Yesterday afternoon I was laying there in bed, attempting a Sunday afternoon nap when I started thinking about my last name. Then I thought about my dad. I felt tiny little sobs rising up in my chest. I didn't want to cry, but I did.
I cried the kind of tears that never really ever go away. They're familiar to me. They go dormant for a while, and reappear, reminding a person of what they've survived, and how tender and vulnerable life is. I was caught up in what felt like a filmstrip of images and feelings from the past.
My dad came to my mind. His life, who he was, what he'd done, and how it had affected his family. When I was little and still under his care, my name used to be McConkie. My dad was related to the church apostle, Bruce R. McConkie, but my dad's life couldn't have been further from that of a devout, religious man.
As I sat there thinking, words started flowing through my mind. Words that would describe what my father was and what he'd done. This startled me, but I sat with it and let it flow.
Violent
Addicted
Rapist
Incestophile
Pedophile
Murderer
Liar
Adulterer
Insane
Raging
The words seemed to come to me on their own. I wasn't trying to think about this. It just happened. But as I watched the words come as I lay there in bed, I realized they were true. Absolutely true. My dad was a violent, addicted man who had committed rape, adultery, and incest. He had killed one of my mom's babies while she was still carrying it. He had blamed her and all of us kids for his misery. He nearly killed my brother, and he broke my sister in ways that go beyond words. He was a lying, raging madman. There was nothing like his anger. His face would go red, his eyes would fill with hatred. It's not something I can fully explain.
As these images came, all I could do was cry, and feel grief and sorrow and pain for things I couldn't fix -- things so far in the past. My dad is dead and gone. My oldest brother is dead too. My other brother no longer speaks to the family in order to protect his mental health. My mom has remarried again and we don't speak, which is to protect my mental health. The only one I talk to is my sister. My dearest hero. My sister hero. A warrior, a survivor, a quiet and good woman who serves everyone she can. A woman who has endured more pain and heartache than -- I think -- almost anyone. She refuses to be angry, she always forgives, and God is her best friend. He has gotten her through.
Only the people that were in our home know what we all went through. And as the baby of the family, I was spared much. But my oldest three siblings were brutalized, as was my mom. My living brother was told once, while in therapy by the state's highest level psychologist, that his childhood abuse was the worst he'd ever seen. That was because of dad. My brother is only alive now because he learned to find a sliver of inner safety through meditation. Without that, he would have been dead a long time ago. He spent a long time in a mental hospital and on disability as an adult because of the abuse from dad. He was born deaf. Dad hated how "stupid" his son was. He'd hit him and criticize him all the time as a toddler. By the time my brother was 12, he'd lost his will to live. He was suicidal. He knew how to die. He would disagree with dad on something. It worked. Dad beat him with a shovel, breaking his ribs and facial bones, and left him face down in a ditch of water.
This wasn't an isolated incident. He beat everyone. And I cannot even speak of what my sister endured. It's not my story to tell. I still don't know how to cope with it all.
Oh, father, how could you? I know your own father was old when you were born, and he was ill and couldn't play with you and your mom was at work all day. I know you started drinking when you were only 7. But why didn't you ever turn course? Why would you brutalize your wife and children so?
Only 11 years ago, I was in therapy for my marriage at the time, and my therapist asked me about my childhood. I told him "it was ideal!" I was in total and complete denial.
The memories were all there, and I could even tell you most of them. It's just that I had them fenced off in a corner of things that I'd "forgiven" or "things you don't talk about." But as I started to think of the memories, I had months where I couldn't even smile. Every time I'd get in the car I'd just sob and sob while I drove. I thought I'd never be joyful again.
That time passed. And I've had other times as well. Yesterday was just one of those grief days. Sometimes I feel like I'm a stranger even to the people who know me because nobody knows my grief. My husband knows, but few others do. I wonder how many people around me feel like strangers, who feel a little invisible for the same reason. And I wonder what is the right way to navigate through life when trauma has stolen so much of it. I just think so many of us hold in so much. I know I do.
I suppose you do what you've always done. You cry sometimes, you share sometimes, and after a bit, you get up and do the things that need to be done. In that way, the to-do list is a blessing. So that's what I did on Sunday.
--
NOTE: The intention of my post is to share my vulnerability and encourage us all to see the reality of each other's struggles. We each have as much grief as we can possibly handle. I am convinced of that. We aren't to compete with each other in our grief, but we are to share our burdens that they can be light. I am not sharing in order to receive sympathy. That's not something I want. I just want to be understood, and to encourage us all to open our hearts to each other's lives.
---
Please sign in to leave a comment below! I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Also, subscribe to my newsletter list - I'll probably get around to sending one someday :)