Dad
There's a child somewhere outside, screaming and screaming MOMMY MOOOOOMMMMY at the top of her lungs, down the street somewhere, perhaps on the next. The houses so close together, like cutout gingerbread men on a cookie sheet, lend odd acoustics to the neighborhood.
Her tone fits my evening.
I was fine, perhaps a little nauseous, but maybe it was just the coffee I drank, until I watched the DVD of The Virgin Suicides I had received as a Christmas gift from the ex's sister and hadn't even opened yet. I saw the movie once before and remembered the dreamy feel, the pseudohallucinogenic high from the soundtrack from Air. I knew it was likely to make me melancholy. The father in it, trying to deal with his first daughter's suicide, reminds me so much of my own father. He doesn't know what to say, to do, how to cope. He almost reaches out, then pulls back into a statement about baseball when their priest comes to comfort them. Reserved, stone-faced throughout when dealing with difficult issues.
My own father behaves the same way in trying to understand how his son could be a rapist and his daughter so fragmented, so broken. He doesn't know how to deal with me except when I'm a shiny loving person, or a needful daughter. My mother tells me, "You know, HE'S having a hard time with this too," meaning my father. I know. I wouldn't want to be in that place either. Of the two positions, I actually think I'd prefer my own, believe it or not. While it can be a road filled with stones and ruts, knowing that you raised a rapist--the questions: Where did my parenting go wrong? What warning signs did I miss? How can I handle this now? Can I fix it or should I leave it to sort itself out?--has to hurt, make you doubt yourself and your place in life and in fact your entire life thus far. I have sympathy for him.
I also have anger.
I've never asked why he didn't protect me; he didn't know, honestly. I never gave a hint. But when I was so suicidal for so many years, when he saw the evidence of my acting out, my painting my face in swirls of colored chalk, the lowered grades, the scars from self-mutiliation, why didn't he ask, just once, why? What is making you this way? How could he not notice that he was so close to losing his youngest?
Finally, when my cousins in Kansas finally said that my brother had attempted--not succeeded--with them, he asked. And I knew he still wasn't expecting the answer I gave. His silence after my own testimonial was the longest in my mind, if not actually in real time. He didn't know what to say then. Five years later he still doesn't. His first comment after the relevation was a question: "Is this why you don't date any guys?" Well, Dad, did you ever notice how I didn't hug my uncles either? How I pulled away from you? From everyone?
The last time he said anything was two years ago as of this coming April 1, the day of my maternal grandmother's funeral. He and my mother and I and E sat in the pew waiting for the ceremony to start. I had loved my grandmother, but her death was slow in coming, and by the time her release came I was more numb than grief-stricken. I sat dry-eyed in the pew and stared straight ahead. I knew my brother would be there. I didn't expect him to ask to sit in our pew. My father then at least had the foresight to ask my mother to ask me if he could sit with us, and honored my cold no. That is also the last time I saw my brother by my own choice. When my paternal grandfather in Kansas died less than a month later, my father asked if I wanted to attend. I refused. I knew my brother would be there also, and he was closer to Grandpa Ravens than I had been. I spent his funeral's evening crying in bed alone instead.
To be fair, I don't know how to talk about it to him either. A couple awkward attempts, a start, a halt. I don't want to hurt him any more than he already is. I've never told him the details. I never told him my memories, the phantom physical pain where I was violated and bruised, the flashbacks, the panic attacks, the self-hate, the waves of rage. I told him on confession night that my brother never penetrated me. I spared him.
My God, Dad, you walked in on him making a move once, when he was on my bed at night. You never asked how he broke the bed and made the noise you heard and came to investigate. You left me there with him again that night. YOU LEFT ME THERE WITH HIM. You walked back out; did you never suspect?
You knew how he hurt the cats, especially when they were in heat. Taking sticks, poking them in sensitive areas. Did you never suspect then?
Do you know now that the three biggest warning signs for a sociopath are starting fires, torturing animals, and pathological lying? He demonstrated all three from early in life.
You just sent me a gift of a Minolta camera and film. Thank you. I love pictures, mine or others'. Sometimes I wonder if his gifts come truly out of love or out of guilt. I feel bad taking gifts anyway; the possibility of hidden agendas worsens it.
