I recently riffed with a friend about how vulnerable we are
as children and how little exposures to greater concepts creep their way into
our psyche and become really familiar, comfortable, and seemingly “safe” into
adulthood. The relationships I have had have either attracted similarly behaved narcissists or have attracted me to kind, stable men who brought out that side in me. I blame taught patterns. Nurture verses nature. This is a stretch, but hear me out:
Fun Dip is basically cocaine. Those little plastic wax bottes
with sugar water are the prelude to flight bottles. Candy buttons are acid
tabs. Candy cigarettes… well, come on. Big League Chew? Ludens Cherry masking
as a flavorful “medicine” that tastes like candy? Don’t even tell me you
haven’t taken down a box of those in a single quip.
The crash of our little clan met its demise on one Christmas in 1992 when dad revealed one of his wealthy, newly widowed clients wooed him and he was leaving us for them <insert picture of Dad’s new fucking family.>
Yeah. Well. Rich lady was the first. Then came her nanny who
he married (she needed papers, he needed pussy and to get back at Rich Lady). Then he cheated on her with
the family friend who he tortured and cheated on while she battled cancer until
she used her last breaths in hospice to kick him out of her home and then he
moved onto the other client/new divorcee/ doctor he was cheating on the friend
with; kicked the doc’s kids out and made himself cozy. She was more
conservative, so she insisted on marriage straight away. If you’re counting, that’s 4
marriages. He barely had time for me among all that treasure hunting, except to
remind me what a failure I was for wasting my potential and not becoming a
doctor that could potentially support him when his newest wife finds out what a
POS he is. He’s brainwashed her into thinking he saved her. They have zero
friends and are completely isolated from the world, like any of those stories
you read about where a prisoner is too dumfounded to escape, even when given
the opportunity. I never question why Elizabeth Smart didn’t run. Her brain was
temporarily washed of purity and beauty and she was made to think she lived in
shit, came from shit and was shit. Shit was her new home. She was in a cartoon
haze where a witchdoctor holds a spinning black and white spiral in front of
you and makes your eyes glassy and your reality hazy.
Exposure to this sort of tyrant makes you think you’ll absolutely NEVER become someone like him. You’re forced into believing that you will be the ultimate parent. What you don’t realize is that you’re so fucked up, you don’t even realize how detached you are, because you’re anticipating the fall; always. The drilling of how fortunate I was for having a "roof over my head" and "clothes to wear" and "good food to eat" and a "room full of toys" was the mantra this cult leader force fed me until I vomited. I was not allowed to cry and I did not understand how to process the constant discontent I felt. I was made to believe I was just ungrateful for not being happy with another Barbie, (or later a car). The truth is, I just wanted love. I gave every toy I ever had away in two plastic garbage bags in one gesture. In 4 minutes, every toy I ever owned was gone because my dad asked me to give a toy to a little girl who had none. She came to our house with her mother to pay my dad for a service (he was probably fucking her, too). I realized I didn't care about anything material. I still don't. I would steal from my parents and give the money to friends. I just wanted attention and love.
It made sense that I clung to the arts and became a master at mimicking and mocking the stories of other people. It was an escape and my first venture into portraying normalcy. I could become stronger by being impenetrable. Even now, my heart sends signals to my brain to do for others, but the closest people to me are hard to connect to. The callouses are hard. I'm always subconsciously preparing for them to leave. "Detached." "Hypervigilant."
As my “dad” used to say, “I’ll tell you this about that.”
I’ve personally failed. I fail at being a great parent every day. The same
expectations I had for my parents, I have for myself as a parent. And I failed.
The best friend- matching onesies- favorite sports team- come to me with
everything- best cook- house cleaner- saver for college- The never would I
evers: spank, yell, say yes, say no, let him this, let her that - all the
things…. I failed. I continues to fail. I am. And I will.
I’m never there enough. The kids are failing school. One is
over-weight (by a lot). We threaten to take their phones away or restrict them
for time frames that we never follow through on. They don’t have regimented
days with impactful schedules and holistic activities with music, art and
tutoring with exercise and social activities that are spoon-fed, pre-planned
rainbow-colored vegan, free-range, cage-free, organic, cruelty-free,
gluten-free meals, meant to nourish their minds and bodies and inspire
imagination and pave the way to successful futures. Alas, my poor Jewish heart,
none of them wants to be a doctor or a lawyer. (Thankfully) none of them are
THAT interested in the arts. They don’t do chores or clean up after themselves.
