So here's the rest of 'em.
The ‘last time’ after I thought he had grown and stopped it. It had been something like six years since the ‘Good Friday incident’. I was on Christmas break from University and my brother and I were 22. Dad had borrowed Grandpas truck to go and pick J_____ up from school. We (J____ and I) had made plans to see a movie with mom and her fiancé that night and dad and J____ were running late getting back to town. I was talking to J____ on his cell phone, keeping track of their progress. At one point mom told me to ask J_____ to ask dad if he could just drop him off at the house (the original plan had been for me to go to Grandma and Grandpas to pick him up). I should have known better than that. Mom had never wanted him to drop us off at the house the few times he felt like doing something with us. However, I asked J____ anyway. The laugh I heard from dad on the other end of the line should have clued me in to how the rest of the evening was going to go. Then again, I had been sure he was no longer that person. It didn’t even enter my mind. Needless to say he said no (siting the ‘no-dad-at-the-house policy mom had had before). Later J____ called to tell me they were almost to Grandma and Grandpas and so I got in my car and drove ‘up the hill’ as we put it. Again, I should have been prepared for what was to come when I saw dad waiting for me in the driveway waiting for me as I pulled up. He approached the car as I turned the ignition off and swung my legs out of the car. By this time he was standing in front of the opened car door blocking my exit. He looked down at me and said that he hoped I was planing on spending some time visiting. I laughed weakly at that and reminded him that he knew we did not have the time. He started screaming at me, telling me how much ‘those people’ (Grandma and Grandpa) had done for me (yeah, including teaching me how to really feel guilty about the smallest, most meaningless thing or telling me to ‘get the hell out of my house’) and on and on. At one point I considered using my cell phone to dial 911 but reconsidered after reminding myself of the other problems that would cause with that side of the family (and besides, what would he do later if I called the cops on him??). Eventually I managed to stand up and tried to get away from him. He used his body to block me all the while he was yelling in my face (at one point he asked me if I wanted to ‘feel like a Marine’). I told him quietly to leave me alone, to leave me be. He continued to yell at me and use his body to block my escape, sometimes pushing me with his body . . . He never actually used his hands. Funny, afterwards I would come to the conclusion that the yelling and pushing were worse than any time he had pinned me down and hit me (strange? Maybe but that is still how it feels, even thinking about it almost four years later). When I finally managed to get away, he grabbed the collar of my coat and yanked me around. It was the Navy pea coat my Uncle had given me, the one he had when he was in the service. Here’s something else funny for you: When he jerked me backward, I heard the coat rip (thank God it was just the lining). My only concern? Not that he was jerking me around but that he had just ripped my coat! (I do love that coat though, lol.) I never said I was always rational ;). He jerked me around a bit more, yelling and sometimes pushing me with his body. My brother said later that it was about this time he heard what was going on outside. He jumped up and said “Shit! Stay in here!” and ran out side leaving our grandparents in the living room wondering what in Gods green earth was going on. By the time J____ got outside dad had let me go (I think. Parts of the memory are pretty vague) and I was on my way into the house to give Grandma some makeup that my older sister had sent for her. As I passed J____ I tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill from my eyes. I said ‘J____ (actually I used a childhood nickname but I really am trying to keep this blog as anonymous as possible), please get in the car.’ From behind me I heard dad say in a mocking (and childish) voice ‘J____, please get in the car’. I looked over my shoulder, glared at him through the tears pooling in my eyes and said ‘Bite me’. By then I was almost to the kitchen. Dad lunged at me and I made it to a corner in the kitchen (actually it is a space between the counter and the refrigerator, really rather perfect for cowering in) before he could get me. It all happened so fast, I really can’t give you a lot of detail. Later I noticed that Grandma had been in the kitchen (stupid man could have knocked his own mother over!). I also looked up and saw J____ had managed to pin to the door frame between the kitchen and the dining room. As I stood from where I was huddled in my corner (I’ve huddled there before, you see, so it really is ‘my corner’) the only emotion I was aware of was one of sadness at seeing my dad pinned there by J____. Not much later I sat on the kitchen floor and cried in my Grandmas lap. Even then, after seeing what she did, she could only defend him. And I still cried in her lap. I couldn’t help it. I had to. Before we left the house my dad tried to apologize . . . and unfortunately this time I think I actually let him (what an ass! What makes him think an apology is good enough? And why in Gods Name did I let him? OK, well I think that can be blamed on the sort of numb state I was in at the time but for heaven sake . . . ) *blush*. On the drive back hone I told J___ not to tell mom what had happened. After al, I told him, she shouldn’t have to worry about it and besides, it would really only make her mad and ruin the rest of the night.- All those times mom told me not to tell anyone what dad had done. She would tell me not to tell because then they would take me away and put me in a foster home where they would rape and beat me. It sounds horrid I know, and heaven knows why someone would say that to their child but I really do believe she thought it would be safer to have me there with her then with some other family (after all, I was never the easiest child to deal with).
