22 years and I feel nothing. I didn’t even remember the exact date – but curiosity drove me to go on the internet to see if I could find it a week or so ago. I did. Wednesday, September 10th 1986. The day the relief came, the old fear ended and a new dread took it’s place. But this isn’t a story about the dread. It’s a story about the relief. But mostly, it’s a story about me.
Putting aside the thoughts I have of what “others might think” I just may be able to do a decent job in remembering this – and I should. Something that’s played such a pressing role in the making of “me” deserves to be heard.
So I’ll start over. Wednesday, September 10, 1986 my father died. He was 73 years old. He’d suffered a series of strokes which put him in the hospital. He never got out – and I never visited him.
The last time I saw him was one evening at the funeral home. Before that, who knows. My mother had begged me to at least go see him to pay “my respect” even if I was set against attending the funeral. Fine, I did. [See him that is.] On my way to some house party I had my friend pull over across the street. I went in and talked to the director who pointed out where the body was. I looked in the coffin and thought. “There, I did it. I looked. You’re dead. Now I can tell mom I came.” As I turned to leave the director seemed confused. He must have been trying to reconcile the part where I said I’d come to see my father’s body and then after a brief look turned to leave while not falling to pieces like a good daughter should. Whatever.
That moment bore the equivalence of poking a dead cat with a stick. You know, just making sure it’s not just sleeping and that it’s really dead. Well, he wasn’t sleeping. He was really dead and I was glad.
I’m sure that these few paragraphs have mortified a good chunk of the readership. Some perhaps because it is so unfathomable to hate one’s parents, no matter how angry one is. Others perhaps, because you are now parents yourselves and the horror of being at the end of those crosshairs is far too much to bear. No matter, I am neither and this is my story.
I was 19 when all this took place, rather finally ended. Till then had I lived with both my parents. I was tired. I was tired of the blind rages my father would go into and fling food against the wall because it was the wrong temperature. Tired of him screaming at my mother as an overlord may scream to his slaves for whatever whim bit him. Tired of having to walk on eggshells because he may become angry and fly into a fit of anger which eventually would have him on my mother. Tired of having been turned into an “only child” in the hellhole that was my life because all of my siblings were so much older than me and had been gone for years. Granted, at this point I was too big for him to physically intimidate and we had set some ground rules a couple of years back.
Oh, those ground rules? They came about like this: I was off-track (a year-round school term for those of you not in the know.) I was in my bedroom listening to him scream and argue with my mom in their bedroom. He threatened to get the gun [again] and kill her. I heard struggling/shuffling, doors slamming, etc. I broke. I worked up my courage from all of the rage I held and the door between the bedrooms flew as I threw it open. I screamed, “You FUCKING leave her alone!” (or something to that effect.) But that was it. The pivotal moment. Not only had I cursed at my father, I had used the strongest word possible. With that he turned to me with his intimidation tactic of screaming and threats saying I owed him respect and should not speak to him in that manner. I repeated myself. Once again invoking that seemingly powerful word, I increased my volume: ” I SAID YOU FUCKING LEAVE HER ALONE.” Again I was railed on with threats & screams that he could do what he pleased, what was I going to do about it, etc. Still shaking from my rage I looked at him and in the midst of his tirade calmly said, “Oh really? You touch her and you just see. You have to go to sleep sometime. I WILL kill you.” He was momentarily stunned but then went back to his threats. My response to all of that was, “You just try me.” I left him muttering, stormed out of the house and went to the high school for a while.
I am completely blank on what happened the days following that. I do know that the results were that I ceased speaking to him altogether. This was to the point that there was the militant “request” that I should at least say “good morning” to him and “hello” when I came back from school. If I did that, nothing else would be required by me. Fine, but even that was much too much to bear. I stayed in my room while he lumbered about. I’d exit through the back door. I’d eat my meals in the kitchen so as not to have to withstand his presence. Then when cornered into having to utter one of those greetings the hate would well up in me and flow to him out of every pore. Yea, I hated him. There really is no other word for it. I hated him with every fibre in me. This ritual played itself out for the next 3 years until he was finally gone.
So, once again. Wednesday, September 10, 1986 my father died. It made me glad. The eggshells were gone.
Now here I am. Wednesday, September 10, 2008. It’s been 22 years and I am my father’s daughter. For better or worse I am a direct result of him as we all are direct results of our parents, whether we are aware of it or not. I am acutely aware and am loathe of many of those aspects. I have to work at things every day and mindfully, actively not BE him. It has not been an easy road nor do I think it ever will be. Ironically, the hate dissipated a few years ago. I’m not sure that it spent itself or if I just came into a new understanding of it all. I have actually found myself talking to him as I drive to and from my clients. The most typical thing I say is, “Well, now what? I am the mess you left behind. How do I clean it up???” I don’t say it with hate, anger or blame. It’s a genuine question. I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason. My faith is strong in that belief. Even so, I also know that things aren’t always easy to see for the life lessons they are supposed to be. I think I’ve done an ok job. I want to do better. I want to clean up that mess that is me and more importantly, be sure not to leave one behind.