They curse like prison mates. They’re addicted to their phones and can be
incredibly rude and unthoughtful. They’d probably never shower unless we shamed
them into it. One takes medicine for ticks, ADHD and has been carefully plucked
from normalcy and placed on the “spectrum.” Because I vaccinated? Did I eat
sushi and brie while pregnant? Did I take a sip of wine or not hydrate enough? Did
sulfates permeate my shampoo? I failed.
However, two are really good at art. One is mastering
computers and can play any instrument he has ever picked up with proficiency
and has hacked every technological piece of equipment in our household to the
point where he is checking OUR mail and internet use. Two are huggers- like the
deep, long huggers where they put their whole heart into your arms. One loves
children and animals. One is very interested in veganism and its global impact.
One is openly exploring sexuality and gender fluidity. And one will unabashedly
tell you when something is “delicious” or “so fun.”
Every time one is a jerk, I wonder if its because of my genes. Every time one is bad in school or rebels or is angry.... I worry it is because of me. Then their dad spills something on the floor or uses an unhealthy coping mechanism in an argument and I'm relieved of full genetic culpability for their failures and shortcomings.
All three are desperately curious about their grandfather,
unfortunately. Even more upsetting, he has never been interested in them. His
hatred and disappointment for me has leaked all over their curious souls and he
has given them enough of himself in a few short visits over their lifespans to
pique their interest and ignite their hearts, only to abandoned them. It’s been
hard to tell them it isn’t their fault and he’s just sick. There was always the
off-chance that he’d come around again- and he has, like twice- and I didn’t
want to poison their perspectives in case he evolved into something else… Even
in my 40’s, I guess I still have to tell myself
that as much as he pins his inability to connect with me and the fact that he
keeps leaving: it’s not my fault. There has always been this hope that he’d
become someone he is incapable of being. He won’t. He can’t. He never will.
Making peace with that is hard when physically, I know he still resides.
Recently, I’d been trucking along in the land of accepted paternal
orphan hood, minding my business and WHAM! … Out of the blue, he’d found some
way to make the proverbial dumpster fire fall out of the sky and smash my world
and kick me in the groin. I’d grown complacent with the idea that he’d made
plans to donate his life-savings to a charity or to someone I don’t care for and
I’d hear of his physical passing years after I’d made peace with his emotional
ascension. He found some way to cut the last lifeline I had to any blood family
on “his” side. He tried eagerly for years to tell them I was horrible, a cheat,
a thief and to make them all suspicious of me. I found one cousin who wearily
communicated, but when he accidentally told me of the communique he had with my
dad (furious that I still had contact with HIS possessions/family), where he was warned about how horrible I am and even threw in some digs
about being ashamed of me, my marriage, other fallacies of what I was
unethically engaging in, and how my profession was wasteful… I penned a
poisoned novella to “dad” that may or may not have been drunkenly sent one
vulnerable night. It exposed my cousin’s well-intended discussion with me and
made him to look like the same deceitful ass-mole my dad painted me as… Cousin felt betrayed and justified in his reticence
to ever connect with me. He blocked me. Last lifeline cut. <thunderous applause; "dad" takes a bow> "Sabotage."
My first place to go for triage is to a friend who has been studying
her whole life about the same nuances in the Narcissists Newspaper our dads
must co-author. We didn’t meet in the greatest of emotional places. She
represented a large piece of my many colorful fragments. She’s the parts of me
that are glitter and fairy and energy and magic and she plans the most
important days for others. She’s like a social worker of entertainment. She’s
the Make-A-Wish of party planning. She was familiar to me in ways that were
both pleasant and frightening. I did what I usually do when I find someone else
who also loves glitter and music and is pretty, but has time to work out and is
also physically beautiful and
captures the attentions of people like I do but can't love about myself… I compare, I size up, then seize
up. She expressed nothing but love and admiration of me. I fell into the
patterns of putting both fists up and desperately searching for ulterior
motives. I looked for clues to hate her and when she befriended my bestie (in a
benign employment of his very publicly solicited services), I took it as a threat and
burned down any path that would lead us together. She attempted to convince me
that she was kind, connected… a soul sister. I wasn’t buying it.
It would take a long time and a lot of self-reflection before I reached out a pinky to her reconnection efforts with a half-hearted apology. I retained her professional services for an event in an effort to mend. They say if you want to start a rapport, ask for a favor. I thought maybe by employing her company and exchanging money, I could make it up to her. That's what "dad" did to show affection. Turns out, she would give me deals and freebies and the favor really was to me. Dammit.
