Nineteen years have passed since I left him, a decade since he last tried to contact me — time enough that I can almost forget the sound of his voice, can almost imagine that the things he did to me happened to someone else long ago and far away. Except that they didn’t. They happened to me.
It’s a strange thing to see yourself then and know what you know now. That my twin sister will live first in Seattle and then Hawaii, that she will spend less and less time with any of us. Or that my parents will divorce in the late nineties, taking each other to court for almost as long as they were married.
Physically, there was no reason I should have gained any weight at all. It’s not like I was growing our child in my womb and had to feed it. But emotionally, for nearly two years as we went through the adoption process, I was eating for two. Emotionally, I was trying to feed this faraway baby in a Chinese orphanage who I didn’t even know, yet who I knew was not getting enough love or nutrition or food or stimulation…all those things babies need.
Suddenly I began to see an older version of my little boy staring back at me. What was left of his baby cheeks had disappeared. What remained was a sharp jawline met by a strong, square chin. He was being valiant for me. He didn’t trust I could handle what he had to share.
As I turned into the small office, I saw an entrance marked “private” at the opposite end of Casket Central. I shuddered, wondering if my father laid behind those doors.
If I could stop along this run, I would sit right there on the bench with sixteen-year-old me, not so much before the suicide attempt because I think that taught me about my passion and drive. It showed me how willing I am to give life a try.
There is no “good” way to lose your pet. There isn't. But here’s the thing I return to again and again. Just as it is with people, either we choose to engage, to love, knowing that every relationship is time limited....or we choose never to love at all.
Unless you have to rest after taking a shower, you can’t comprehend the frustration and exhaustion that comes from such a simple task. Unless every bite of food terrifies you because you know it has the potential to cause severe pain, you can’t understand the anxiety that builds from having a chronic stomach condition. Unless you often cannot even drink water because of the pain it causes, you can’t understand the effects of dehydration.
My father was not the primary abuser of my childhood, he was the enabler. I’m grateful to him for buying me a bicycle and teaching me to ride it, for encouraging my swimming and walking beside me as I swam my first 50 metre lap, for indulging my love of animals and the outdoors.
The sadness of that time is muffled to me now. I can remember a dull, kind of fluorescent/white noise, the kindness of friends and friendly acquaintances as a kind of elevator music in the background, bringing me back to myself.
I could write the whole story, all the fibs, the deceptions, the manipulations, but it would read like melodrama, and the truth is, I don’t want anyone to see my gullibility, my vulnerability, my foolishness, my complicity. I uncovered a lie. Then another and another. Through the pain of these revelations, I found freedom, not just from a relationship built on lies, but from my own self-deceptions. The truth became a mirror, and I forced myself to look, even if I didn’t like what I saw.
