When the ego is endangered, repression occurs. It forgets or blocks unpleasant feelings unconsciously. During times of stress or worry, the ego may revert to an earlier stage, which is known as regression. My ego defense mechanisms are these two.

I remember my previous school counselor, whom I went to visit every time I'd find myself unable to do anything during class, such as participate, write, and engage with kids my age during group discussions in class. We didn't have the luxury to afford to set me up for an appointment to see a therapist.

I remember being an outgoing kid when I was little. When my dad chose to leave my mom, I think that's when everything changed for me. I was hopeful at first. I think that as kids, we are constantly hopeful, which is why I was hoping that my dad would return, and he did, but only stayed for no more than three weeks.

When he left that night, six years ago, and didn't return for such a long time, he had that look in his eyes, as if he was holding my mom's soul captive with his piercing gaze. He stood beside the door, his disgust masked under those brown eyes, staring at her. He didn't utter a single word for us to know that he wanted to leave, yet again. He also didn't utter a single word to try and explain why he wanted to leave again—any sort of reason to know why.

I think it was when I first learned to despise someone, particularly my own father, as a kid. Hatred developed in silence, and it grew on me.

Unlike my father, I was never the sort to hurl things around when he was angry or stressed about something. Unlike my mother, I was never the sort to deny when I warned her that dad would leave again and again and again, as he always did.

I embraced my bottle—a safe refuge—from which repression and regression flowed as I continuously poured in silence. I'd empty it every now and again, just when I needed to make space for more or felt near bursting.

Although, these past couple of days, my bottle had been full. I sometimes wonder if I'm slowly becoming my mother, who is in denial because she refuses to face reality for what it is because it is too painful to acknowledge. Maybe I'm in denial most of the time, especially when my father is there. I scoffed at the idea that he had matured and truly wanted to stay for good because he gave me no reason to believe that he could and would, for once, stay true to his words.

❀

I rushed straight up the stairs to my bedroom, kicked off my shoes, and slumped on the bed the instant I stepped foot inside our house. My eyes instinctively closed as drowsiness took precedence over hunger.

I thought I had drifted off to sleep for an hour or two, but I awoke at exactly nine o'clock in the morning the next day. It was great to have gotten some proper rest. I put my phone on the bedside table and grabbed a wire to connect to the outlet and charge my phone, which had been completely drained for almost seven days now.

I made my way down the stairs, and strangely enough, I'm feeling rather energized today—even cheerful. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest as I approached the kitchen and saw my aunt standing there.

"Good morning. You seem to be having a great start to your day, I assume," Aunt Kendra smiles at the sight of me as she stirs a bowl that seems to be a pancake batter mixture. I gave her no reaction and just stared at her.

"Pancakes or waffles?"

"Either?"

"How about both, since either of us can't decide which?" She asks, more like says. She didn't need my approval because she already brought the pan and waffle maker out of the cabinet.

I haven't seen my aunt in a long time here at our place. She and I both share the same hatred toward my dad, which is why I felt like she was the only one I could confide in when it came to talking about or expressing my feelings without feeling bad about it.

I watched her pour the batter into the waffle maker and closed the lid as I stood on the opposite of the counter, pulling the chair to sit.

"I heard about the latest news about your father," she says as she turns on the heat on the stove and placed the pan over it.

She quickly made her way to the fridge to grab some butter, sliced a spoonful, and tapped it on the pan, watching it melt before pouring the batter. I looked at her as she turns around to grab a spatula and waits for the pancake to be cooked before flipping them.

"What about it?" I said, suddenly feeling my energy draining from the thought of having to talk about my dad.

Aunt Kendra looks at me, as if studying the expression on my face, "You don't seem to be happy about it," she says, "As much as you know I hate your father the way I know you hate him too, I'm honestly surprised to find myself grateful for him."

I scoffed, "I mean, that's the least he could do, right?"

Aunt Kendra placed the spatula on the countertop. The way she rested it there demanded to grab my attention, and she did.

She sighs and I wanted to say that I also feel the same disappointment from her, only to expect the opposite from the way she sighed at me, "How long can you hold much hatred towards your own father?"

"Are you asking me that question so that you can help me change the way I feel towards him? No thanks, I'm good."

"It's a question that I expect you to answer truthfully."

There was a momentary pause on her end that reached me, leaving me a few seconds to wonder.

I shake my head, "I'm not sure. Although, I'm thinking six more years," I smile and it seemed devilish at the back of my mind.

"I don't expect you to forgive your father for what he did any time soon, and neither do I. People are quick to hate someone for anything they did that did not meet our moral standards."

I let her speak first and then kept silent for the rest of the conversation. I imagined Lauren and my aunt's sessions to be similar to this. This must be what Lauren receives from her: a sense of words that are either soothing or fuels the hatred fire more to and of the soul.

"You and I, as well as the rest of the people in this world, have all done something and have wronged someone at some point. But let me ask you this: do you believe that hating your father for as long as you want can satisfy your inner self for the wrongs he committed against you, Jonathan, and your mother?"

I only wanted to get myself some breakfast. I didn't expect my morning to turn out to be like this.

I gaze at her, unable to provide an honest answer to her question. What knowledge must I need to gain in order to formulate the correct response that will satisfy both of us?

"No," I answered simply.

She nodded her head in silence before taking the waffle out of the waffle maker and the pancake from the pan and placing it on a plate before sliding it towards me.

"I hope you do find the peace that you are constantly searching for out from that feeling you are holding against your own father," she says as she holds my gaze. "Now, eat up," she added as she hands me a fork and passes me the maple syrup.

If only I knew how to let go of my grudges against others. However, I can't dispute that my aunt was correct in her prior statements. It simply takes a long time for me to reflect on both the surface and the deeper sentiments of my being.

People around me appear to be forgiving, but I can't seem to find myself doing so. It seemed like betraying the child in me who grew up to despise my father by attempting to free him from the confines of his feelings, which his own mother can't seem to listen to or acknowledge, which must be why I grew up to only hold onto that feeling and with much conviction that I am slowly realizing that never needed to.

Aunt Kendra pats my head, bringing me back to that time when I was a child, crying over a scar on my left knee from bike racing with our neighbors on top of the hill of the park. She gives me a reassuring smile, one that I'll never forget and that will always offer me solace, as if telling me that everything would be okay because sometimes, we just have to allow ourselves; to be fine, to be alright.