Prologue: 

As soon as I got home, Mom was barking orders at me. That's how it's always been. I'd love to tell her to stick it where the sun don't shine, but I just don't see that as an option. 

In front of people, in front of her court ordered psychiatrist, she plays the victim. That's definitely not the case. She knows right from wrong, she knows what she's doing. She even has her psychiatrist comforting her, telling her that none of it is her fault, that she's done nothing wrong. 

She has control issues, doctor! I'd like to tell her.  

She is psychotic. In fact, I've come up with a diagnosis myself. 

Anti-Social Personality Disorder. 

It just seems to roll of the tongue, doesn't it? 

I learned a lot about it when I took that psychology class two or so summers ago at the college. And her added OCD doesn't help much either. I guess that's why Dad left us six years ago. 

*** 

I was eleven and had been in the living room, watching Invader Zim. I was always a quiet kid. In fact, my whole family, which consisted of Mom, Dad, and I, were quiet people, aside from the occasional few hours of yelling each day. 

As I was laying there on the couch, laughing and giggling at the funny little character on the TV, Daddy came into the room, Mommy following right behind him, telling him to get out, that she didn't know how she could have possibly fallen in love with such a loser. I was only eleven, but even I knew that that one had hit below the belt. 

The yelling suddenly stopped after she said that, and I watched as Daddy drug his lanky, awkward body over to the couch, where I had been sitting. 

He grabbed the remote that was between us and turned the TV off, while Mommy watched everything he did, intently, arms crossed, and a confused expression on her gentle face. Then, he turned to me, his blue-eyed, blonde-haired princess, and asked me the question that would forever impact my life. 

"Babydoll, you're such a smart girl. This has been coming for a long time. I've tried, I really have." I saw him look at Mommy, whom I'd always adored, with a sort of hatred in his eyes. I think that's when I began to realize what was coming. 

"Mommy and Daddy can't live together anymore, baby," he said. 

"But what about me, Papa?" Sometimes I would call him 'Papa', and it became more frequent as I got older. We still have no idea where I got it from. 

"That's exactly what we wanted to ask you about, Princess." 

Mommy covered her face with her hand, as if she know what was coming next, which I didn't understand. I had no idea what he was getting at. 

"Sweetie," he began. "You're going to have to choose: do you want to live with Mommy, or do you want to live with Daddy?" I heard the inflection in his voice when he said 'Daddy', as if trying to urge me to say what he wanted to hear. 

I still couldn't wrap my little eleven-year-old mind around what he was asking, or why he was even asking it.  

All I remember are the words that poured out of my mouth: "I want my mommy." 

It didn't take long for me to see the disappointment in his face. His eyes seemed extra-shiny, and I knew he was on the verge of tears. Mom watched as I sat down in his lap, hugged him, and looked him in the eyes and said, "I love you Daddy! Don't cry! You can come visit Mommy and me whenever you want!"  

I was young and naive enough to believe it when he said, "Alright, baby. Daddy is okay," and gave me a fake, sort of sad smile that I would never forget... 

Author's Note: I haven't written anything in a very long time, nor have I posted anything for over six months. Ha ha! Just a warning that I'm not up to par with my writing skills like most of you are. I'm home sick today and decided to post this. [I'm not really feeling the title I've given it, so a new title is definitely needed.] I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it; it is, in a way, a memoir, which makes it a little touchy and personal, but it's also partly fiction. Feel free to review.