Alienation

It wasn’t the first time. Memory is a tricksy old thing. Rehearsed until they stick. Edited selectively. We seldom get the director’s cut, and yet we’re the director. So yeah, I feel short changed by memory. But then I’ve been cheated by far more than memory. And memories are all I have. Memories are all we will be one day. 

It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time I began to see. Eventually, despite my unwillingness to acknowledge what I saw, let alone accept it, I discerned the patterns that had been there all along. Cycle upon cycle. The movement of life is not linear. We go around and around in circles. Lost in a constriction of habits that never serve us well. 

We pass these bad habits on to our children. An ongoing legacy of pain and discord. We are chaos masquerading as order. The hungry birds pecking at the crumb trail that would lead us to better days. Busy fools going around in dizzying circles.

The moment that changed everything was innocuous. Later, I would understand that it changed nothing. Not really. The change had occurred from underneath me some time prior to this event, and it would continue to occur regardless. A hamster wheel of despair that rolled over everything I cared about, crushing the life out of it, little by little and bit by bit. A slow death that you are unaware of until it is far too late. A gradual degradation. A steady poisoning that blights the land until nothing will grow upon it.

She took an apple. I had seen her eyeing the apples earlier that morning. There was an avaricious quality to that look of hers. An intent that left me feeling uncomfortable. And so, it was for me to set the boundaries. Ignorance may be no defence against the law, but a seven year old needs to learn. I told her to leave the apples on the tree. They weren’t yet ripe, but we would pick them together when they were ready. I always tried to supply the why of it. A hard and isolated no always felt brutal to me. A verbal slap down that was seldom, if ever necessary, unless you wanted to exert a violent dominance over another. To talk, explain and engage was what it was all about. We work best when we relate to each other. Some would say that this was a kindness. For me, it was the only way. To grow and help others grow, and in the process, create golden memories.

And we did. Our family created a wealth of gold when it came to memories, but then we hit a wall of trauma the like of which I never knew possible. The worst of it was that it remained invisible even after the initial shockwaves. Perhaps I am still in shock. Maybe this is the state within which I will remain. Encased in a shell of discombobulation that will never allow me to relinquish the pain that was never mine in the first place. 

It seems to me that pain is spiritual cancer. It clings on to us and it weighs us down. Dragging us down into the darkness. That is the lie that comes with pain though. All of it is a lie. We hold on to pain, and the lies convince us that letting go would be the worst thing we could ever do. The parasitic double act of lies and pain have claimed more lives than cancer itself, because lies are addictively contagious. The madness of lies highly communicable. I know this now.

I know. I understand. Somehow I knew there would be a day when all the painful lessons would be of use. That was my hope. Learning the hard way so that others didn’t have to. I awaited the opportunity to pay something of use forward. To make amends for something that happened despite my best efforts.

And I think it started with that damn apple, but I have a feeling there were signs before then. But then, there isn’t a manual for parenting. You learn as you go along. As for step-parenting, the moving parts there are almost mind-bending. The way I approached it was this was our loving home. A few ground rules by way of values and a lot of love.

Then there was the bonus of play. The opportunity to introduce a child to more ways to play, learn and have fun. Teaching them how to ride a bike. Dancing to music like no one is watching. Playing the fool, when the real fool is the person too fearful to let themselves go and allow their inner child to reacquaint them with the simplest ways to have so much fun.

That summer morning, she played in the garden. Singing and dancing to herself the way that children do. I was talking to my wife about the plan for the rest of the day as I watched the carefree girl play in the garden. Then she stopped her play with a suddenness that gained all my attention. She changed so completely it sent a cold shiver down my spine. She looked around her to see if anyone was watching, unaware that I was. She then marched to the apple tree, reached up to the lowest hanging fruit. Tugged at it until she had the apple in her hand. She paused, considering the fruit, then in one fluid motion, lobbed it over the fence. Somehow, I knew she intended for our neighbour’s dog to find and eat that apple. That dog was old and struggled even with the strict diet they had it on. Billy was a kind, round faced Labrador, and Labradors were obsessed with only two things, love and food. They were so full of love that their love-filled obsession with food was legend. For Billy, just one apple might cause a mess or worse. A single increment that would make a big, bad difference.

