the way [he] left
I came across a book today. A book of poetry by Rupi Kaur. And in this particular book, dealing with some REALLY tough subject matter (sexual abuse, trauma, abandonment, relationships), there was one small, short verse that stuck out to me and truly resonated with my whole being.
the way they
leave
tells you
everything
It's been a really long time since I've written anything here. And honestly, it's been hard to find the energy or inspiration to write. So much of my writing, my good writing, comes from times of turmoil mixed with just the right amount of hope and joy. It's a pretty specific combination. And this last ten months has brought an overwhelming amount of turmoil that, at times, seems far to gargantuan to find the same ratio of hope or joy to find the correct dose to write again.
But this verse. These four lines. Seven words. They ring so true.
It was my golden birthday a couple weeks ago. I had always hoped that this year in my life, my golden year, would come with an amount of good luck and rainbows and glitter and sprinkles and a magic fairy godmother that would just find a way to push any kind of negativity out of my life and give me a truly fantastical year before my carriage turned back into a pumpkin and everything got smashed to shit. Luckily for me, life wasn't so kind. And I'm thankful for that.
Two days before my birthday, I received a card in the mail. The only one I had received in the mail, funnily enough, and there was no return address on it. Mainly because the sender wanted to be sure that I wouldn't return it, or I would be unable to return it before opening it. And I can't fault him that. After all, the chance of an adult child ignoring communiques from an estranged parent are much higher when forewarning (such as a return address) is given on any communications.
My biological father would tell you that he never left his kids, that he was forced out. And that he tried to stay in their lives, but that every effort he made was obstructed by my mother. And from his own perspective, he would be right. My siblings and I grew up in a hell hole. We grew up in a place where it was okay for a father to barge into his teenage daughter's room and demand a purity ring because she was looking at a pre-teen book on "dating." We grew up in an environment where if a child disobeyed a father's instructions, it led to a whipping that left an ass with deep tissue bruising for almost two weeks afterwards. Where it was normal to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of breaking appliances and shattering glass and cast iron crashing so hard it cracks. Where a father demanded respect simply because of his gender and the role he insisted he take in the household.
So when my mother filed for divorce, filed for a protection order, tried to find ways to protect her kids, of course it had absolutely NOTHING to do with what my biological father wanted. He didn't want to leave. He did nothing that warranted such hostility. He was forced out. And his kids were given protections that said they were never required to be alone with him if they didn't feel safe.
For over a decade, he has berated my mother. Attacked her. Refused to co-parent with her. Blamed her for any conflicts there were between him and my siblings. Debased her over and over and over again. Dragged her back to court numerous times in an attempt to remove the protections she put up for my siblings. And when I started to stand up to him and support her, I was attacked, too. It took a rape and a miscarriage to repair that fracture. hen, seven years later, when his attention turned to my older brother, and he attacked him in a legal setting, I stood beside my brother, and for me, that was a breaking point. I didn't want anything more to do with the man that had impregnated my mother, helped give me life, because the life experiences he had helped provide me with were far more bitter than sweet.
And then, on April 17th, 2018, the unthinkable happened. My youngest brother, at the age of 19, was taken from us. So, in the name of family, I opened my arms to my biological father again, hoping against hope that such a loss would rock him to his very soul and help him realize that my mother was not his enemy, but his ally, and that the turmoil and prejudice and toxicity I had witnessed from him towards her would start to erode and lead to healing.
What a fool I was.
"Grief does strange this to the mind, Evie."
He didn't just come back with the same old tricks. They wouldn't have worked anymore, anyways. There were no longer any minor children involved. He came back full force, with more enmity than he had ever had in my life, times ten. He reported her to several authorities for fraud for funds that were raised for my brother's death.When correction and clarification was brought from several witnesses, he went for another route. Over. And over. And over again.
I haven't spoken to him in nine months. And while he would say that he never left, I would differ. In fact, I would say that him leaving would have been preferable to the actions he has taken over the last seventeen years. I would say that leaving quietly in 2002, acknowledging that he was no longer a safe person to be in his kids' lives, and accepting the guards that were put in place for the well being of his children would have been preferable to the treatment we received at his hands for the last seventeen years.
But he didn't. He left, over and over and over, in a hailstorm. Fighting for his own validity and hurting people in his own insecurity. Blaming others for the consequences of his own actions. And he now wails in agony at losing those he tried so desperately to receive validation from.
