I only really realized recently, how very long I have been grieving. I have shared my background, my childhood challenges with some of my therapists. Yet none have noted that my whole life has, basically, been a series of grief causing traumas. Hear me now - I am not complaining or asking for sympathy. I just want to explore the beginnings of my dance with the old bugger, grief.
I had early losses of pets and friends left behind when we moved from Ft Worth to Dallas. But there was nothing in my childhood to prepare me, for the BIG one.
At the age of seven, my Daddy left. He went to work one evening and he never returned to live with us again.
The morning after the fateful day that my dad went MIA, my mom received a telegram from him. She read it through tears. This was the second time I had ever seen her cry.
But these tears - these seemed different. They had anger and betrayal written on each drop. I was seven. I had no way to comfort my mama's broken heart. My little brother was upset but really confused. Neither of us knew what to do.
This loss. This Daddy-gone thing, would have been traumatic enough to throw me into a tailspin. But - fuel to that fire - my mom insinuated and, at times, downright, said, that he had left all three of us. It was not enough that we were without a father's presence; it was important to my mom that we know beyond a doubt that he left us. He divorced us the next year.
Years later, one of my counselors would refer to this as "emotional blackmail" on my mom's part. And he was correct.
We were forced soon after the leaving, to choose sides. My daddy came to visit and was made to wait outside the door while we decided - at eight and five years of age - whether we wanted to see him. Mom stood by the door, arms folded, lips set tight in a grimace. She left no room for interpretation. We simply loved her, or we loved him. Not both.
It was clear, in our little minds anyhow, that we had to choose her. After all, he had left us! So, we lived with mom. And you gotta keep the one you live with happy. The pain is still fresh on my heart. These sixty years later, I am still saddened and hurt by our mother's lack of compassion and by her bitterness.
She never forgave my dad. She would spend her life seeking medical help for physical ailments - a multitude of them. I have no doubt that she was in great pain. But it was psychic, emotional, spiritual; not physical. And she could never admit that she might need more than surgery to heal.
As a result of this my brother and I spent an inordinate amount of time in hospitals as we grew up. Mom had something like 50 surgeries by her sixtieth birthday! And we were there for every one of them. Sitting in the waiting room for hours. Sleeping at her side in the hospital room after. And there were no pull out couches or recliners in the beginning so sometimes we would take turns sitting in a hard-plastic chair, trying to doze a bit. Always tired. Always scared. Always lonely.
My grief invaded my every cell. I began to lose footing in school. We attended so many different elementary schools - I actually went to six in six years! This was due to moving so much for mom's changing of jobs.
I began to lose interest in fun. I was a kid. And I thought I ought not act like one.
My goal in life became to be perfect. That's right P E R F E C T! And of course, I was not.
Worse than the absence of perfection, was the presence of being 'less than'. My self-esteem plummeted. I saw myself as incapable and powerless. When I tried to accomplish something, anything, I was immediately convinced it was useless.
The loss of my mother's support added to the pile of grief that was mounting quickly.
The feeling of inadequacy would later mar all my relationships.
I grieve as well for those years I wasted being insecure and hurt instead of just enjoying my life.
When I was nineteen, I made a very grown up decision. I can't even say what precipitated it; I do not recall any sudden "Aha's". What I do recall is that one day I started to wonder about my dad. It had been ten years or more since he last attempted to visit us and was turned away by his hurt and bitter children.
But what if, just what if, there had been more to the separation than I was allowed to know? What if my dad had had a fairly valid reason for leaving?
And what if? Heaven help me. What if he really wanted all these years to be with me; to see his "Linda with the dancing eyes" again? By denying him all these years, I might have been denying myself.
So, I found his number. And I called him. It took some chutzpah, if I say so myself, to dial that number and just say my name.
And it was true! My daddy wanted me after all. I had been lied to for a very long time about his feelings. He had never intended to leave his kids - just the marriage that was not working. He had never wanted me to hurt because of his decision. And he had no idea how mom had held us hostage.
We developed and maintained a good relationship until his death, many years later. He was supportive and encouraging, telling me that I was the very best daughter ever - something I never heard from mom. He appreciated my art and he took joy in his grandson.
The reconciliation was a watershed moment for me. I began to heal that day that I used the pay phone in the public library to call my dad and ask him back into my life. My mom was terribly angry and hurt that I had reconnected with him. This made it even more clear as to her thought processes and her odd interpretation of love. When he died in 1999, I told her, and she responded, "Good!"
There is a lot more and nothing more to say. This grief has been an almost life long experience. And each time I lose another person close to me there is a little bit of my heart that thinks I have been abandoned once again.
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