Let's delve a little into my background, maybe it'll help tie some pieces together. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, so bear with me, I've got things that I need to let loose.
Here goes nothing.
I come from a big family, as I'm sure you've heard by now. It's a combined family, meaning my dad had kids (an outstanding six) before he met my mom, and my mom had kids (a tame two) before she met my dad. Then, just because they were so in love, they had even more kids, two more together this time. Total, there are 10. If you had any doubt, I'm the baby. Growing up there were four of us at home, my dad's children were much older, established and each living with their own families. To put it into perspective, I have nieces and nephews older than me, so while I was just a bun in the oven, my siblings already had tiny tots running around their houses. Does anyone else see this to be a potential issue?
Nah, me either.
If sarcasm doesn't relate well in blog posts, rest assured I've spent most of my life in an awkward, limbo type feeling. There are days I feel equal, a sister, a mom, a wife. Other days, I feel like a child. My nieces and nephews have children the same ages as mine, those would be my peers, not my siblings. Yet, here I am in the middle of nowhere, with no one. No brothers and sisters nearby, no aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, or cousins. In fact, I only remember meeting a handful of my cousins at my mom's funeral. If that doesn't tell you how out-casted I feel, I don't know what will. My closest family member is easily 6+ hours away by car, and an eternity by phone.
This has to be my fault.
I remember family parties when I was younger, all the kids would play and have a blast, and I always felt left out. I would sit around alone. I was never included. I didn't know how to just jump in there and enjoy their company, I was told they didn't want me, anyway. There are so many photos of those days, and you never see me in them. I know we lived hours apart, but I was never part of the in crowd, not even then. Things have always been split, us and them. My dad's kids were "them", and I was in the "us" group. The others. The leftovers. The afterthoughts. These may be blanket statements, but these are my feelings, and I'll never be told again how to feel. During my childhood, I heard all sorts of things about how my family viewed me: jealousy, anger, hatred. It's not a pleasant feeling being a 13 year old, motherless, feeling like the world is your worst enemy and your family is standing on the front lines, waiting to be the first to dish out the worst of the blows. Now that I've had the opportunity to really get to know those willing to give me the time of day, it's clear this isn't the case. The one common denominator has to be the culprit.
My dad.
So I find myself in a strange place sometimes. I feel as though I've set the bar so high, I've washed away all the nasty, dirty images from the front of my mind and spent the last decade protecting this image I so badly wanted him to have-the knight in shining armor, the king to the rescue. The older I get, the more I grow, mature, and submerge myself in my own life and family, the more the truth comes out. I feel like my childhood was a big farce, a disgusting joke being played on yours truly. For years, I ignored the comments of my brothers and sisters, I've stood up for what I wanted to badly to be true, I took the verbal lashings with a smile and insisted on coming back for more. Certainly, he couldn't have treated anyone else this way. There must be a reason I was the chosen one. I now know differently, and the mere thought of him putting anyone else through the same personal hell is simply terrifying. The skeletons must have added up quickly, because they've come pouring out of his closet lately, and the strikes against him just keep adding up. Piece by piece, the tough armor is falling away, and the bitter core is bleeding through. Many times over I've had the opportunity to move on, grow, be myself, but I just can't seem to break away.
Guilt. Fear. Routine.
Those three words are the core of my being some days, and I don't know what to do. I often feel like I don't know who I am, because I try to be what I think he wants me to be. I dutifully answer the phone every night, I answer the inquisitive questions about my every move, and I do so without the slightest groan or grimace. A slight change in my voice can tip him off to a mountain of questions, and my heart just can't handle it anymore. What kind of child would I be, even at this age, if I just walked away? Impossible. I convince myself it's my responsibility. I lost my mother when I was so young, careless, misunderstanding of what it was I was truly missing. How can I do anything else but soak up every last ounce of him, even if it's disturbing? Where I go from here is the ultimate question, the uphill battle I've been facing for days.
Weeks. Months. Years.
Weeks. Months. Years.
My dad visits, and we argue. We fight like cats and dogs. He makes my skin crawl in a way I never thought possible. The things he says to my kids, I have vivid flashbacks of hearing them being said to me as a child, and it brings the bile up in my throat faster than you can snap your fingers. He disrespects the boundaries of my personal privacy, he degrades me about anything and everything, and he does it all in private. When others are around, I'm his greatest accomplishment. When we're alone, I'm a disgrace. He says he can't stand to look at me some days, and that hurts worse than any physical pain I've ever felt. The hurtful words he's spat at me over the years have scarred me in a way that hurts deeper and deeper each and every time. He knows comparing me to my mother is unfair, yet somehow, someway, I'll never live up to her being. Even if I feel she was selfish for not seeing a doctor, for not being there for me this whole time, she was a saint in his eyes, and certainly, I'm the devil. This bridge that crosses between us, it's old and rickety, and slowly falling apart. There's no need to burn it, eventually it'll crumble and there will be no turning back. But I'm so angry, and I can't seem to let it go.
I'm so unbelievably angry.
Forgiveness has never come easy to me, it's something I struggle with on a consistent basis. This is a trait we share, unfortunately, along with stubbornness, anger, a short temper and a bunch of other ugly and disgusting things I'd rather not mention. I'm my father's daughter, but that's not all I am. I'm a wife, a mother, a sister, an aunt, a friend. I'm a baker, a reader, a writer, a babysitter, and an inspiration. I have good qualities, and deep down I know I'm better than the scum of the Earth, even if certain people are so angry with themselves they choose to make me feel this way. It's up to me to decide how I feel about myself, despite the displaced anger of others. When I'm gone, when my time has come to an end, I want to be remembered for the good, the love I showed, the beautiful children I raised, the way I laughed and the way I treated others, not for the amounts of money I spent, the clothes I wore, or how I styled my hair. I want to be remembered for who I was, for being me.
"People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel."
I hope one day he understands how he makes me feel.
Until next time.
