Where do I stand on the remembrance of my parents? Keep in mind, neither ever told me that they loved me.
My father lost me as a little child, when he began abusing me, physically, verbally, and emotionally. I loved him longer than I should have, though. I had hope that it might stop, but it never did. He hurt me, right up until that last time he told me he’d never speak to me ever again, at age 38.
My mother? She doesn’t exist in my childhood memories. There were no moments of loving hugs or sweetness. My father was larger than life and he was so funny. My mother was a wallflower in the parenting department and never joked around very much. She never taught me how to wear makeup, nor did we ever bond over jovial girly moments, because they did not exist. She complained to me about my father for as far back as I can remember. I asked her for help, a time or 300, as a child, and never received it. She did reward me with abandoning me as an adult though, perfectly choosing our abuser over me. She doesn’t exist in my adult memories either. She is literally nothing to me. She created her nonexistent creation, because she lacks any fortitude.
I had a Dad once. I even had a Dad who adored me. I went fishing with him, bowling, and mushroom hunting. At the young age of 8 I floated with him, in a raft on Sugar Creek, from Thorntown to the tiny town of Philadelphia on US 40. We fished and talked the entire time and he carried me through prickly thorn bushes when we came to a fenced in portion of the creek, in Philadelphia. (I didn’t know that was legal, but I’m sure it’s still fenced, right before the old camel farm on the other side.) He then went back to get all of our things and walked through the thorn bushes again, back and forth until we had all of our stuff.
He once told me that he thought I was an adult in a child’s body, when I was 4 years old. He was amazed by my old soul quality, he said. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I liked it since he said it with love. At age 4 he beat up a neighbor who yelled at me. I don’t know anyone else who has a father who has done that for them.
He loved me like I was an equal. I don’t have stories like these my entire life, but those first few years are exactly why I can occasionally look back fondly.
One day he will be gone and I hope whatever tortures him, to be the man he became, floats away, as he floats upward. Somewhere in him is the man who once loved me and I know that he’d be incredibly proud of me for being a person who fights back against being abused, even if it is him that I will forever fight against in my memoirs.
Comments