I love you, Dad. I know you're doing your best. I know this is hard for all of us. But one of my last remaining issues is with you. I've dealt with the shame, the guilt. But how do I handle yours as well?
Her tone fits my evening.
I was fine, perhaps a little nauseous, but maybe it was just the coffee I drank, until I watched the DVD of The Virgin Suicides I had received as a Christmas gift from the ex's sister and hadn't even opened yet. I saw the movie once before and remembered the dreamy feel, the pseudohallucinogenic high from the soundtrack from Air. I knew it was likely to make me melancholy. The father in it, trying to deal with his first daughter's suicide, reminds me so much of my own father. He doesn't know what to say, to do, how to cope. He almost reaches out, then pulls back into a statement about baseball when their priest comes to comfort them. Reserved, stone-faced throughout when dealing with difficult issues.
My own father behaves the same way in trying to understand how his son could be a rapist and his daughter so fragmented, so broken. He doesn't know how to deal with me except when I'm a shiny loving person, or a needful daughter. My mother tells me, "You know, HE'S having a hard time with this too," meaning my father. I know. I wouldn't want to be in that place either. Of the two positions, I actually think I'd prefer my own, believe it or not. While it can be a road filled with stones and ruts, knowing that you raised a rapist--the questions: Where did my parenting go wrong? What warning signs did I miss? How can I handle this now? Can I fix it or should I leave it to sort itself out?--has to hurt, make you doubt yourself and your place in life and in fact your entire life thus far. I have sympathy for him.
I also have anger.
I've never asked why he didn't protect me; he didn't know, honestly. I never gave a hint. But when I was so suicidal for so many years, when he saw the evidence of my acting out, my painting my face in swirls of colored chalk, the lowered grades, the scars from self-mutiliation, why didn't he ask, just once, why? What is making you this way? How could he not notice that he was so close to losing his youngest?
Finally, when my cousins in Kansas finally said that my brother had attempted--not succeeded--with them, he asked. And I knew he still wasn't expecting the answer I gave. His silence after my own testimonial was the longest in my mind, if not actually in real time. He didn't know what to say then. Five years later he still doesn't. His first comment after the relevation was a question: "Is this why you don't date any guys?" Well, Dad, did you ever notice how I didn't hug my uncles either? How I pulled away from you? From everyone?
The last time he said anything was two years ago as of this coming April 1, the day of my maternal grandmother's funeral. He and my mother and I and E sat in the pew waiting for the ceremony to start. I had loved my grandmother, but her death was slow in coming, and by the time her release came I was more numb than grief-stricken. I sat dry-eyed in the pew and stared straight ahead. I knew my brother would be there. I didn't expect him to ask to sit in our pew. My father then at least had the foresight to ask my mother to ask me if he could sit with us, and honored my cold no. That is also the last time I saw my brother by my own choice. When my paternal grandfather in Kansas died less than a month later, my father asked if I wanted to attend. I refused. I knew my brother would be there also, and he was closer to Grandpa Ravens than I had been. I spent his funeral's evening crying in bed alone instead.
To be fair, I don't know how to talk about it to him either. A couple awkward attempts, a start, a halt. I don't want to hurt him any more than he already is. I've never told him the details. I never told him my memories, the phantom physical pain where I was violated and bruised, the flashbacks, the panic attacks, the self-hate, the waves of rage. I told him on confession night that my brother never penetrated me. I spared him.
My God, Dad, you walked in on him making a move once, when he was on my bed at night. You never asked how he broke the bed and made the noise you heard and came to investigate. You left me there with him again that night. YOU LEFT ME THERE WITH HIM. You walked back out; did you never suspect?
You knew how he hurt the cats, especially when they were in heat. Taking sticks, poking them in sensitive areas. Did you never suspect then?
Do you know now that the three biggest warning signs for a sociopath are starting fires, torturing animals, and pathological lying? He demonstrated all three from early in life.
You just sent me a gift of a Minolta camera and film. Thank you. I love pictures, mine or others'. Sometimes I wonder if his gifts come truly out of love or out of guilt. I feel bad taking gifts anyway; the possibility of hidden agendas worsens it.
I love you, Dad. I know you're doing your best. I know this is hard for all of us. But one of my last remaining issues is with you. I've dealt with the shame, the guilt. But how do I handle yours as well?