Part One
I have always used writing in order to get my thoughts out. I've never really told the story of my relationship with my father to many people. It has always struck a chord within me that has left me unable to trust enough to truly let it out. However, here it is for the world to read. For the benefit of myself, I feel like I have to get it out in this way in order to grow. Anyway, here is the first part. There will be three.
I remember what life used to be like when I was a little kid. Things seemed to be so easy back then. Life was just one endless walk in a sunny park, each day passing like the inhalation of a rose’s scent: languid and sweet. We didn’t really understand the problems of the world.
Anger occurred when your sister ate the last piece of YOUR birthday cake. Sadness was something you felt when your favorite Saturday cartoon wasn’t on. Fear stemmed from our imaginations telling us that monsters inhabited the space underneath our beds. War was something you read about in history books. None of it seemed real to us when we were children. However, there comes a time when childhood eventually shrivels away into nothingness. We reluctantly allow ourselves to grow into the adults that we are supposed to become.
When are we supposed to know when we have to grow up? For some, growth comes at a slow and gradual pace. The child learns about life and its machinations without ever having to be introduced or thrown into it. First boyfriends are accompanied by awkward first kisses, clammy hand holding, and the tears after the inevitable first breakup (after all, a month is a long time!). A failed test may be accompanied with a warm hug and a “you’ll do better next time.” Family life may move along at a slow pace, with the parents bringing up their children in a soft, happy light, hoping that their young ones bloom and grow.
What happens when adulthood is thrust upon a child? What do you do when you don’t know how to grow up, but had to do so all the same? Some kids come from abusive homes. Others may have had a parent who was stricken with a terminal illness. Still others may come from broken homes. Many children may be forced to watch their parents’ marriage deteriorate before their eyes. My parents never beat me, and neither of them had a terminal illness (alcoholism doesn’t count). They did fight a lot, and things became increasingly worse as the years progressed. I wish I could say that it was perfectly two sided, and that lines were clearly drawn into the sand. I wish that a lot of things happened differently. However, they didn’t, and that is the reality of it.
I don’t know when it really started. Things seemed to get out of hand once my father started making a lot more money. My parents first started to argue over finances. To my sisters and me, the fights seemed like minor squabbles. There was a rant here, a frustrated sigh there, and eventually they would kiss and make up. Life was peachy at the time, so we didn’t think much of it. We would go out on the boat and meet up with friends on the weekend, go out to dinner during the week, and generally soak up the lake life. This lifestyle was common for about two years. Then the fighting began to take a more ominous turn.
I could always tell when my parents had just fought. My mother would walk around with her eyebrows furrowed, sputtering angry nonsensical words. My father was much more reclusive. He’d either leave the house completely, or grab a beer and sit in the recliner and watch television. Eventually, he would go back to the refrigerator and pick up another beer. And another. And another…He would silently stew in his chair as the alcohol wreaked havoc on his body and mind. That was when I really began to lose my father. The sad thing was, I never knew that I had lost him until I started to hate him. This was the summer after sixth grade.
This is the first installment of my story. There should be two more. Thank you for reading so far, and feel free to comment.
posted by Danielle @ 10:11 PM
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