking me seriously, respecting me or my privacy.
In his mind, he was not physically abusive because he did not leave bruises.
The Bathroom
This took years to build. Multiple evenings where I (and I believe my siblings as well) would have to stand there and help, hold buckets, pass tools, or be around âjust in caseâ. Evenings hearing the yelling and swearing out of frustration, knowing not to get too close or that I would be next. Knowing that if he asked for something by barking orders aggressively but vaguely, we had to do everything we possibly could to do what he wanted without daring to ask for clarification. Iâd tidy the TV room up while he worked so that he didnât look around and declare a whole family cleaning session of the entire house. I was always so focused on preventing his outbursts, believing him when he blamed me.
It always felt like walking on eggshells around him. You never knew when and why he would explode. It was terrifying and exhausting.
Final Thoughts
After reflecting on all the chaos, injustice, and constant tension, I realized something. By the time my dad finally finished the bathroom, I was 17 and the last kid left living at home. I was the only one using the shared bathroom, while he and my mom enjoyed the bathroom heâd spent years building for themselves. The spare room next to mine had been turned into a storage/guest room.
It hit me then: this would have been the perfect time for them to tackle that project. One teenager still at home, with an entire spare room where they could have easily stored their clothes during construction and even set up a temporary closet. Instead, they dragged this project out for years, during the busiest and most chaotic years of our lives.
Now, I havenât spoken to my parents or siblings in over eight years, so I donât know exactly what their situation is anymore. Iâm pretty sure none of my siblings live with them now, and theyâre likely empty nesters. But from what I know about them, I doubt they ever considered the irony of it all â the years spent building that bathroom and closet, only for them to be the ones who benefit from it now. They probably rewrote the story in their minds, painting themselves as selfless parents who sacrificed for ungrateful kids that just didnât understand what it took to provide.
Was it worth it? Do they even understand the depth of this issue? The irony of the situation? What was the damn rush?
Sidenote:
This is my first blog post, and Iâm using this platform to reflect on my childhood. Going no-contact at 17 was the best decision I ever made. My life has only improved since then. I welcome any feedback on my writing or format â thanks for reading!
