When I was 12 my parents divorced. My parents had always
fought a lot, but I was particularly devoted to my dad and was heartbroken by
the split. My sister, then 18, moved in with some friends in Dallas, and my
mother and I moved to Denton where my grandmother lived. Our lovely house in
the country near Celina was sold.
My dad had suffered from a crippling form of arthritis for
several years. I could remember him being able to pick me up, to work on cars
together, to mow the yard and to build bookcases using a handsaw and a drill.
But as I grew stronger, his back grew more bent, and by age 12 I was the muscle
in the house, doing the yard work and the heavy lifting in the barn as well. I
enjoyed physical work and took pride in my ability to take care of things.
I loved Denton and quickly made friends there, which helped
make the transition a little easier. But two years after the divorce, my dad
no-showed for our weekly Saturday outing. We would often start our Saturday
morning with a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts, and then we would scour junkyards for
Ford Thunderbird parts. This was a special Saturday because it was Valentine’s
Day, and I had gotten Dad a really nice card that I was anxious to give him.
When he didn’t show up, Mom called his apartment. No answer. She tried calling
several times. No answer. Day turned to evening. Mom called Dad’s best friend,
who went over to his apartment and found him there, dead. When the policeman
knocked on the door, I already knew the truth, but it was still shocking. I
vaguely remember lying in my bed sobbing while one of Mom’s friends gently rubbed
my shoulder to comfort me.
The next few days were a blur of misery. My friends were my
great comfort. They came to the funeral to awkwardly witness my grief. When I
got back to school they respected my wishes to not talk about my dad. They
wanted to help, but I wanted school to be a place where I didn’t have to think
about it. It felt like the pain would never end, but I did manage to
compartmentalize it. Sometimes I would be overwhelmed with grief, but at other
times I could laugh and be lighthearted and fun.
The rest of my teen years were pretty tough. My relationship
with my mother deteriorated to the point where I left home at 16. At 18 I
joined the army and embarked on adult life. Somewhere in my late teens, my mom
told me that my dad had sexually abused my older sister, and that was why she
had divorced him. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a hard time believing this.
Thinking back, I could remember certain odd moments and things that ‘felt
weird.’ Like my dad ordering me to change clothes in front of him when I was
12, or him buying me a lacy nightgown when I was 11. As my grief for his death
receded, it was replaced by grief for my sister and the harm that was done to
her.
Many years later, I was sitting in my cousin’s garage in
Oklahoma. He was smoking, I was enjoying a cold beer, and we were talking about
whatever. He expressed dismay that neither my sister nor I ever visited my
dad’s grave to pay our respects. I gently explained the reason for our
ambivalence. He digested this, then revealed that he and his brother had also
been the victims of abuse perpetuated by another family member. With our
grandparents and all their children dead, we could only helplessly wonder what
on earth went wrong, what sort of hell our parents and their siblings had
experienced that had led to this misery. There is much that we will never know.
But what I do know is this; sharing our stories is extremely
powerful and healing. And keeping them secret is a cancer that damages us and
our relationships with others. Years of misunderstandings melted away in that
hot Oklahoma garage because we had finally gotten mature enough to be honest
with each other. Depending on your personal beliefs, you may think my father
will burn in hell for his sins, or perhaps you believe that he will be
reincarnated into another life where his damaged soul will have a chance to
learn and heal. All I know is, my focus and my allegiance are with the living,
for where there is life, there is hope for redemption and joy. And I’m glad to
say, whatever the dark secrets of our family’s past, the legacy of abuse has
ended with my generation. Our children will not know the nightmare that we
lived through.