Little did we know, that we were trapped in an invisible meat grinder of single increments. That as well as incremental gains, there can be incremental losses and by the time the damage is obvious, it’s potentially fatal. A tragic missed diagnosis. We seem wilfully complicit in circumstances such as these. Taken of an ignorance that hides our true nihilistic tendencies.

“Did you see that?” I asked my wife, but she hadn’t. Somehow, she seldom did. Another pattern. Another dynamic. The opposing role in a play that has been acted out a million times and more.

I didn’t linger. I strode out of the door, and a part of me wanted to catch her in the act of taking another apple. When we’re on song, our instinct is pretty accurate. We know how things will go before we step into the melee. If only we learnt to listen to our instincts. And to those around us. Things would go so much better for us all. 

She was still under the branches of the apple tree and her hand was rising upwards for a second, or maybe even a third or fourth apple. I was silent in my approach, but still she froze and then snatched away her hand as though the air itself had burnt her.

“What are you up to?” I asked her, stifling the righteous accusation and attempting to soften my justice-seeking inner teenager. The older and more peaceful part of me tipping a nod at my inner child. Giving her a chance. Allowing her space to express herself. There would be a reckoning. There must be consequences. But there was plenty of mitigation to be had. Most of all, it was about lessons being learned.

“Nothing,” she replied in a haughty voice she overused with her peers and younger children. She hadn’t turned to look at me.

I spoke her name and within that word was a warning. She turned towards me, but didn’t meet my eye. I was to come to realise that this was a common occurrence that I’d normalised. Allowances made for The Divorce and then for the change that I represented. Allowances that lingered longer than they should have, contributing to cycles of behaviour that exploited human nature.

I looked upon her and all I wanted was to get this moment over so we could move on and enjoy the rest of the day. A healthy pattern of learning and relating to each other. Sharing the most precious of resources, our time and our energy. A good day lay ahead and many more beyond this day. 

“Did you pick an apple?” I asked her in as neutral tone as possible. Now, when I look back, I remain unprescriptive in my expectations, but if pushed, I would admit to looking expectantly for some form of contrition, the best of which is a twinkle in the eye and a failed suppression of a smile. That break in subterfuge that allows the moment to flow in the right direction.

There was none of that.

“No,” she said firmly.

I sighed, “I saw you pick an apple.”

“No,” she repeated, “you did not.”

She said it with such conviction and certainty that my self-doubt nudged me and almost convinced me to back down and accept the blatant lie. This was an ever present dynamic that would increase in frequency and intensity over the following years. It turns out that some patterns, when repeated enough, can eventually dominate the landscape. And yet remain hidden.

I drew in a steadying breath, “I watched you do the very thing I told you not to do,” I stated.

“Where’s the apple then?” she countered.

I almost barked a laugh of indignation. I should have. I should have let forth with a howl that was a precursor to the primal scream that would be required of me one day, far too soon.

Just as I was about to tell my step-daughter that we both knew were the apple was, her mother stepped out into the garden, “what’s this?” she asked, a stern challenge to her words. 

It was a day for heavy breaths. I took another, for the challenge was directed at me. Another way of being, that we all fall into. A legacy from those who went before us and didn’t do much of a job of behaving well towards others. Locked in and certain of repetition because anyone foolhardy to call it out will be embarking on a lifelong series of battles to convince people to take a moment, think and then respond to what is really there as opposed to dancing with a fantastical projection. 

But we’re afraid. Fearful of so many things. We don’t want to get it wrong, so we don’t even try to get it right. We don’t want to put our head above the parapet and show the world who we are, because we have nowhere to go if that world rejects us. And so, we are too scared to be ourselves. Instead we hide behind our egos and make it up as we go along. Worse still, mental health has been painted as a taboo, when all we really mean is health. Being healthy. Looking after ourselves and each other. 

Crazy isn’t it? In our avoidance and our denial, our baseline state of mental health is subpar and heading backwards all the time. But we go with it all the same. Not our fault. Just the way it is. Best not rock the boat. Better not to challenge the status quo. And of course, when you do? You’re the problem. Everything was fine until you put your oar in.

