DISCLOSURE:: This is the first installment of many from The Story Of My Life posts.
The following post may shock, anger, or flabbergast you. Consider yourself warned.
They say that the divorce rate these days is 33%. That is one in three marriages that fail.
One day, when I’m happy and married, I don’t want to become that statistic. Celebrating my 50th year anniversary is the statistic I want to be apart of. You see, I don’t like to be like other people, or like the majority of the population.
My parents, however, weren’t that way. At one point in their lives, I’m sure they were very happy. Those days are ones I don’t remember. Somewhere, I’m sure, they are locked in my memory. Maybe, just maybe, one day I will talk to someone who can pry those memories from deep in my unconscious, but that is a long time from now, as I don’t think I can deal with the bad memories that may be lurking.
Looking back, I can see how unhappy they were. Years and years of experience with relationships have made me realize that back in those days, I was simply young and naive.
Well, I suppose that isn’t entirely true. As my parents would scream at each other, I would sit in my room and bawl. Hands over my ears, and at times scream “stop it!!” Rarely did it ever make them stop, and if they did, it would be so that my dad could tell me to “shut up.” Really.
One day, I came home from school to them fighting on the phone. I was about 11, maybe 12. Dad was home, mom was at work. Don’t ask what the argument was about, as I don’t remember. Anger flooded through me as I threw my bag in my room and stormed back into the living room. I looked at my father and told him to stop. He didn’t. So I walked out the door and slammed it. Pretty hard, too. Fed up, I walked to my friends house.
Fast forward to a week before my 13th birthday. This is one of the hardest memories I have suppressed that I can remember. I came home. No one was there. Normally my dad, who was a mover, was home before I was. Actually, I think he always was. Living room was empty, so I checked the kitchen. Empty. As I walked out of the kitchen on the dining room table, I found the note. All I remember is “I will always love you and your brother and sister.” It was addressed to me.
Horror and pain flooded my entire body when I opened the door to my parent’s bedroom. My eyes darted to the bed that was missing a pillow, to the headboard that was missing things, to the top of daddy’s dresser that was completely empty. I checked the drawers and remember thinking “maybe he put everything away.” Nothing. I was bawling at this point and by the time I checked the closet for his hanging clothes, I could barely see. As I made my way back to the door, I went into hysterics and just collapsed.
I literally crawled to my phone. He was gone. He left us. He abandoned his children. How could he?!?!
Dialing the only number I trusted, I waited for Kristen to answer. Her mom did. I didn’t want to talk to her. In the best voice I could muster, I asked for Kristen. Her mom said she hadn’t come home quite yet. Then she asked the question that I had hoped she wouldn’t – “What’s wrong?”
Breaking down again, I don’t know how she understand a word I said. I don’t even remember what I said to her. All I know is her and Kristen showed up a few minutes later. In those few minutes I am almost certain I called my mom, or maybe they did. It’s a blur.
In the years following, my dad blamed my mom for his leaving. He said that her constant late night internet chats were the cause, and he suspected cheating. My mom, on the other hand, kept quiet for a long time before telling me that my dad was an alcoholic and would gamble away his entire paycheck.
He cleaned up his act (he did admit to his problems) , and got his own place about a year after him and my mom split. They divorced, which made them both happy. There was no more yelling and fighting in the home, which made me happy. My siblings were really young, and if they remember any of this, I feel sorry for them. God knows I don’t want to remember.
After moving on, my father found a girl, who had her own son, and they became their own little family. His new girlfriend was old enough to be my sister, and not nearly old enough to be my mother, thank you very much. Sure, she was an adult and I wasn’t, but at 15, I was NOT taking orders from a 22 year old.
We had our issues whenever I went to my dad’s and she was there. He didn’t care. He was in love with her. The last time I really went to my dad’s there was a huge blow out. That female pushed me too far and I lost it. She told me that I WAS going to church and there was NOTHING I was going to do about it, and I told her I WASN’T going because I didn’t BELIEVE in god. Well, she didn’t like that too much, and I don’t suppose she would probably welcome me back even if I had wanted to go back.
It wasn’t like they had been going to church ever since they first started dating. This was a whole new thing, and I was having none of it. God had screwed me over a few too many times in the 15 years of my life to believe there was anyone “watching over us.”
More recently, my sister got really sick. Had to have her appendix out. I was about 4 months pregnant at the time with Ariana, so I’d say it was about a year and a few months ago. It was an emergency surgery, and my mom, very nicely, even if she didn’t want to, told my sperm donor (which is the name we adopted for him). He came out, and I could tell right off the bat he was on drugs. In my experience, I have been around druggies, I knew one when I saw one. Especially when that person is someone I have known my whole life. Disappointed, I opted not to tell him of the baby girl growing inside of my belly.
That reassured me that my decision to not talk to him in many years was a good one. His sister and I are really close. She is my auntie. She is also close to my mom, and would keep her updated on my father’s whereabouts and what she knew. Either my mom never told me he was on drugs, or she never got the news either.
Just after Ariana was born, he contacted me via text message. I’ve had the same number since I was 18; it’s never changed. We talked on the phone for a bit, and he confessed his sins of the drug use. I wasn’t surprised, and I told him that much. He sounded extremely depressed throughout the conversation, and perhaps that was his way of getting to me. I have a huge heart, which is why I get hurt so easily, but I opened the door to my heart for my sperm donor, despite my better judgment.
He came over, we chatted, he met the kids. Things were good. He’d come over once a week for a few months. Then, in Augustish, he disappeared again. We spoke once a month before Halloween because he wanted us to come out. I had agreed, but then heard nothing until the day of Halloween. I opted this time to not talk to him. And haven’t heard from him since.
I hate myself for letting him back in. I’m positive he relapsed and is victim once again to the drugs that stole him away once. Stupid, that’s what I was. My son fell in love with him, and he abandoned him. Not again. I vow that.
overwhelming as all of this is for a Mommy like me, it also opens new doors and opportunities. She can run and giggle and play with her big brother, who adores her so much.
