Well, it's a binge of information for YOU and a purge of years of insanity for me. I want to write about something I never ever write about or speak about for that matter.
My real father.
I suppose the only real way is to go back to the very beginning.
I could hear them arguing again. That's all they did. I was probably 6. My bedroom was right next to theirs so I had to be stealthy. I took all my stuffed animals and most prized possessions and stuffed them into my Garfield sleeping bag. I packed up my parakeet and it's cage. I carefully misspelled every word on my note that told them I was leaving until they could stop yelling. I headed out towards the pasture. I hadn't quite worked out how I could carry a bird cage in one hand, a FULL sleeping bag in the other, and still ride my pony to grandmas house, but apparently the note slipped under the door alerted them to my plans and they stopped fighting for the night.
I never EVER faulted my mom for asking for a divorce. Even at 7 I'd say it was the best day of my life. Not that I understood anything, but I did know the yelling would stop. At 7 you still think everything is your fault and you still trust your daddy even if he's an asshole. After they separated, once he came to the door and I answered. Mom was outside (We lived in the country) and he said he wanted to come in. I innocently didn't know any better. He used me to get in the house and while telling me "daddy loves you" type things, he stole a spare key off the fireplace mantle. He used that key to come back to the house when we were gone and rob the house. My mom had always been a stay at home mom and we had no money. She often went without food so that I could eat. He used me and I thought it was my fault because I let him in the house.
Before visitation had been settled he once came to the house demanding to see his daughter. He had been drinking. I was in the bathtub. He kicked the door in. He pushed my mom down and beat her with a frying pan. He ripped all the phone cords out of the walls. I ran in the spare office, locked the door, and called 911. He ran away before they got there. For YEARS I felt guilt over calling the police on my own father. I thought it was all my fault because he just wanted to see me.
When he got his own apartment in town, he always said my mom tried to keep him from me. She never EVER let me miss a weekend. She actually forced me to go. He had no furniture and 2 yellow striped twin mattresses laid on the ground in 1 bedroom. He would force me to sleep in the room with him, but I didn't get to sleep. He would keep me up all night telling me all the awful things he thought about my mother. What a bitch and whore she was even though she was neither of those things. I will not forgive him for stealing my innocence. For doing everything textbook wrong. He put all of his adult problems on my small shoulders and I carried those for years.
When I was 12 I wrote the courts and was granted permission to make my own decisions regarding visitation. My parents (my mom and step-dad) still made me go so that he could never complain. My dad moved to a town about 30 minutes away. Since my visitation was on the weekends, it really cramped his social life. He would go to the bars downtown and lock me in the car until closing time. It wasn't the best art of town. I've never been so scared. I felt bad for being a burden to him.
(As a side note you should know my father is an alcoholic and also a paint sniffer. Ok, well kinda. He owns a body shop and does custom paint and body work along with specializing in firetrucks, school buses, planes, and diesel trucks. He used to brag that he didn't need to wear a mask. That's called getting high in my book. I'm sure he's just "not quite right" because of that.)
He often antagonized my fears. He openly mocked me for being afraid to fly for the 1st time. After my family was in a debilitating car wreck (My step-dad broke his neck, my mom dislocated her hip and was in a hospital bed for months, and I broke my back) my real father and I went to Carmel for a weekend. I was probably 16? He took the scenic route back and told me it was time to face my fears. He proceeded to cross over the yellow line and drive on the wrong side of the road. Turn after turn on that winding mountain road I screamed and I cried and begged for him to not do this. He called me weak and said I needed to get over it. I finally hit him and yanked the wheel. RIGHT then a diesel truck came around the corner and we skidded off the road, barely avoiding the mountain. He cried like a bitch at our near death experience and I'll never forgive him for that.
Sometimes he would hit me with an opened up wire hanger. I don't even remember why, but he was often physical like that. When I cried he would tickle me. I'm EXTREMELY ticklish and even though it's painful it makes me laugh. Even though I was crying, he would say "See, you're laughing, quit being a baby, everything is fine" To this day, I don't allow people to tickle me. 1/2 way through I always freak out and feel like I'm being manipulated.
During my summers I would stay at his house. He admitted he never wanted a girl. I had to sleep on the floor and get up at the crack of dawn. To wake me up, he would shove me with his foot and them make me fix breakfast for him. Then I would go to work painting and sanding at the body shop. On my breaks he wanted me to go back to the house and bake cookies for him and his workers. It was a weird mix between having to be the boy he always wanted, but needing to know my role as the good little woman. I hated it.
Although he RENTED a 700 square foot apartment that literally used to be a cow barn, when I got my first apartment, he came to my house and white gloved the entire thing. I'll never forget what started out as pride in establishing myself and ended in humiliating disappointment and failure.
When I announced my engagement he DEMANDED to be the one to walk me down the isle. I had asked my (step)DAD. My father made such a stink, my dad stepped aside and said, let him walk you. I told my father, I don't want you to touch me and there will be NO kissing on the cheek. He showed up early, tapped the keg, got wasted, drug me down the isle with such a tight grip on my arm I had bruises on my inner arm and you should see the look on my face in the picture where he's kissing me on the cheek. Fucking drunk asshole.
When I was divorced and disfellowshipped, the BEST thing that ever came from that exile was him not being allowed to talk to me. He would still call. He asked me if I had "fallen to drugs?" (No dad, sorry, my life's quota for drunk paint sniffing losers has already been met) Did I have an STD yet? I don't even know what to say about that one. I'm in the middle of a divorce, I just had to sell my newly built house, my ex kept the dogs and even the bread maker, and none of my friends or family are allowed to speak to me and I AM TRULY at my most vulnerable and alone and you call with your reassuring words that I'm a whore? Fuck you... F.U.C.K. Y.O.U.!
Time and time and time and time again, I told myself Marisa, that is your father. You have to love him. What sort of horrible person are you to not be a part of his life? I subjected myself to insults about my looks, my hair, my weight, my friends, and my home and I took it and I went back for more so that he could never fault me for denying him his right to be my father. There were moments where I thought he had changed. We would have a nice dinner, a lucid (and possibly) sober conversation, and I would immediately default to the THE GLASS IS HALF FULL mentality and think it would be different, he would be better... In between everything I've typed I thought that. I doubted myself. I gave him a million chances. But I can't do it anymore. I have always had trouble setting boundaries. I have always doubted myself. I didn't want anyone to think I was mean or wrong or bad. He loves me so much he says. He misses me he says. He wants me to be a part of his life he says.
After my reinstatement (He remarried about 10 years ago) he and his wife invited me over for dinner. I begrudgingly went and I fell right back into the same trap. He looked old. He looked sad. I experienced INTENSE guilt over my own bitterness and negative feelings towards him. Maybe he's different now..? I shouldn't feel like I do. I wouldn't want someone to feel about me the way I feel about him. I should make more of an effort...
NO.
And you know what's sick? As I re-read this, I keep thinking I shouldn't post this. What if he reads this? His feelings would be so hurt! I'm doubting again as I type this.
NO.
Sorry dad - I can't do it anymore. My life has to be on my terms now. I have to protect myself and my sanity. Do it to me once, shame on you, do it to me twice (or a thousand times) and it's a shame on ME...
I've now written the longest blog ever documenting a LIFETIME of mental, emotional, and physical abuse that cannot and should not be forgotten OR forgiven.
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