I may have shocked many of you with my graphic depictions in my previous post. I apologize if it was too difficult to read. I didn’t even proof read my writing before hurriedly saving and submitting my post. I knew if I thought too deeply about it, I would change my mind about sharing that part of my story. At any rate, it is out there now. My soul laid bare and vulnerable to any and all eyes to judge at will.
This part of my tale will feature my time living with my dad. I lived with my dad and brother for a little over two years before moving on to live with my Nanna. I know, it seems like maybe I was the problem, after all. Common denominator? Troubled teenage girl who had no idea how to properly express her emotions. Bear in mind that puberty also waited to make its appearance until I was living with two males who truly had no clue. My dad had experience from the outside, of course. But, let’s face it, no man will ever truly understand what puberty for a female fully entails. Moving on!
My dad still lived in the single wide behind my Nanna’s house in Oak Grove, Mississippi. When I joined him and my brother there, it was clear I was now the outsider intruding on their cohesive home. They’d already formed a routine and bonded in a way that excluded me. It was no fault of theirs, and they are completely blameless. I just found myself to be a stranger in this home we all once shared as a happy family unit. Dad was now working 24 hour shifts as an EMT with 48 hours home in between. My brother and I were self sufficient enough that we were more than able to care for ourselves the days he was not home. Thankfully, the fridge and cabinets remained fully stocked in this home. Our options ranged from MRE kits to pizza rolls and tv dinners.
The shift from the chaos to which I’d grown accustomed to the simple routine of day to day life back in Oak Grove was sudden. I was jumpy and over apologetic for a long time, always fearful that an unintentional action could light some unseen fuse. This was not the case in the beginning. My dad, like my mom, didn’t make it very long as a single man. He has never seemed to be the type to enjoy solitude, as may be evidenced by his and my mom’s speedy relationship changes. I don’t recall every woman he dated. Not that there was a vast number; he just didn’t introduce everyone he took to dinner. The first that really sticks out in my memory is Rhonda. She was a heftier woman-or Heavy Duty Cutie, as my dad jokingly refers to his type-with hair dyed a bright shade of blood red. To paint as clear a picture as I can, she was basically the receptionist from the group home on Despicable Me. If you haven’t seen it or don’t remember, watch the scene where she interacts with the three young sisters and their failure to meet her standards in cookie sales. She was a nurse with twin sons about two years older than I was, Hayden and Taylor, and a daughter about five years younger, Morgan. Rhonda was a woman who was sure of herself and what she expected from life and those around her. I say that to explain that I did, and still do, admire her in a way. She had perfectly straight, whitened teeth with nails that were kept clean and professionally manicured. When she and her children were invited to move into the three-bedroom trailer with us, I was furious. This was going to be no different than what my mom just did. I was mostly angry at myself for expecting anything different. I packed a suitcase and marched through the front yard, around my Nanna’s fence, and up to my Mawmaw’s door. I proclaimed that I could not live with those people and asked which room I should take. After explaining exactly what was happening, my Mawmaw let me have one of her spare rooms. I would set a timer on the tv so it would shut itself off at the conclusion of Everybody Loves Raymond, have a tiny cup of sweetened, creamy coffee in the mornings, and spend my summer days watching Judge Judy and game shows with Mawmaw.
I was allowed to live in this fantasy world for the duration of the Summer. My dad commanded my return home for the beginning of the school year. I never understood the reasoning, when I reminded him that I could simply walk to the end of the driveway to get on the school bus with my brother. No amount of arguing or reasoning changed his mind. I packed my suitcase and joined Morgan in “our” room. She stuck her little freckled nose up at me and pointed to the top bunk of the new bed. “You can sleep up there,” she informed me with all of the bossiness she could muster. She’d learned the expression from her own mother. They were practically twins themselves. I think Rhonda tried in her own way to include me. She took me to get my hair done and shop for school clothes. However, despite these feeble attempts to bond with me, Rhonda clearly preferred her own children be the sole children in the household. If her precious daughter whined or stomped her way into the room with the slightest complaint of my behavior, I was immediately punished. Morgan was saintly and could do no wrong in her mother’s eyes. Naturally, I harbored some jealousy. I missed my own mom, regardless of the recent horrifying circumstances under which we were separated. These feelings, however unjust, were the cause of many arguments that would break out between Morgan and me. Her self-righteous attitude did not mix well with my roiling inner turmoil. I’d yet to fully process what I’d been through up to this point, and I didn’t know who I even was. I felt suffocated by this fake life I was being forced to participate in. I had nowhere to hide and was disallowed from exhibiting any emotion or expression other than a grateful smile. My dad married Rhonda in the living room of a home which belonged, I believe, to her mother. These minute details continue to evade me. Their marriage, of course, was so short-lived that I barely remember anything other than the next thing being their last argument. My brother and step-brothers were arguing over who would play the video game next, and it seemed to be the final straw when brought to the attention of Dad and Rhonda. They were taking the sides of their own children, and they were not able to move past it. I’m not sure of the specifics behind any of their other problems. I only remember my dad, with fire in his eyes, turning in his seat to face us before we drove away. He spit out that my brother and I did not want him to happy and would do anything we could to make sure he never would be. He claimed we’d “sabotaged” his marriage. Most of these accusations were hurled in my direction before he spun to face forward and shifted the truck into drive.
Like my mom before him, my dad was blaming me for his relationship issues. Don’t misunderstand me, I realize I was a difficult child. I am not claiming that I am without fault. I am just baffled that neither of them tried to understand my point of view. I was eleven years old. I had been through some things that had likely caused irreparable damage to my psyche and emotional state of mind. I was short tempered, full of rage, and immeasurably saddened by all that had occurred. I don’t remember having any communication with my mom for about four or five years. That little girl of my past was in so much pain, and I can only think of comparing her to a mistreated, caged wild creature that was always being cornered. Her reactions in snapping and growling were severely punished, but she didn’t know any other way to react or behave in the face of her fear and overwhelming distress.
Stay tuned for a continuation of this part of my story. Please, also understand that I am not trying to bash or put down anyone in these posts. My dad did what he could with what he was given. I have accepted that fatherhood has never been a role he was really meant to fulfill. It would have been best for him and anyone with whom he was involved to not have the burden of a damaged child. Things happened the way that they happened, and I am moving on in the only way that I know how. I am bleeding the poison from these old wounds into these words you read. May healing follow, for P’s sake as well as mine.
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