One Face of Grief

 When Ryan's mom passed away a couple of years ago, I remember Ryan being sad and despondent. This is not the same as what I am experiencing. I am surprised at how angry I am feeling. I don't consider myself an especially angry person. I feel like a bad person for this response over the death of a parent. Good people don't respond like this, right? The nearest thing I can think of to explain how I feel is like losing a cavity-ridden tooth. (Just to be clear, I have never had a tooth ache, but I've had braces so... maybe something similar?) The tooth is painful. It is a relief when it is gone but it does leave a big hole. It sounds so awful to think such a thing about losing their dad.

I asked the ever-helpful internet about grief over an abusive parent. As it turns out, I am not alone in my complicated feelings. Some key points are:

Ambiguous grief over a lack of healthy memories and trauma

Mixed emotions- feeling sad but also relief. Relief can lead to feelings of guilt and confusion. (I must be a bad person for feeling this way.)

Loss of hope- there is no longer a chance of a positive relationship, leading to a sense of emptiness.

Difficulty processing memories- guess what? Memories and feelings you thought you had dealt with will resurface in all of their ugly glory and rake you over the coals.

Impact on self-esteem- abuse can deeply affect self-worth, making it difficult to separate your value from the abuse you endured.

So, yah. Apparently my feelings are normal for my situation.

My dad did die, and I was wanting the soothing sympathy of people acknowledging my loss on social media. Most people don't know my complicated relationship with my family, but losing a parent in any circumstance sucks. But it did leave me open for comments about my dad.  This one set me off:

"Great picture! Rick was so proud of his girls and grandchildren. He loved you all very much. Hold on to the memories of good times like these in the picture before that horrible disease changed him. He was a good and honest friend for over 35 years."

Good and honest? Maybe it was good you never lived with him. He has 4 ex-wives and two daughters who could paint a different picture.

He was proud of me? He said such a thing on occasion, but it his approval and love were very conditional. There were impossibly high standards to live up to, and when you fell short he would let you know with vehemence and for a long time. I was not alone in my house with this. My mom and sister were also targets for his angry outbursts. 

He needed full control over all aspects of life- financial, social, cleanliness, body weight, etc. The Budget was always a source of long fights with my mom. And yes, The Budget with capitalization is exactly the way it was said. Dad made The Budget planned out a year in advance. It was ok if he threw a wrench in The Budget, but not if mom overspent. We started out very poor. They lived off credit cards, student loans, and part time jobs until well into my childhood. As my dad went to college for an accounting degree, it makes sense that he liked to arrange the money. But it was always a method of control. When I was in 5th grade I wanted to play the flute in my elementary school band. My mom took me down to the music store to rent a flute. The sales guy pushed a lot of products along with the rental- a music stand, cleaning kit, the music book, and who knows what else but the total amounted to $100. I still remember the refrain from that evening. "A hundred bucks?! A hundred bucks!" He was furious. I remember feeling terribly guilty. I only played the one year because we moved and began homeschooling the year after.

He was a full-on conspiracy theorist. I was about 11 is when it started affecting life, or at least I became aware of it. My dad had switched jobs and we had to move to the other side of Washington state. My dad was very interested in living in one of those anti-government communes. Or acreage in the middle of no-where would work. He quit his accounting job (the one that had us move) and began to work "under the table" so he wouldn't have to pay taxes. Social security numbers were a way to enslave free people and he would not recognize them. He literally cut up the family's social security cards and sent them to someone in the government to show he could not be forced to comply. He didn't like to keep money in the bank because the government monitored those. We had a large bag of silver coins that we had to lug with us to do errands until my parents figured out a safety deposit box might be easier. But that was months. Months of lugging that heavy bag everywhere. During my teenage years if we heard helicopters fly over head, we should gather into one blob of people so "they" couldn't see how many heat signatures were in our house. As if the government thought my dad's small-time tax evasion was worth that kind of effort. And then there were the church-based conspiracies. Leaders of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints incorporating the church to be recognized by the government on the down-low. The Lectures on Faith being removed from the Doctrine and Covenants. Prophets and church leaders not leading the people correctly. I wasn't supposed to put my name on the tithing I turned in because charitable donations should always be anonymous. There was much in the Bible to prove the current, modern church was not on the right path and we should be cautious in following their directives. I read once that conspiracy theories appeal to people who like to feel superiority to the average person. The American Psychological Association says this about a study of those who believe conspiracy theories: "The researchers also found that people with certain personality traits, such as a sense of antagonism toward others and high levels of paranoia, were more prone to believe conspiracy theories. Those who strongly believed in conspiracy theories were also more likely to be insecure, paranoid, emotionally volatile, impulsive, suspicious, withdrawn, manipulative, egocentric and eccentric." Meet my dad, folks. That sums him up very well. 