How many heroes were subsequently bullied for their heroics? How many were beaten into submission by those who they helped and saved? For there is also a fear of the unknown and therefore a fear of change. Fear is a cage that masquerades as safety. Beyond the bars of the Fear Cage is the promise of unimaginable pain. Always the tendency towards ignorance. The put down to not overthink, which is merely spending a moment to think for ourselves for the first time in a long time. To look at something that has always been there, but you’ve never thought about before. To have no answers should be embarrassing, but how often have we heard the words we’ve always done it this way?

In this thick mud of intransigence, our inventors are heroes. Perhaps they are wilfully ignorant of the inertia, and operate in their own healthy bubble of ignorance. A bubble that insulates them from the very real prospect of being ostracised and belittled for daring to seek answers. Large peer groups peddling the lie that thinking goes against nature when our very nature is to seek answers and create meaning during our all too short lives.

Suffice to say that the battle of the Picked and Thrown Apple took a turn for the worst as mother and daughter combined forces against me. And for an age I accommodated this and in so doing, I let the rot set in. 

The pattern that formed, was that I parented and then my wife vilified me for parenting in front of my step-daughter. There was an inherent acceptance of this on my part. I didn’t want the conflict in the first place. I wanted everyone to be OK and for us to just get along and have great times together. I wanted a happy life and a happy home. 

But I couldn’t stop parenting, and in the end, I realised I couldn’t stop being me. Strangely, after the blow up in response to my enforcing healthy boundaries, I could talk to my wife about the whys and wherefores, and we could be reasonable about everything. She listened and she understood. And yet the pattern still played out. Growing roots not only in our lives, but also within us.

I always tried gently reasoning with my step-daughter. Leaving the follow up until the following day. Enough water under the bridge to allow us calm perspective. Never did she show remorse for even the most obvious of wrongdoings.

Still, I thought it was me. I was lacking. I wasn’t doing parenting right. Afterall, I was the adult and I was an adult that knew that if you wanted to change the world, then you changed yourself. First course of action is to own things and be the change. Yes, I actually said these things out loud and I did so to keep me honest. I couldn’t say the words without living them. So I went again and again, an unwitting moth crashing into a burning lightbulb. 

This was a perfect storm. We all of us ride our luck and learn the hard way. This is the preferred route to actually paying attention when wisdom is spoken. Our storm was perfect because despite what I viewed as the odd hiccup we had golden years together as a family. Our home was full of love and we spent time together actually doing things, many of them simple and beautiful in their simplicity. 

Now I think back, those times and my determination to live a love-filled life saved me. I loved and I was loved, and so I remained in a good place however bad things got. I was always true to myself and I could only be true to myself if I was true to those I loved. I played it straight and I played it the only way I knew how. Call me naïve, but I expected that from those around me. 

My stupidity was in believing I had the power to see through those who weren’t playing it straight. Maybe I did, but it took me seven years to see the game that my step-daughter’s father was playing. A game that went well beyond what I initially thought was parental alienation. 

And when we confronted him. Bang to rights. Red-handed. The lack of any reaction followed by a point-blank denial made everything fall into place at last. That was when I saw the ancient generational cycle that no one had ever been able to break, and wouldn’t break in this case.

I tried.

Oh how I tried.

And that’s why I’m here today. It’s not about having my moment in court. It’s what happens after. For once, I want words to mean something, so when the spokesperson says “lessons will be learned,” I’ll make darn sure they are. 

No one listened to me. Even in light of everything that happened and was evident. We’d rather turn away. Pretend that it didn’t happen, right up until the point where we can no longer avoid it. Even then we have a habit of kicking that can of worms up the road. Not our problem. Something for our children to address, we never speak these words. We don’t think that far ahead.

Someone has to speak up for the victims, especially the victims who then victimise. No more can we turn a blind eye. I just hope they’ll listen. But I know that’s a long shot. 

There are monsters amongst us. They hide in plain sight and smile their cruel hungry smiles. We dress them up in our denial, and deny the dark half of ourselves into the bargain. It is our dark half that conspires with the monster and allows them dominion in our lives. 

I was told to be kind to myself. That we never see the monster coming, and when it arrives in our life, we have no defence against it. At best, that is a half-truth. We don’t see the monstrous because we close our good eye and our dark half winks a welcoming acknowledgement. Invitation accepted, the monster sings to our darkness and we dance in answer to that call. All of us, without fail. 

We’re supposed to be better than that.

Despite everything , I still believe we can be…