Chapter 4 The Divorce & My Father
Alcoholism: the disease that makes you too selfish to see the havoc you created and care about the people you shattered. -Alcoholics Anonymous
Here’s the thing about hindsight. It isn’t always 20/20. I will write about my parents as an adult with childlike memories. Telling a story from the eyes of a child can be like looking through a distorted lens. That’s why I want to put an adult spin on it because I’ve had years to contemplate my memories.
We want our parents to be more than they are, better. I want to make excuses, sugar coat my life, and find the answers.
I want to feel that I was worth it, that there is a reason. I want it to all make sense and, quite honestly, it doesn’t. I can’t ask my father questions about the past because he died in November 2002. I wouldn’t ask him anyway, as our conversations didn’t ever go well. I would rather have this moment be from my perspective, as an adult with childhood memories, trying to make sense of it all. I want my experiences and not my parent’s stories to come through– they could have written their own stories if that had been a priority. Although some of what I write may not be completely accurate, it’s what I think, how I feel, and what I remember. It’s my story.
The Divorce
My father fixed photography machines. When he lost his job in Rhode Island, he stayed at home with my sister and I while my mother took a job at a bank. When he was offered a job in Pennsylvania, he wanted to take it and move us. My mother told me once that she liked her job and her life at that point and didn’t want to leave. That’s a lame excuse even for a child, but that’s all I remember her saying. As a result, my parents divorced and my father left for Pennsylvania.
I heard rumors about why they divorced. My father most likely told me in a drunken slur. He said my mother had an affair with the pastor of our church, became pregnant, and had an abortion. I don’t know if that’s true or not. Our family went on the pastor’s boat once with him and his wife. Church was a regular occurrence back then.
Regarding divorce, most children, myself included, take the blame for the divorce when in reality it has nothing to do with us. This information didn’t make me feel like it wasn’t my fault, it made me more confused. I didn’t understand what any of it meant. I only knew my world was crashing down around me, falling apart, and I thought somehow it had something to do with me. I never thought it could have anything to do with my sister Kimmie because I thought she was the most amazing, perfect child and I loved her. I blamed myself.
My Father Moves Away
After my father moved to Pennsylvania in 1976, we saw him only six times before he died in 2002. My father became one of the scariest, meanest people I’ve ever known. He remarried when I was around 8 to Sue, who had a son two years my junior. I can remember four visits with them, each progressively worse. My father was an angry, violent drunk, which could be a contributing factor to why he and my mother divorced, although I never recall arguments between them.
He screamed at me often on the phone. He told me I was a bitch just like my mother. I was a cunt. He hated me. When my sister and I visited, he was often enraged. His relationship with my sister was better. I think he connected more with her from when we were very little. I seemed to remind him of my mother. I hated the phone calls. Dreaded them. Every one of them was the same. Screaming and swearing at me until it finally came to an end. Blissfully, he didn’t call very often. Every few months at best. He spoke mostly of himself but asked how I was. I was always worried about him, but I’m not sure how or why I always made him so angry. Kimmie and I would take turns talking to him back in the day when the phone was attached to the wall and the length of the cord determined the amount of privacy you could expect. If Kimmie talked to him first, I would end up hanging up on him. If I spoke with him first, he would calm down to talk to her, which I appreciated, because I wanted to shield her from his anger.
Visit One
The first visit was for Kim’s September birthday when I was 7 and Kimmie was turning 4. My dad always drove to Rhode Island to get us and then drove us back to Pennsylvania. It was 240 miles and approximately four hours in the car with him. I sat in the front seat most of the time only because I was older. My father was a chain smoker. He would actually light one from the butt of the cigarette he was finishing in true chain-smoking style. My father was quiet for the most part on these trips. Except for his drinking and anger, he was a quiet person, and I’m sure the drive felt awkward since he didn’t really know us. On this trip he had to siphon gas from a tube, and it made him throw up. I’m not sure if he was priming the engine because he had run out of gas or if there was some other reason, but it seemed strange that he was doing it. I felt bad for him.
At this time, my father lived in an apartment. I remember him being sad. He was drunk and chain smoked throughout the visit. I don’t remember him being mean to us this time. He was more quiet. My sister and I were in his living room spinning around to music. I stopped suddenly and sat on the couch. Kimmie was trying to make it over to me on the couch but was dizzy. She fell and hit her head against the corner of one of the speakers. She was wearing a white turtleneck with red hearts on it, and she was bleeding. A lot. My dad had her on his lap telling her it wasn’t bleeding, but I pointed out that it clearly was, which made my sister cry more and harder. We went to the hospital, and they took Kimmie back without me, which made her panic because she was afraid of everyone and I was always her protector. They gave her something to calm her down, and she ended up with stitches. To this day, I can’t stand when my kids spin around and get dizzy. I have images of Kimmie’s white turtleneck completely stained with blood and the little red hearts mocking happiness.
