Today, I found out the man I grew up calling "Daddy" passed away from lung cancer over the weekend. I received the information in a private message on Facebook, because the person who told me did not know another way to reach me. I read and re-read the message waiting for some emotion to surface and claim me, but none came.
Some may say I was numb. Bad news does that to some people. They hear something so tragic or sad that their emotional center shuts down and they feel nothing. Until later, of course, when the emotional flood gates burst and the many stages of grief start wrestling for their rightful place in your subconscious.
But this wasn't that.
I didn't feel numb. I just felt nothing.
Let me explain...
I was 14 years old when I left home. My parents said I ran away, but I left with the full awareness of my actions and the absolute intention of never going back. I was determined not to explain my reasons. After all, my mother had informed me on several occasions, in a hushed voice, "Bad things DON'T happen in MY family!"
The attitude was that we shouldn't air our dirty laundry for others to see. That's just not how it was done.
So, the fact that:
- I was adopted -- gloss over that unless we're giving a medical history.
- My biological mother was a half-sister to my adopted father -- shhh... no one needs that information (including me, by the way. I found out during an argument my older sister was having with our mother).
- My much older sister showed me how to smoke a joint when I was 7 -- no, no. That didn't happen.
- My adopted mother hit me so hard she broke her hand -- now, now, she promised not to tell anyone how much I had hurt her.
- My adopted father came into my room at night to "teach me" what boys would try to do to me -- well, we just won't talk about that, and it will go away.
Right?
So I left home. I was determined I would not have to endure another late night visit, but I would not talk about it. No one would believe me anyway, right?
I was caught, of course. Very few 14-year-olds have enough knowledge to actually survive on their own. I went to a shelter, went to court, then went to live with my brother and his wife as a ward of the state. I was enrolled in a new school, registered in court-mandated counseling, and enjoyed a few months of relief, until the day my counselor (a middle-aged man) told me he was optimistic I would be back home by Thanksgiving.
I panicked. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't go back, I just couldn't! But I couldn't tell anyone. That wouldn't be right. And no one would believe me. Everyone LOVED my parents.
One teacher noticed the change in my mood. He noticed I was withdrawn and sad. He took the time to ask me what was wrong. I'm not sure why, but I told him. I told him all of it.
And he believed me.
It was the first time I cried about what had happened to me.
He explained that I wouldn't have to go back if what I was saying was true, but I would have to tell my counselor. My counselor told me I had to tell my brother and his wife, and I was terrified.
It was years before I realized how hard it must have been for my brother to listen to me recount my memories. This was his father I was talking about. A man he had known and loved for far longer than I'd been alive. But he only ever listened, let me talk it out, and eventually held my hand, always offering support.
For years after, I wrestled with the trauma of having this father figure, whom I loved dearly and trusted completely, betray that love and violate that trust. I would wake in the middle of the night with the memory of him crawling in bed with me and whispering to me to stay quiet so I wouldn't wake my mother.
The smell of his aftershave on a total stranger would make me cringe. The aftershave I smelled every time he pressed himself against me and told me how much he loved me.
Later, when I had married, the feel of beard stubble on my husband would make me shudder, and I would remember the raw friction burns on my neck and chin from where he tried to kiss me while I pulled away.
This is the man I remember.
This is the man I have worked so hard to get out of my head.
This is the man who is being called an "angel" who will be "sorely missed."
After telling the truth about what had happened to me, most of my family stopped talking to me. My mother asked my why I would make up such lies to hurt her. My sister told me to stop it with the attention-seeking. My other brothers just shook their heads and talked behind my back.
My father said nothing.
It has been 27 years since I walked away from that situation. It has ridden on my shoulder and whispered in my ear at the strangest times, often without warning. I have been careful not to let it define me, but it never goes away.
Today, I found out that what I'd been telling myself for the past two decades, that he didn't have the power to hurt me anymore, was finally absolutely true. As unlikely as it was, while he was alive, I would always wonder what went through his head when he thought of me.
Today, I learned he had passed from this life to face whatever judgement his belief in God dictated he would have to accept.
And the only thought in my head....
The son-of-a-bitch never did admit what he did to me.
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