- All those times dad beat me and mom only stood there repeating his name over and over again. Quietly, at that. I suppose he would have only turned on her if she had done more but still. I was the child after all.
- When, after the ‘Good Friday incident’ my sister told me that, by arguing with my dad I had asked for what I got (that she never experienced anything close to the same treatment didn’t register or matter I guess).
2. Are there people from your past or present that you blame for not being there for you? Who are they and what do you blame them for? - I think (no, really, I know, I just don’t want it to be) some friends from town (where I live at present). Either they did not notice or just chose not to do anything the entire time I slowly faded away. For a year and a half (give or take, probably ‘give’) I teetered on the brink . . . and they just let me. I was almost hospitalized twice and came very close to killing myself (if you’ve kept up with my blog you know how close) . . . and no one tried to get a hold of me to see if I was all right, to ask what was going on, to enquire as to why they no longer saw me out or why I did not participate in church activities anymore. I suppose it might sound unfair of me to have expected any of this from them but you have to understand that the likelihood that they would not notice was really very slim given how much I had been involved before. The years before I served on our college groups leadership team. I lead worship at our college night (sometimes even during a regular church if need be). I sang and played electric bass in the Sunday morning worship band. And I just stopped. Some of it was more gradual (I did not stop playing bass or singing completely until that next summer). Other things, like my participation in the college group just happened one day. I stopped going. My last year at University (when most of this took place) I only made it to our college night twice. For someone who usually only missed when she was just too sick to go that is a huge change. And it’s not like these folks are incapable of noticing such things. Toward the time I finally began doing better (though was not out of the woods yet) one of these friends and I, one of the two friends that make this hurt the most, were talking about another gal in the group. Apparently she was going to be moving into an apartment by herself and he was a little worried . . . about the same stuff that I had been dealing with (though mine was much more sever). They just let me fade away...
- My mom, some times, for staying with my dad, for not stopping him. And of course, my dad.
3. As you review these painful moments from your past, do you see ways in which they may be impacting your present? In what ways are they determining choices you are making when it comes to your relationships?
- I honestly don’t know. Sometimes I think my dad may be the reason I seem to get scared if a relationship seems to be getting too serious too fast. Other than that . . . *shrug* I don’t know.
4. Are you able to forgive whoever is involved in your painful memories? Are you able to release any resentment you may be holding onto? What might you need to do to take care of your ‘unfinished business’?
- Yeah, I think I can forgive those involved. I mean, it’s just stuff you need to eventually be able to get past, you know? But... I probably should tell some of these folks how this stuff has made me feel... however, I’m not sure that I can. I actually used the word ‘beat’ once (just recently actually) with my dad. He was saying how I was a hard one to raise because I was ‘spirited’ and had a strong personality; that it was hard to discipline me because of that and not ‘break’ my ‘spirit’ at the same time. He also said he thinks he did a pretty good job. After I told him that maybe he had been a bit sever (OK I can’t remember exactly what I said but that’s the idea anyway) he told me that I could not be allowed to just ‘run off at the mouth’ to which I said something like ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I needed to be beat’. His reply? He laughed and said ‘You were never really beat, kid’. And, once again, I let him get away with it (I maintain it was something I learned as a child)! I just said ‘Yeah, I know’ and the conversation continued. Ugh, I hate that I did that.
I should also talk to some of my friends here (specifically the afore mentioned two) but I don’t want to make them feel bad or obligated or . . . something. *shrug* I don’t know. I know I should...
So, that's it. Nothing really all that interesting to others, I suppose, but there it is anyway.
Questions are taken directly out of the book 'Relationships' by Drs. Les & Leslie Parrott
Parrott, Les & Leslie (1998). Relationships. Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530: Zondervan Publishing House.
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