Visit Two
When I was 8 and Kimmie was 5, we went for a visit in the summer. We met Sue and her son for the first time on this trip. I recall playing a record over and over singing “Flying Purple People Eater.” Sue laughed a lot, but it seemed like she was trying too hard. I liked her, though, and my father seemed happy. I never wished or thought my parents would get back together, and my mother had been dating, so there was no tension between Sue and us. We visited a cabin and I remember enjoying the lake, even though it had a lot of weeds in it, and the time spent there with Kimmie. The cabin belonged to Sue’s father, and the deal was we could use it if my father did some work on it. The toilet couldn’t use much water, so we had to pee in it three times or poop once before flushing with outside water. We had a big, metal wash basin outside in which we heated hot water on the propane stove for bathing.
That visit was probably the best one we had, although none of them went without some sort of drunken, angry outburst. One day Kimmie and I went for a walk with Sue. While we were gone, several sheets of sheetrock fell on my father’s legs, trapping him. He called for us, but we couldn’t hear him because we were too far away. Eventually he got himself out. He was bruised pretty badly.
My stepbrother was never close to us. In fact, I didn’t have a good conversation with him until I traveled to my father’s funeral. I think we were all in survival mode when we were around my father. That’s because we were wondering when my father’s mood would change from amicable to abusive, who he would direct it towards, and how long it would last. He took out most of his physical abuse on Sue and her son, which was awful to watch.
Visit Three
The following year when I was 9 and Kimmie was 6, we flew with my father. He had his small aircraft pilot’s license. I can’t imagine that was a safe trip, considering how much he drank, but we made it without incident. There’s a photo of Kim and me with my father outside of the plane looking happy. The plane ride made me feel proud of my father. He was doing something not everyone typically can do. It was scary and exciting at the same time.
We also visited the cabin again, and it was much closer to being finished. The toilet flushed and the shower and washing machine worked. My stepbrother and I talked more that summer. At night, we whispered to each other. I told him how Kimmie was singing the words to a song wrong. He made fun of her. She told me she wanted to punch me in the face, which I totally deserved. She was my sister after all, and I shouldn’t have been an asshole to her. I wanted to have someone to talk to, that understood what it was like to be around my father, but my stepbrother and I really never got close.
Visit Four
Two years later, when I was 11 and Kimmie was 8, we came for another visit. On the drive to Pennsylvania, I put on my new L’Oréal lipstick in a shade of purple. My father came unglued because he was convinced I was going to be a slut like my mother. I told him I was going into 7th grade and all the girls wore lipstick. That lipstick made me feel empowered. Strong. In control of something–even if it was small–over a person who always made me feel less than and weak. I revealed I was shaving my legs and he got really upset.
On this trip, we picked up Sue and my stepbrother and went to Colonial Williamsburg and Busch Gardens on vacation. It was the first time I had ever been to an amusement park. I learned I’m not afraid of any rides, even though I’m afraid of heights. The park was a lot of fun. The three of us kids got t- shirts that said “Budweiser” on them on that trip. That was my dad. Keeping it classy with his children. Colonial Williamsburg was a good memory. Everyone dressed in costume according to the time period, so we saw quill pens that used an inkwell and people churning butter. During this visit my father drank less in public and controlled his anger better. Or so it seemed.
Back at the hotel my father became violent. One evening he was in a rage and punched Sue. He broke her nose. She went by ambulance to the hospital to get her broken nose set. My father went with her. We kids were left at the hotel alone. The police came to talk to us. I wanted to be small and hide and never have to see this man who was my father again. The police stayed with us until Sue and my father got back.
Visit Five
The last time I remember seeing him as a child was at his house when I was in high school. It was a short visit. I gave him pamphlets on alcoholism. It didn’t go well. By this time in my life, I had learned to hate him, but I also never gave up hope that he’d wake up one day and want to know his girls. Want to be a father. Want us. The only reason we saw him this time was because he owed my mother child support. He called her and said it would break him to pay it. She told him if he had us for a visit she would waive what he owed. Kimmie and I were just doing our time there. I’m not sure if my mother was trying to do the right thing, or if she wanted a break from us, but I just wanted the visit to be over. He was drunk and so mean.
The Nasty Phone Calls
Through the years, I had become his punching bag on the phone. He would shout at me saying that I was just like my mother. He repeatedly called me a bitch and a cunt. Kimmie didn’t understand why I hated talking to him on the phone until she decided to listen in on the other line. After the call, she hugged me and told me she was sorry and that now she understood what was going on. I’d get off the phone with him and sob those wracking, heaving sobs that leave you physically and emotionally exhausted. I hated him.