Through the planning of the event, we would have small moments
of reflection of what went wrong (me) and self-revelations would slowly peak
through the dark curtains of the room I invited her into. Turns out the little
Jewish pixie yoga sage wasn’t just a rigorous glitter advocate who also found humor
in relatable memes like “nachos are just
tacos who don’t have their lives together”
but she also came from the Israeli version of my dad… like… exactly him. Like, she’d start
describing some horrible thing her dad would say or do or did and I’d have to
check in and say “wait, are we talking about my dad or yours?” We’d
finish each other’s sandwiches (that’s
what I was gunna say).
These conversations would grow over months with more detail.
We would reflect on their maladies and how we felt, how we feel, how it has
affected us in our adulthood, in relationships… The similarities between these
two men was uncanny. The manipulation, the insults, the isolation, the rapports
they had with other people, their misremembrances, their inability to be
satisfied with whatever gratitude we could offer for their remedial offerings, and
constant passive aggressiveness- down to the abandonment and complete quinquennial write
offs.
She’d endorse the emotional tumult. I’d regale her about the
literal bill mine had kept from every purchased meal and “gift” he ever gave.
We’d cackle over the unsurmountable obstacle course they’d constructed to
settle the tab of simply doing what a "dad" should do or to forgive us for being immature
when we were just kids.
We spoke about our struggles with trying to heal, trying to accept, trying to mend and make peace with the constant reminders that these men just don’t want us. They don’t want to try. They don’t care. And they think WE are the ingrates, deviants, whores and ultimate failures without ANY personal culpability.
We took turns venting. The way he treated my mother, our family, his friends…
The lies he made up about me. The absolute mental illness and emotional
torture… The days I would cry or be infuriated or just introspective and filled
with wonderment as to why he wouldn’t want me. The tumultuous relationships
with men; the need to control, collect affections only to gild them and shelve
them like trophies rather than nurture them. To not realize our patterns until
we lost people. She got it. She gets it. She is deeper in her journey maybe
because she is a few years older or perhaps because she chose not to have
children and has more space to reflect on those relationships without drowning
in how she is failing them. She has grace and has days of falter, but she
understands the need for connection and peace and the letting go and then the
haunting and disruption. We would spend mornings talking about our “dad’s”
traumas, why they reject us, what work it would be to heal them and make them
accept us, appreciate us, and be proud. She'd cheer me on when I read aloud the text or email I sent. She'd commiserate when his responses would be predictably hurtful and help me "process" it like a therapist. I'd feed her the same cordials when her dad would pull another stunt. I'd sit on the couch and stare out the window longingly when she would meet with her's and have a positive moment. Two adults stuck in a small cable car built for one, with our knees bent and our bodies contorted in the toddler roller coaster at a church carnival; bellies full of funnel cake and cheap beer. The perfect storm.
Our conversations, comparisons, laughs, cries, ventilation
sessions started to evolve and while I simultaneously built the scene for the
bar mitzvah that I was planning for my first-born son, so did the humorous planning
for our “*B’nai Shiva.”
*Of course,
a Shiva in Judaism is the week-long mourning period following a burial. Some
conservatives cover their mirrors. There is a lot of sash slashing, visitation,
mourning, praying, davening and over-eating. A Bar mitzvah, for a boy and a bat
mitzvah, for a girl. In some reform movements, the “B’nai” mitzvah is for
“multiple” which is usually used when you have twins or two families who wish
to celebrate their offspring at the same time. It saves money, generally, and
for besties- it’s a rather cool memory. There is probably more significance to all of these things. Just Google it.
Why couldn’t we have a “B’nai Shiva” and mourn the deaths of
our father’s passing at the exact same
time- as two survivors who share a similar narrative? How comical? The ying and
yang of two rites of passage meant to celebrate and mourn, respectively-
combined into an event like this?
I share this because the absolute horror of experiencing a
lifelong torture session from a parent who has ultimately lit a kaddish candle
in your honor and told people their daughter is dead can evoke a lot of
self-wallowing and sadness. For two glitter fairies seeking enlightenment who
are sick of mourning, there can also be a tremendous deal of laughter and
comradery in this crap club…
Picture this:
The two of us at the bima in our black, matching dresses, hand in hand like the Shining Twins. Sashes torn above our hearts. We stand with backs to the congregation before two coffins that hold the very remains of the virus that plagued us over and over again with no immunity, no vaccine... Each filled with the remainder of the cash they once held above our heads when all we actually held out for was acceptance.
