Tidbits of my Testimony

I have three sisters. I rarely speak about them and I rarely speak to them. In fact I don't know them really at all. One of them is still a child and the other two are my age. The older two are twins. One is a lesbian and the other is married with two children. I have seen all three of them maybe 2 or 3 times in my life. We only have one thing in common. Our Father.

When I was four my Dad left. I remember the exact day as if it happened to me yesterday. I am not sure why I can recall it so clearly, yet much of my life at the time is a blur. Maybe it is because it was traumatic. Or maybe it is because it has been the backdrop of all of my failures, hurts, and anger for much of my life.

He was packing up his pick-up truck in the driveway. He had just loaded everything. I am not sure why I was out there, but rumor has it I was a Daddy's girl. Apparently I followed him everywhere. I looked up at him and said, " Daddy, where are you going?" He looked down at me with not even a tear in his eye and said , " I am going away for a little while. Don't worry, I will come back."

He got in his truck and left. I remember my Mom crying. I remember being very confused.

He left my Mom penniless, jobless, and alone.

I waited 4 long years for him to come back. During those years he barely wrote or called. For a time, we didn't even know where he was. As years passed he would pop back in now and again. He would call me sometimes after a year or so had passed. He would always utter the same thing. "Let's just let it be water under the bridge" . To this day , that phrase makes me cringe.

As a small child, I would make believe that he was away on business trips. I told my friends that he worked out of town a lot. I even went as far as setting the table with a place for him and then acting like that was what I always did. I am not sure why I thought pretending made it easier.

My brother may have had it worse in many respects. Growing up male with no male role model is a recipe for disaster. And much of his childhood was spent in angst. He often had nightmares which resulted in him sleeping in my room with me. I became super protective of him growing up. Almost like a second mother. He was also my best friend. We clung to one another.

My Father almost always forgot my birthday and Christmas. On the years he did remember, it would not be odd to receive a five dollar bill in a card. The weeks leading to my birthday were spent anxiously awaiting him to come through. And when he didn't I would go into a deep despair. I vivdly remember running to the mailbox each day as my birthday approached hoping, waiting, praying he would remember me.

My Mom managed to put herself through school while at the same time waitressing. I have no idea how she did it. I don't think she ever slept. She always put us first and to this day I have a huge amount of respect for her. She never gave up, even when things were extremely hard. She loved us more than she loved anything else.

We were blessed to have the most loving Grandparents anyone could ask for. We lived with them until my Mom could afford her own place. They doted on us. They spoiled us. The years we lived with them were some of my fondest memories growing up. I often attribute my love for family to them. To this day my Grandmother is still very much home to me.

When I was about 10 I decided that I was done allowing my Father to flit in and out of my life. I wrote a letter telling him how angry I was and that I didn't want to speak to him anymore. I had decided it couldn't just be "water under the bridge" . He handled it like a true man. He stopped talking to me. This went on for a few years.

My Dad remarried a woman with two daughters. He adopted them. He raised them. He loved them. He did all of the things with them that Dad's do. He and his wife also had a baby together. My little red headed sister. I had the privilege of meeting her when she was about 6 months old. She was the bright spot in the darkness of my life. I remember recalling how much my Dad loved her. He was so tender towards her.

Around age 12 he came out to visit. I recall him taking us to the mall. I recall him snapping my bra strap in a store while people looked on. I recall being mortified. I walked as far ahead of him as I could. I was terrified someone would see me with him. He was wearing a bathing suit for shorts, red and white tube socks, some old sneakers, and a ripped t-shirt that read " Iron Workers have Bigger Erections" . I couldn't wait for that visit to be over.

The teen years were tumultuous. I was full of anger and rage. I was bent on destruction. I hated myself. I hated my life. And I did many things that I ultimately would later regret. My relationship with my Mother went downhill as I began taking all of it out on her, the one who had always been there. I directed most of my rage at her.

The summer my brother was 13 he went out to visit my Father. I didn't want to go. He came back a completely different kid. He spent the entire time he was there smoking pot with him. Yes, my Father turned my bother onto weed at the tender age of 13.

The following summer after a myriad of bad choices on my part, I went to my Father's seeking a better life. I spent several weeks there smoking and drinking. I was 15 years old. I was permitted to do pretty much whatever I wanted to. My Dad spent every evening after work high. One day I was in the car with my Dad and my little sister (who was maybe 3 at the time). I don't recall where we were going. My Dad pulled over the car and told me to drive. I didn't even have a permit yet. I hopped in the driver's seat and took off. Shortly down the road, I smelled something. I look in the review mirror and see my Father smoking a joint.

Despite my complete lack of good judgment at that time, I knew this was a really bad idea. I pulled the car over and I got out and started running into some nearby woods. My Father came after me. When he caught up to me he could not figure out why I was so angry. He didn't think any of it was a big deal. Yet as messed up as I was, it was extremely clear to me the multitude of reasons why this was wrong.

I went home wishing never to return. And I wouldn't for years. Until his funeral.

The next time I would see him would be looking into his casket........


Keep reading for part two.