I could always expect a phone call from him on January 15. This was his birthday. He would complain about how I never remembered his birthday. This was confusing to me. I can only remember getting one birthday present from him, which came the same year, the only year, he called me to wish me a happy birthday. He sent me a bracelet with colorful stones.
I wish I knew why he was always so angry. In my child eyes it seemed like he fell apart after the divorce. At some point I became the focus of some of his rage. He liked to bad-mouth my mother and compare me to her whenever he could. I never tried to instigate him being angry because I hated and dreaded it. I didn’t know how to diffuse it.
Visit Six
The last time I ever saw him was in 1993, nine years before he died. My first daughter was one year old, and Kimmie and I were driving from Louisiana to Vermont with a U-Haul, hauling my car with my dog in tow. We had to sit outside at my father’s house because my daughter was born with a lung disease, Hyaline Membrane Disease, and couldn’t be around cigarette smoke. My father was still chain smoking and wouldn’t even put his cigarette down long enough to hold his first grandchild. Sue held her for a bit. We only stayed about an hour. He was drunk when we arrived, and although he wasn’t aggressive, it wasn’t pleasant to be there. Visiting him was always a sad disappointment. He would cry a lot after he was mean or abusive. It was the usual you hear about. It won’t happen again. I want to be better. I’m so sorry. You should have a better father. Blah, blah, fucking blah.
His Death
My father died sitting at the table with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He had a heart attack. When Sue found him in the morning, she thought he fell asleep sitting up. When she touched his shoulder, he fell over, already getting stiff. I was curious about the coroner’s report, wondering how pickled he was inside. I never found out.
The only tears I cried when he died were over the realization that he would never really know my sister and me, never have a moment when he was proud of us. We would never mend the chasm. Otherwise, I felt relief that he could never hurt anyone again. It was over. All the struggling, being yelled at, and seeing physical abuse. It was all over. Because he died, I have no hesitation in sharing that part of my story - not because he is no longer here to defend himself, but because I no longer have to be afraid. Not being afraid is very empowering.
At my father’s funeral, my stepbrother talked to me about his biological father. It turns out that Sue’s first husband was so much more abusive than my father. To Sue, who had been abused by her father and her first husband, my father didn’t seem so bad. She had never lived with anyone who wasn’t abusive. She had her own addiction issues, severe depression, and low self-esteem. Sue and I grew close during my father’s funeral. After that, she flew to Alaska where Kimmie and I lived. She was there when my youngest son was born and started participating in Christmas with the family. She got to know my kids. It felt as if, now that we weren’t in survival mode anymore, we could have a good relationship.
Becoming A Warrior Princess
Flying with my father that one time planted a seed in me to want to get my own private pilot’s license, but I never have. I tend to try to do things to have more of a connection to my parents–even though they aren’t involved– but I’m always afraid that by doing so, I’ll be like them. I took getting my pilot’s license off my “dream journal” list years ago, but when I see a small airplane in the sky, I feel drawn to it.
Sue remodeled their house in Pennsylvania with some of my father’s life insurance money and seemed to be doing really well. I loved her and appreciated our relationship. We spoke on the phone regularly and planned future trips to visit. Three years after my father died, on the anniversary of his death, Sue committed suicide. My stepbrother and I had also stayed in contact. He told me he went to the house to check on her because she hadn’t answered the phone in days. He found her two days after she killed herself with a fifth of vodka and bottles of every prescription pill she had in the house. I was devastated. I didn’t see it coming. How could we be so close and talk so often yet I didn’t know? How could her life be so awful, now that it seemed so much better, that she would rather die? I couldn’t afford to fly out to her funeral. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I wanted to. I miss her all the time. She gave me a little glass Bible as a present, and I still have it on my nightstand. I look at it every night. Every morning. It’s one of my most precious possessions. She also got me a Philadelphia Flyers jersey that I cherish. Why did she kill herself?
Triumph with Love
Tell the people you love that you love them. Often. One guarantee in life is that it will eventually be over. It can be devastating to lose someone, so make the time you’re here count. I’m not an addict, but I’ve stayed away from alcohol. I was afraid of becoming like my father if I drank. Life is about balance, though, so now that I’m more comfortable with myself, I drink occasionally.
I was never a class clown in school, but outside of school, my goal was to make people laugh. I would mimic how people walked and talked in an exaggerated manner to get a reaction. I liked to tell jokes and be entertaining in order to hear the people around me laugh. Things seemed so sad: my mother was sad, Kimmie had anxiety, and life had taken a turn for the worse. My answer was laughter. It became a big part of who I was and something I like about myself. Laughter can be healing, relaxing, comforting, and can keep the sadness at bay. From that time forward, I have loved making people laugh.
LEARN AND GROW
• Life is short and precious, cherish it
• Tell people you love them
• Choose balance
• Laugh often