Today is my parents' 24th wedding anniversary. I'm going to go ahead and be a Debbie Downer because I'm a bitch and it's my blog, motherfuckers. As much as I'm glad that my parents are both healthy and together on their 24th anniversary, I can't help but think about another anniversary today. It's been almost three years since my family found out that my dad was having an affair. For some reason, whenever I think about it or write about it, I feel my stomach acid start to churn and try to fight its way up my esophagus and expel itself as if the purge would lighten the burden of the memory. It's not easy to admit that your family is flawed in such an intimate way, but the anonymity of the Internet makes it doable.
It's not just the thought of my dad being with another woman that bothers me anymore. It's the deceitfulness that feels like a punch in the gut that makes me unable to breathe when I'm reminded of the event. It's knowing that it wasn't just a one night stand, but a relationship that he had with someone besides the mother of his children. I'm not naive, I know these things happen, but that doesn't make it any easier to digest.
I'll always remember the first time I saw my dad after I knew. He's a firefighter, so he works 24 hours on call and then has 48 hours off. The day that we found out for sure, my dad was at the firehouse. I awoke to the phone ringing and my mom left a message saying that. "I took your sister to school, if dad comes home tell him to stay there until I get back." Just as I pushed the delete button, my dad walked in the door. I looked at him in disgust because that's truly how I felt. I started walking away and my dad cried. There have been very few times that I've seen my father cry, actually I can only think of two right now: When my buschia (Polish for grandma, but our family used it for grandma and great-grandma in this instance) died, my dad cried as he kissed her for the last time. I was eleven when this happened and I remember thinking that my dad must be thinking about all the memories that he had of her as every grandchild does of their grandma. The other instance of my dad crying was when my gram died, his mother-in-law. She had been living with us for her last two years and we had all bonded even more so when she moved in.
The most recent incidence of my dad crying was when I turned my back on him because of what he did to our family.
"What? Are you not going to talk to me?" He whispered. I only shook my head as the tears started rolling down my cheeks.
"This has nothing to do with you guys (talking about my sisters and me). It's about me and your mom..it's not your fault, you didn't do anything wrong." This seemed too generic, too cliche for my dad to be saying.
"Did you sleep with her?"
"No..I did not," he said with such force that I believed him.
My mom later took him to take a lie detector test that he failed. She had to humiliate herself by getting tested for STDs because apparently my dad didn't practice "safe-sex" with the whore he slept with. I call her a whore not because she was my dad's mistress, but because she was also the mistress of half the city's policemen and firemen. I remember hearing about her, mostly because her son is a year younger than me and his mother had fucked his best friend's dad when they were in sixth grade. The gossip got around at school and I felt bad for both of the boys.
But, three years later, my parents are still married. I've woken up in the middle of the night with the urge to check my parents' room to see if my mom was still here. I've had the fear, however irrational at times, that my mom would leave in the middle of the night and that I would never hear from her again. I'm almost 21 years old and I still have this fear, even though I only live under the same roof three months out of the year. Sometimes I think they'll be together forever if for no other reason that they are comfortable with each other. I have forgiven my dad for his mistakes just as I would hope to be forgiven for mine.
I try to see my mom the way that she was before my dad killed a piece of her, but it's so easy to see through her masquerade. I can't fix things for her and I never could, which hurts immensely. I know, I know...it's not my place as the child to take care of my mother, but there's a part of me that just wants to protect people and to make them as happy as possible. Who would want their mother to suffer? The odd part about this is that I hardly ever think of my dad's suffering. I'm positive that there is deep suffering under his macho exterior, but his Catholic, old-fashioned, men don't feel emotions, upbringing causes him to bury them away until a certain event allows him the social acceptance of showing that he feels and hurts like any other human being. I just wish it didn't take him fucking another woman to realize what he had at home. Not only a wife who loves him, but three daughters who adore him even though we may be bitches at times.
As anyone who has gone through junior high or high school knows, the main talk of those four years is who is sleeping with who. I usually was oblivious to this talk because I was only concerned about myself (I'm a cunt, I told you that). However, there were some instances when I would join in the conversation. I would always say the same thing: "It's not her fault, she probably has daddy issues." By this, I meant that either the girl was a slut because she 1) had no father figure, 2) her father was an adulterer, or 3) her father either hugged her too much or not enough. Although I still believe that there is some truth to my theories, at night I pray that no one will ever say that about my little sister, even though her dad was an adulterer.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
I think that after something like that it's only human to be angry, to want to never see him again, or to want to see him one last time so you can castrate him.
But we don't do those things, or at least not the the last two. Maybe it's the optimist in all of us, the empathetic part that makes us want to trust that they didn't mean it, that they'ver changed. But part of us will always always have the piece of hate. I like to think of it like they did that to remove a piece of your heart, so you replace it with pure, seething hatred. Luckily, it's such a small part that most of us resist the urge to punish them.
But it doesn't mean we can't be pissy about it. We have every right to do that. To notice their flaws, to see more meaning in their words than exists, to expect it will happen again. We can't let ourselves hate them. But we can't make ourselves forgive them. Or love them. Or any of the emotions we feel we are supposed to have for the betrayers and decievers. Like how I noticed when reading this that he said it wasn't you or your sister's faults. Did that mean he thought it was your mother's fault? Even reading about it, not even experiencing it, you can't help but have that little piece of hate. But it can't control us. So we try to forgive. But we can't make ourselves forgive something like that. But we can strive for balance. And hope to God, Jesus, Buddha, Vishnu, Satan, Mother Goddess, Zeus, Richard Dawkins, or whomever else we do that it's enough. Sometimes it is.
But sometimes it's not.
Kudos for the SNL reference. I'll try not to ramble next time. :)
My parents divorced when I was 10. I couldn’t have a sleep over for my 10th birthday because my Mom was still to upset. They had just signed the papers the week before.
My father’s affairs started when I was born. My father left my mother and us two girls when I was just six weeks old. He said he was in love with his secretary and maybe she could give him a son. Yes, he was upset that he didn’t have a son! (It never fails to amaze me how such brilliant individuals can be so stupid.) He returned to us after six months.
This had just been the start of many more affairs to follow. I can remember going with my dad on a business trip when I was four years old. It was late at night and I was asleep in my bed within the motel room. I was woken by a ladies voice complaining; “No, she might hear us…” I heard my father respond to her by telling her I was asleep and didn’t wake easily. For some reason I didn’t let them know I was awake. I don’t remember what happened after that.
I can also remember being nine years old in the car with my mom while she was driving all over town searching for my dad. She had tears streaming down her face while she tried to find the right house with his car there. Luckily she didn’t find it. What would she have done if she had?
It took her ten years to realize that his straying ways would never cease.
My mom passed away two years ago; twenty years after their divorce. I pleaded with my father to talk to her and beg her for her forgiveness. One of the major hurts she had in life was that my dad never once said he was sorry. I can only pray that he made things right there at the side of her deathbed. I asked afterwards but he said it was between them.
I have never been able to respect my father the way that I knew other daughters did with their father’s. As hard as this has been on your family be glad that you had a happy healthy childhood. One mistake in 20 or so years isn’t that bad when you compare it to the majority of adultery that occurs in marriages.
I myself have to struggle with my desires and my need to maintain a happy family. There are always three sides to every story. I’m sure it is a comfort to you that your dad at least feels guilt for his indiscretion.
Post a Comment