Today was a rough day. I'm being stalked by a 50-something who thinks just because they're under cover of the internet that makes their actions excusable. And through their meddling, they sent something to my father which really hurt him. For all of the things I've witnessed/experience through my father's abuse (and yes, it was abuse no matter which way you slice it, no matter how unaccountable he is for his actions), I still love him. I cried today because my father was hurting-- my abuser, my oppressor, the man who made me live in shame and fear for such a long time. I cried because I was being made to feel shameful over my appreciation for the freedom I've gained since he moved out. For years, I found that the safest thing for me to do was hide in my room to protect myself... sometimes just seeing me made him angry. And sometimes not seeing me, made him just as angry. But I would lock myself up in my room for days, only coming out for necessities until he'd threaten to break my doors down, or he would simply berate me through them. His friends, these people finding and stalking every account I have online, only know one side to him: they know the actor, the jovial and all-loving man. The man who sold cars every day for thirty years, who had to be personable and charming because it was his job. Not even my older sister and brother know the extent of the abuse we suffered at home... all they know is that my mom is a bad woman, and I'm ungrateful and that he is the best father in the world. And I let them think that, I spare their feelings and their illusions, because it's easier for everyone that way. Even if I did tell them (my sister knows some of what has happened), I doubt they'd believe it.
I'm sorry he was hurt, but I'm not sorry to live without seeing him every day. I would never go back to living with him, even if he had medication and took it every day, even without all the stressors in the world to set him off. I know who and what he is, and I could never trust him with my safety because he could not protect me from himself. I can't apologize for my freedom.
My friend Leah sent me this poem:
"Deep in a meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay,
And when it's morning again, they'll wash away
Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you."
She goes on to write:
"None of this is easy, but it is worth it. Freedom is worth everything. If I could, I'd bear your scar; the weight on your shoulders and let you cry on mine for however long you needed. I promise, it'll get get easier to move on. It'll get easier to breathe. We are bred survivors, we'll die survivors. This is my letter to you, my friend; the best way to describe how I'm here for you. I'm here always, because I know exactly what it is like."
Sometimes people think that because something doesn't leave a physical mark, it doesn't exist or it wasn't severe. I may not have had the bruises as proof of my suffering, but I am ripe with scars. My mother had an abusive father growing up. While my uncle was here, I heard horror story after horror story of what my grandma endured, my sweet mother and her brother and sister endured. And all he could say to my mom, "You're just like mom was; scared and beaten down, scarred. How could you not see that?"
I love my oppressor and abuser. When he had night terrors that sent him running and screaming through the house like a child, I stayed awake to protect to him from the monsters I couldn't see. I cooled his face down with a damp cloth, hoping to calm him. I stood guard, crying and frightened until the sun broke and my mom took over my watch. I slept in the same room, just in case those demons came back to take him again.We didn't have the same luxury of comfort; no one took care of us when our nightmare was physically in the same room as us. We were made to sacrifice and alter our lives and behavior to his abuse and to his illnesses.
Working through this shame is hard, when it's being forced back onto my shoulders by people who don't know what it was like or by people who honestly has no reason to be involved. It's hard when his sadness begs me to re-evaluate my choice of freedom... I love my father; I love him despite his actions. And that somehow makes it worse.
I worry that we won't reconcile and he'll get sick and die. He's old, he's sickly... I worry. And I know I wouldn't be able to live with myself if he died while we were at such odds. But I also know that if I force myself to reconcile with him now, it won't be true and I will still resent him.
I'm going to start seeing a therapist, as well as joining an abuse support group with my mother. I'm hoping that this will all help me to realize forgiveness and to remember my own strength.
My mom says I just need to find my canoe and to get in it. And she's right.
Sidenote: I was originally going to post a challenge, but I'll start that tomorrow instead).