Yes, the way he left did tell me everything.
the way they
leave
tells you
everything
It's been a really long time since I've written anything here. And honestly, it's been hard to find the energy or inspiration to write. So much of my writing, my good writing, comes from times of turmoil mixed with just the right amount of hope and joy. It's a pretty specific combination. And this last ten months has brought an overwhelming amount of turmoil that, at times, seems far to gargantuan to find the same ratio of hope or joy to find the correct dose to write again.
But this verse. These four lines. Seven words. They ring so true.
It was my golden birthday a couple weeks ago. I had always hoped that this year in my life, my golden year, would come with an amount of good luck and rainbows and glitter and sprinkles and a magic fairy godmother that would just find a way to push any kind of negativity out of my life and give me a truly fantastical year before my carriage turned back into a pumpkin and everything got smashed to shit. Luckily for me, life wasn't so kind. And I'm thankful for that.
Two days before my birthday, I received a card in the mail. The only one I had received in the mail, funnily enough, and there was no return address on it. Mainly because the sender wanted to be sure that I wouldn't return it, or I would be unable to return it before opening it. And I can't fault him that. After all, the chance of an adult child ignoring communiques from an estranged parent are much higher when forewarning (such as a return address) is given on any communications.
My biological father would tell you that he never left his kids, that he was forced out. And that he tried to stay in their lives, but that every effort he made was obstructed by my mother. And from his own perspective, he would be right. My siblings and I grew up in a hell hole. We grew up in a place where it was okay for a father to barge into his teenage daughter's room and demand a purity ring because she was looking at a pre-teen book on "dating." We grew up in an environment where if a child disobeyed a father's instructions, it led to a whipping that left an ass with deep tissue bruising for almost two weeks afterwards. Where it was normal to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of breaking appliances and shattering glass and cast iron crashing so hard it cracks. Where a father demanded respect simply because of his gender and the role he insisted he take in the household.
So when my mother filed for divorce, filed for a protection order, tried to find ways to protect her kids, of course it had absolutely NOTHING to do with what my biological father wanted. He didn't want to leave. He did nothing that warranted such hostility. He was forced out. And his kids were given protections that said they were never required to be alone with him if they didn't feel safe.
For over a decade, he has berated my mother. Attacked her. Refused to co-parent with her. Blamed her for any conflicts there were between him and my siblings. Debased her over and over and over again. Dragged her back to court numerous times in an attempt to remove the protections she put up for my siblings. And when I started to stand up to him and support her, I was attacked, too. It took a rape and a miscarriage to repair that fracture. hen, seven years later, when his attention turned to my older brother, and he attacked him in a legal setting, I stood beside my brother, and for me, that was a breaking point. I didn't want anything more to do with the man that had impregnated my mother, helped give me life, because the life experiences he had helped provide me with were far more bitter than sweet.
And then, on April 17th, 2018, the unthinkable happened. My youngest brother, at the age of 19, was taken from us. So, in the name of family, I opened my arms to my biological father again, hoping against hope that such a loss would rock him to his very soul and help him realize that my mother was not his enemy, but his ally, and that the turmoil and prejudice and toxicity I had witnessed from him towards her would start to erode and lead to healing.
What a fool I was.
"Grief does strange this to the mind, Evie."
He didn't just come back with the same old tricks. They wouldn't have worked anymore, anyways. There were no longer any minor children involved. He came back full force, with more enmity than he had ever had in my life, times ten. He reported her to several authorities for fraud for funds that were raised for my brother's death.When correction and clarification was brought from several witnesses, he went for another route. Over. And over. And over again.
I haven't spoken to him in nine months. And while he would say that he never left, I would differ. In fact, I would say that him leaving would have been preferable to the actions he has taken over the last seventeen years. I would say that leaving quietly in 2002, acknowledging that he was no longer a safe person to be in his kids' lives, and accepting the guards that were put in place for the well being of his children would have been preferable to the treatment we received at his hands for the last seventeen years.
But he didn't. He left, over and over and over, in a hailstorm. Fighting for his own validity and hurting people in his own insecurity. Blaming others for the consequences of his own actions. And he now wails in agony at losing those he tried so desperately to receive validation from.
Yes, the way he left did tell me everything.
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