It felt like "things" were more important than people. We owned cars my mom wasn't allowed to drive when I was a teenager. We hitched a ride from our neighbor the 10 miles into town to buy groceries. We could go to church on Sunday, but going to midweek youth activities was generally a no-go. It was far too many miles to put on the car. Blankets were put down over couches, chairs, seats in the cars to keep them looking clean once we could afford to buy things new or newer-looking. My dad LOVED industrial carpet- that tight woven, rough textured stuff that wouldn't show wear and tear. And even then, throw rugs would be put down in high traffic areas. One must not scuff furniture or walls. And when I was learning to drive and backed out of a parking spot too sharply and bent the fender of the family car on a dumpster, a Geo Metro, all heck broke loose. My mom made me tell my dad. He wasn't even living with us at the time so I got the lecture over the phone over my careless and reckless behavior. Mistakes, especially costly, visible ones, were not ok. And now my mistake would be visible every time we used the car because it was too much to fix. You did not show the world your weaknesses and mistakes. Ever. 

Dad didn't like handouts. When my sister and I were being homeschooled, my mom thought it might be nice to write letters to her dad. For penmanship practice? To make up for the lack of a social life? Grandpa Jack loved technology. It was the mid 1990s and he bought a new computer every year. On my mom's suggestion, I asked what Grandpa Jack did with his cast off computers. Could we maybe have a computer he was done with, if it had no other plans? Out of the goodness of his heart (and possibly guilt for not having a better relationship with his daughter), he sent a brand spankin' new Gateway 2000 to us, with a printer. Oh boy, was dad mad. We were quite possibly the most greedy people on the planet to take advantage of an old man. I kept that computer for a long time. It went with me to college and we had it until after Emma was born. That thing taught me how to use the internet and email, and saw a lot of use with high school and college papers and I am very grateful we had it.

The church ward we attended during my teenage years thought we were in the witness protection program. We didn't socialize with people. I had strict instructions not to tell people about our lives. Not that we were homeschooled. I was to say we attended a "private school." Although it wasn't difficult to sniff the truth out since there was exactly one middle and high school in the area. Not that my dad didn't live with us very much during that time. When he worked in Spokane, he stayed there during the week and would drive home on the weekends. It was a 60 minute drive each way and that was a lot of "miles on the car." Later somehow he found a job in Massachusetts that would allow him to work "under the table" and we didn't see him for months at a time. I think he visited us once that year. I think the only reason my parents stayed together as long as they did was because my dad didn't actually live with us half of the time. No worries though, he still needed to keep his eye on things. As The Man and Head of the Family he needed to be in charge. 

If there was a part of my appearance that embarrassed me, he was quick to pick up on it and make fun of it. A favorite joke was my "parking lot" forehead with all of the headlights shining brightly. Thanks for pointing out my pimples. Was my body changing? Let's make it a joke! Taking off make-up at night was called "getting ugly." Being largely pregnant was called looking like a beached whale. Let it be known that I only gained an average amount of weight and was never what anyone could call fat. When I was pregnant with Annie and Maddie, I hit 149.5 pounds. With two babies, people. It has taken me a long time to be comfortable with my body. I know logically that I am not ugly or fat, but it is hard to tell the voice in my head to stop saying that I am.

I was an angry teenager without enough backbone to really act out. I was stuck at home with my family 24/7. Literally. It was basically Covid for us for years. I was taught to distrust people in general.  People were bad and might be spying on us. I wanted to run away. I had murderous thoughts about my sister (just to get away from her) and myself. I hated my family. Acting out in the proverbial "usual" teenage way- sex, drugs, and rock and roll- didn't appeal to me. I was so angry at all of the arbitrary rules and just so lost and without the ability to escape any of it. When I was 15 I decided I'd had enough and fought with my parents for months to be able to attend public school. I wanted to salvage some of my teen years with some normal experiences and learning. It was a prolonged, loud, and emotional battle to be able to go to school. It was the one time I really stood up for myself. My sister and I had been homeschooled because we were "too smart" and we shouldn't be indoctrinated by the government run schools. I was decently smart. I had good test scores and was sent to the grade above for reading time to challenge me in elementary school. But homeschooling, while allowing me to complete my school work faster than attending a full day of school, ultimately left me behind. The smart kids had more opportunities attending good old public school. I was put in as a junior in high school as a 15 year old. I had two years of foreign language I needed to take starting that junior year. The school counselor wasn't sure I could cut it in the Honor's English class. (I could have but wasn't put in that class as a junior. An exception was made for me and I got to take AP English my senior year. I wasn't supposed to be able to take it if I hadn't taken the Honor's classes leading up to it.) I never made it past Algebra 2, and took Chemistry as a senior. It was such a relief to be taught Algebra by a real teacher because it finally made sense. Our version of homeschooling was finding old textbooks at Goodwills and my mom assigning the book work. I had to teach myself by reading the textbooks. When I didn't understand it, I didn't feel like I could ask for help. My mom was desperately unhappy and would spend most of her days in her bedroom. I ended up just copying the answers out of the back of the book if I didn't understand and calling it good. I never participated in sports or even took a PE class and now I wish I would have. I did throw myself into high school plays, and even participated in two clubs eventually-FBLA and SADD. I finally made some friends. It took me a while. The church kids I had known already knew me as the weird, homely, unsocial homeschooled kid in the Goodwill clothes. So I made friends with other nice, Christian teens. Not life-long friends, but enough to not have to always sit alone at lunch. It was a start.