We enter the reception area. Immediately, the hora begins and we are both hoisted up on chairs, holding the torn sash of torment between us.
There are two large cakes that appear as molds of the
deceased, displayed and entitled with dark red frosting “LYING”
in repose.
Crumbled cookie toppings are served with small shovels meant to “bury” the desert.
if you weren’t always mad at everyone.
The healing time has just begun…
Nana, come light candle number one!
We’d do the Electric Slide, YMCA, and Hands Up! We’d eat chopped liver-on OxyContin-shaped crackers…Dad’s favorite!
Bet you’d never imagine us to,
Aunt Bea, come light candle number two!
There would be
game/instrument tables with bobble-head caricatures hired to play our dads.
They’d start to teach attendants a game like backgammon or piano, and if you
did the exercise correctly, you’d get a prize. Then the caricature would
follow you around for the rest of the night demanding you say thank you and
then berating you for not being gracious enough. If you messed up, the game
board would be toppled over and they’d say how you were unteachable. Hilarity!
I still owe you debt for your “charity”
I know that you’re dead and you wish it were me
Uncle Larry, come light candle number three!
The ex-wives
club would come up and perform “He Had it
Comin” (Chicago!) and each scorned woman would tell their stories about the initial admiration that led to the psychological mind fuck and the subsequent: cheating, leaving and then
public shaming where our "dads" blamed their victims of the crimes THEY committed.
Feather boas and glitter and top hats!
And now you can rest, from years of torture.
Your term can now end, we can’t take anymore.
Grandma Gertrude, come light candle number four!
Our moms hit the stage. Two chairs and two spotlights. The two among your first victims when you were just Kiddie Kim Jongs… Baby Benitos… Supple li'l Stalin's…. They sing some Cabaret version of “I Will Survive” in perfect synchronicity. They end the number with a paper gun shooting dollars into the crowd… The two caricatures of our dads rush to be the first to pick it all up and stuff it into their pockets. The crowd roars with laughter.
Five, Six, Seven… Did you really think you’d make it
to Heaven?
Bags of glitter falls from the ceiling and we all come together in a huddle and sing “We are Family” and slowly the crowd blows kisses and offers condolences as they make their way home. They grab their loot bags filled with pre-rolled joints, chocolate gelt (with little notes pads saying how much was spent on the party and what everyone owes- even though the time it took to create it would make all attendants eternally beholden), a hoodie that says “I danced the night away at the B’nai Shiva!” and a box of tissues for tear shedding.
In truth, all you left us was taint
So, in lieu of the lies you’ve been linked with sainthood
We’ll toast to the things that you ain’t
It was heavy to hold the heft of your hate
So, Grandpa Hal, please come light candle number eight!
And then…. Peace? Maybe each of us spends the rest of the eternity picking shards of glitter from the convention hall carpet as a constant memory?
Maybe returning "them" to the earth and planting a tree above them will yield a gnarly, thick-barked oak with black roots and barren of leaves.
Maybe the greatest redwood grows in a twist of geographical gaffe and
produces the freshest flowers that bloom all year long? Will we visit the
cement slabs that seal the grounds where the final remains remain? Will we
leave a stone so they knew we came? Will we rather incinerate and scatter into the
seas and let the creatures recreate their former structures into new shells and
regrowth?
As I read much of this passage back, it felt much darker than
I remember our conversations being about it. For those who have fathers they
love and cherish and have lost, forgive me for finding humor in building an imaginary
event to memorialize a passing. In truth, he’s been dead a long time. Maybe he
died on the day he decided to leave in 1992. I didn't realize it then, but I think I became a grief therapist
to rebuild what’s been broken from being bereft for most of my life. When do we
heal? Is this story just a thread in the quilt of my lifetime? Have I been
desperately trying to patch holes of a burlap encasing with slivers of silk that
won’t stick? Am I brain-dead to bang my head on the ground with anger over a
story that has been pre-written before I was even born?
My mother miscarried before they had me. I wonder if I was given a choice to be alive and heard the way he lived his life and then begged to be taken back. Maybe I needed more time to realize I could handle it and then descended back down to give it a shot.
I hope you weren’t waiting for a conclusion where I tell you I know now. I don’t. Every day, I take a small step forward. It’s not done. It’s never done. This is my story. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you funny and evokes a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms. I have yet to meet this “they” but I’d like to.
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