Conflicted Pain

I’m so sorry this happened to you, Dad!

I sat in my window seat, staring at nothing and seeing everything.

Tears ran down my cheeks on paths that have been dry for years. I took a deep breath as feelings climb through my spirit like children on a jungle gym.

How could this happen and why didn’t anyone stop it?

As I look out the window, my brain starts a familiar movie I don’t want to see and hear.

You’re an embarrassment to this family.

You’re throwing your life away.

Your feelings don’t matter to me.

All were echoes and emotions that have continually played through my mind for decades.

My father was a demanding figure. He thought compliments would make me conceited, so he rarely gave them out. To him, emotions were a sign of weakness, except for anger.

I got up from my seat in the window, walked to the dresser and picked up a family picture. Within the wooden frame, I saw the family others were meant to see. We sat close together, smiles glued on our faces, giving the appearance that all was well.

As I look at my father’s face, I hear his roar as the movie continues in my head.

I see a small house with a fence around the front yard. My father was on the grass pushing a mower when I, as a young girl, came out of the house and skipped down the sidewalk. I looked at my father and stopped in my tracks.

The eyes of fury housing tiny flames, burned my heart and he yelled, “Get out of here!”

I left the yard crying because I understood that my father wanted me to leave my home and never come back again.

I felt a cold chill run through me. I set the picture down and wiped my nose. I wandered to my computer and took a seat, my shoulders curled forward. Following the electronic calisthenics, I opened a file entitled, obituary.

My mother asked me to write the words of remembrance that would be placed on an eternal billboard, showing the world a man who appeared to be loving, gracious and magnanimous to those who did not live within our home.

I sat back and wondered how I was going to write this when I knew the words I was expected to write were anything but true.

The movie in my head continued. I remembered a Christmas, over 40 years ago. Both my older brother and I asked for guitars—something I desperately wanted—and when we opened our gifts, my brother received one, but I didn't.

I shook my head remembering the young girl’s face, trying to hide her tears of disappointment.

The film next revealed my dad, the star of the drama, looking at me and putting on a smile of contempt. He walked to the floor-length curtains, moved them aside and pulled out one last gift and it was a guitar for me.

His laughed and his eyes mocked me, destroying the joy of the gift and building on the idea that I was not good enough.

My fingers move and open a new file labeled, Dad, and with a soft click, I stare at the blank screen. I shook my head, wondering where to start. The screen blurs and another reel began to play.

We were in our old station wagon, traveling home. Dad and Mom were in the front and my siblings and I, in the back. Suddenly, a blue light flashed in my eyes and Dad pulls the car over.

As the policeman comes to the window, I began to cry tears of fear.

What has happened? What will the policeman do to my dad? Will he be taken to jail?

After the policeman left, my father reached into the backseat and slapped my wet cheek. He roared, “You have embarrassed me, yet again.” I sat back with my little hand covering the sting on my face.

My fingers find the keyboard and I see the curser waiting on the screen as I prepared to write of the real man who lived in my house that others didn’t see.

Another film begins in my head. I see me as a young woman, so proud of the first house my husband and I bought. Then, like air slowly escaping a brightly colored balloon, I see myself deflate as I witness disdain on my father’s face as he questions my husband.

“Has she learned to cook yet? She certainly couldn’t be bothered to learn how earlier in her life. She was always so lazy.”

I took a step back, biting my lip, as I heard laughter that only came from my father’s mouth.

My fingers click on the keyboard.

It is with great sadness; I announce the death of Samuel M. Clark.

I nod as I stare at the screen, realizing the first part of the sentence was accurate. The movie playing in my head continues.

I see myself, as an older adult. I was visiting my parents. I saw myself working hard at disguising the dreaded obligation I felt going to the nursing home which housed my father.

The man I saw in the bed didn’t look anything like the man I grew up with and yet, poison still seeped from his mouth as he criticized me for not coming to visit more often and helping my mother with things around the house.

I feel again the relief the woman felt as she left the facility and then, as I click more words on the electronic paper, a sorrow fills my soul. Another warm tear escapes and rolls down my face.

I shake my head at my conflicting emotions.

 No one should have to stay in a place like that. I don’t know how Dad can stand it. I wish he didn’t have to be there.

My fingers pause and grab a tissue trying to sop up the abundance of sorrow.

I see the movie continue. The newspaper article is before me and I gasp when I read that the nursing home where my father lived for two years and then died in had multiple workers who were arrested for a series of elder abuse.

My heart rate rises as I see in my head my dad being mistreated, sometimes harshly by those who were supposed to care for him.

My fingers weep as I try and reconcile years of hurt with this recent mistreatment within the nursing home. They spell out, I’m so sorry this happened to you, Dad.

Looking at the eight words I typed on the screen, I feel as if someone punched me in the gut. I continued to write.

Today, I sadly announce the death of Samuel M. Clark. A man who dished out a legacy of undeserved guilt but was also a receiver of an undeserved dose of mistreatment.

I nod my head, knowing, both of these things were true.