Ignorance is Bliss

Sometimes I hate knowledge. I respect it and I search to gain it, but sometimes I hate it. Maybe I shouldn't say that I hate knowledge. Knowledge implants a picture of being in a college library in some people's minds and that is not what I mean, so let's say that I hate knowing. Knowing does not equal knowledge. Therefore, I sometimes hate knowing. I hate knowing that my dad had an affair. I hate that my mind instantly shoots to the moment that I found out he was having an affair when something I see, or hear, or even feel reminds me of it. I hate knowing that I couldn't fix it and that I didn't fix it. I hate knowing that there are people who are serial cheaters or people who seek people that are married to have a fling with. I hate knowing that for the rest of my life I will never be the same. I hate knowing that I will always wonder if my boyfriend, husband, lover, etc., will be capable of making me feel how my mom felt.

I found out on a Thursday in October 2006 that my dad was having an affair. I was getting ready for class when my mom called me. I had known that my parents were having trouble, but being away at school, I didn't know why or even how bad it was. After I picked up my phone my mom blurted out, "Your dad is having an affair," with a voice choked in sobs. I instantly started crying and said, "No. No, mom. No." My roommate left the room and I'm thankful that she had the presence of mind and compassion to do that. I don't remember what I did after that. I skipped my classes for the day and had my friends tell my teachers that I had a family emergency. I drove home and arrived to see my mom packing my dad's clothes into her van. I started crying again. When I walked into the house my older sister and her boyfriend were sitting at the kitchen table. My sister and I talked but I don't remember what was said. The phone rang and my sister answered. It was the cunt that was sleeping with my dad. I couldn't believe that she had the audacity to call my house. The house that my dad and grandpa built, where my mom gardens, where my little sister sleeps, where our dogs play, I couldn't believe that fucking bitch. I saw red and I grabbed the phone out of my sister's hand. The bitch thought I was my mom and I replied, "My mom can't come to the phone right now, she's too fucking upset." Cunt replied, "Let me talk to her, I want to tell her that I didn't do anything wrong and that nothing happened." This pissed me off. Calling my house was doing something wrong. Knowing that she knew the number to my house was wrong. "No, you can't talk to my mom. I've never called anyone a cunt in malice ever before in my life so I hope you're happy that you're the first one that has made me stoop this low. Don't ever call my fucking house ever again you fucking whore," I said that so quick that I didn't have time to think about what I was saying. I saw the grief in my mom's eyes as she walked to the door. I heard a smirk on the phone. To this day, I can't explain how I heard a smirk, but I did. She laughed at me. She heard me cry and laugh. She told me that she didn't deserve to be talked to like this and she laughed at me. If I saw her at that moment there is no doubt in my mind that I would have tried to kill her. The mixture of anger, heartbreak, and grief would have put me over the edge and I'm not sure that I could have stopped myself if I saw her. Knowing that scares me.

I never cried so much as I did in that first week after I found out. I was practically attached to my mom's hip that first night because I saw the pain in her eyes and the numb look on her face. I thought she was going to kill herself. I hated my dad that night. I fell asleep crying and woke up scared that I was too late, thinking that either my mom had killed herself or that she left. I walked downstairs to find my mom lying on the couch. Her eyes were open and I stopped walking. I began crying again as I moved closer; I couldn't see her breathing. In that instant, I felt a pain so deep that it felt like a knife lit on fire was piercing my heart and my gut at the same time. I leaned over her, and she spoke. I cried harder in relief.

This day happened almost two years ago and it still hurts to think about it. It's odd that something that another person did had such an affect on my life. I don't look at my parents the same way. I don't look at love or marriage or sex or fidelity the same way. I see the long, red marks on my mom's arms sometimes and know that she is a cutter. I look down on my hand to the short, jaded scar that signifies my first cutting experience. For some reason, I think we both know that we cut. I don't cut anymore, nor was it ever a fraction as serious as my mom's cutting was. To be honest, I only cut when I was really upset about my parents and the situation. I have cut a total of around ten times in my life. I don't label myself a cutter, nor does anyone know I cut. But, I understand the thought process behind cutting. Again, this is another instance of hating knowing; I hate knowing that I understand cutters. Cutters cut because they feel so much emotional pain that they cannot handle it, so they choose to expel the emotional pain via physical pain. The relief is too brief for me, which is why I never became a "cutter." My vehicle of cutting was sometimes a steak knife and sometimes a razor. The razor was easier, but less pain. It produced more blood, but there wasn't enough pain to distract my mind. The steak knife didn't work either. The ridges made it hurt alot, which was good, but it was hard to produce blood. I wanted to be able to soak up a lot of blood on toilet paper and then flush it away to signify the emotional pain evaporating in myself. I understand cutters.

When you're a kid, all you want to do is grow up and do "adult" things. It's funny that the only mature things that kids think adults do is smoke, drink, drive, have money, etc. Hell, if I knew then what I know now, I would have slowed down and taken my childhood a lot less for granted. When you're an adult, all you want to do is go back to being a child so that you don't feel as much responsibility or obligation. I want to go back to being a child so that I'm ignorant of just one incident that changed me, just one.