Today, I had the luxury of sitting home alone and wallowing in self pity that my son was playing baseball and I wasn’t there to watch him. I was searching for things in the corners of my head to help soothe my mind. Specifically, I was reflecting on my current personal struggles and how they might be impacting my kids. I wish I had someone to talk to about the fact that I’m having to talk to a therapist about all the things I was told as a kid. Too much talking.
My mind immediately jumped to a particular conversation with my dad. My dad was a narcissist that loved to play the victim; manipulation and guilt were his specialty. Twisting stories was sport. When the mood served him, he was an excellent gaslighter and could cross over into bonafide abuse in the blink of an eye. When it was all over, you’d be disoriented and wonder what the hell just happened. Where did the seemingly innocent series of events go wrong because I just asked where the mustard was.
He really honed his craft, too. After 17 years with my mother, 10 years with Number 2 (who was also my aunt; he married my mother’s sister), and then nearly 20 years with Number 3 (my mother’s BFF), he became a master at identifying a person’s weaknesses and capitalizing on them. Especially women. I know with absolute certainty he abused my mom. I have about 90% confidence that he was physically horrible to Number 2, my Aunt (Pearl’s sister). I know with absolute certainty he was verbally and emotionally abusive to Number 2 because I saw it with my own eyes. Number 3 is a sticky wicket. I actually think she might be a perpetrator herself.
Before you’d even notice what happened when talking with him, the conversation was flipped on its head and he was perfectly situated to play with people like they were living marionette dolls, each string representing a different emotion for him to fuck with. As I aged out from under his thumb and moved away, I was provided a buffer from his antics that only physical distance could provide. This was around the time of caller ID and it saved my ass more than I care to admit. Though I will say that when I saw enough missed calls from him, I started panicking. I always worried that he’d travel the 2,000 miles and show up on my front porch.
Fast forward and I was pregnant with my first. We didn’t find out the gender. Mid to late thirties. I had deep worries and anxiety about parenting. No surprise there; most normal people do. I was deeply troubled but I couldn’t pinpoint the origin. It occurred to me around month 5 that I had no idea what the heck to do, how to prepare, or who to consult with questions. I had zero role models or situations in my memory bank to reference when I would eventually hit a parenting challenge.
At this point, my mother was in another self-imposed mental health hibernation and was persona non grata. For reasons I’ll divulge later, my mother-in-law wasn’t a resource, either. That’s a whole other source of trauma, the reinforced kind. Nobody in my Rolodex could provide me with basic insights about parenting and motherhood. Incidentally, I was also hospitalized at the baby factory in Atlanta for high-risk pregnancy complications. Stuck in a bed, granted only a 3-minute shower per day, and lonely…I did the unthinkable.
In a moment of weakness, I called my dad. I suppose I just needed reassurance. If I’m honest, I always held out hope that he’d show up, be the dad I’d dreamed of. Regardless, the whole prospect of parenting terrified me because my upbringing was a world of extremes. Violent fights between my mom and dad one minute, and then I’d walk in on them having mid-day sex 2 hours later. Hugs and kisses and then flying glass ashtrays. I was never parented through ordinary situations like teenage heartbreaks, struggles with 4th grade math, or fears of the boogie man under my bed. None of that painfully mundane parenting was ever modeled for me.
So, I asked my dad. I revealed a moment of weakness. I’d never do it again. Pregnant, in tears on the maternity ward, and alone, “Dad, I’m terrified. What do I do when [insert parenting trial here] happens?” His reply, laughing, “if you don’t want to kill your kids at least once a day, you aren’t doing the job right.”
I was gobsmacked. So, I sought clarification. He replied with, “they are infuriating little bastards that don’t listen, will drive you up a wall, and you will fight the urge to kill them…daily.” No joke, no laugh, no levity. He was dead serious. At that exact moment I determined I had to find a way to keep him from hopping on a plane to come visit when my baby was born.
I’ll never forget those words or the feeling that washed over me. I was instantly transported back to my youth. I got a pit in my stomach remembering nights of sleeping on a cold floor with a pillow and thin blanket because I didn’t make my bed correctly…at 7. I “wasn’t worthy of a bed.” Hiding my Christmas presents from him because I had misbehaved and he said I “no longer deserved them” so he was trying to take them away. Lying in bed crying at bedtime because I was afraid of the dark and would have gotten in trouble if I had left my bedroom. I once told him I was scared and quickly learned, I “needed to grow up.”
I made a decision that day. Despite knowing nothing, I knew immediately, instinctively, and resolutely what not to do. He didn’t answer my question, but he sure as hell told me what I needed to hear. I would be a sanctuary for my new baby. Home. The little one inside of me would never be pushed away for showing fear, and would be rewarded for trying a new task even if it was a colossal failure. We would celebrate victories instead of honing in on mistakes. Presents would be given for the pure joy derived from the act of giving and would never have strings attached. I had no idea how I’d do it, I just knew these things were non-negotiable.
My dad was shocked when I didn’t laugh with him on the phone. I wasn’t convivial as he went on about all the times he thought of “strangling the crap out of me” for normal kid indiscretions. I was showing vulnerability and he chose to capitalize on it. But, like any good little girl, I thanked him for answering my question. Old habit maybe. Or perhaps I was coming into my own, because my thank you was vapid. I didn’t mean it like before. Thank you’s previously served the purpose of placation, but not any more. For a short moment, I felt emboldened by the future of motherhood that awaited just around the corner.