Spankings were usual punishment when I was a child. They were hard and often. They were left for my dad to perform when he got home from work. I remember being slung over his lap getting repeated spankings until I was ready to comply with whatever it was. I think I was out of bed when I wasn't supposed to be. My dad said his dad used a belt on him so I should be grateful. The spankings did taper off, but when I was a mouthy teen, I could be slapped across the face. I never really acted out but I was angry and would occasionally say so. It was generally better to keep the peace. Don't disobey. Don't contradict. Make a joke to ease the emotional strain. Comply. My sister remembers me being held up as a representation of what she should be and how she couldn't measure up. I remember her as being the squeaky wheel who got the grease. I was held to a higher standard of behavior and she got away with a lot more because she was dramatic and volatile, and could be very sweet and affectionate when it suited her. Her highs and lows were big, and I mostly wanted to fly under the radar. It was better that way. Once I told my dad he was unfair in his rules. I can't even remember what it was about. But I was not allowed to talk to him on the phone or email him until I apologized. Freezing me out and ignoring me when I didn't agree with him was a favorite method of punishment the older I got. It was "his way or the highway." There was no room for conversation or compromise.

My dad was sexist. Men were superior to women. Wives should serve and obey their husbands. (He was divorced 4 times. Weird, right?) He was racist. It was wrong to marry someone not of your race. He wasn't sure why Blacks were given temple and priesthood blessings after so long without. Clearly that had been the Lord's will. He was homophobic. He started checking when I was about 10 if I "liked" girls. When Ryan asked for my dad's blessing after he proposed, my dad's advice was, "Don't treat her too nice. She'll come to expect it." Classy.

One Christmas when Emma was probably 3 he tried to tell her the truth about Santa Claus. Because parents should get the recognition for gifts given. Um, the whole point of Santa is to give gifts without the recognition and to enjoy the magic of childhood. And if I want my child to believe in magic, it is not his place to disabuse her of the notion. In any case, Santa doesn't give big gifts at our house, but he did give fun ones. Is it any wonder that in Kindergarten I was the only child in the whole class who didn't believe in Santa, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, Leprechauns, or magic of any kind? My teacher thought it was interesting and told my parents at parent conferences. I remember standing in that line at the carpet when the teacher asked those questions. Many kids went back and forth, and several stayed in the believing line. Not me.

I had lived at home my first year of college (I was 17 after all), and then moved out my sophomore year. My freshman year was tough. I was an adult (at least I was shortly after Thanksgiving) but treated like I was still a child. I had an inflexible 10 pm curfew because my dad said so. I got a C in one of my classes my first semester and was completely, emotionally dismantled by him because of it. I sat there in the kitchen with the family all there being torn apart for my failure. I was engaged to be married when I moved home after my sophomore year and that was such a long summer. If we could have been sealed immediately after a civil wedding like you can now, I think I could have convinced Ryan to elope so I could live with him. Then the day I got married, my dad could never let anything go. I was chastised for making my mom work so hard for me. I did not ask her to iron my wedding dress in between the wedding and reception. That was all on her. Maybe there was something else I was oblivious to that day, but I really don't think I was an especially demanding bride. My dress was pretty cheap- the cheapest we could find. The reception venue free- hello church gym. My favors homemade. Bridesmaid dresses made by my grandma. Wedding cake discounted because my mom worked at that grocery store. Wedding food donated by my aunt who catered as a job. Pictures done for free by a friend. All done before Pinterest and it looks like it. 

Last winter when my dad got sick, he really wanted to come live with us. He's wanted to for years. That was a hard no. If he reached a point in his life when hospice was called in and he needed somewhere to live out his last few weeks, that was one thing. Living with him would not be healthy for me or my family long term. He would press me really hard on that point when Ryan wasn't in the hospital room after asking the both of us together. And again, on the phone. Not to Ryan. He knew his best chance of getting his way was to get me alone and guilt me into it. He would ask Ryan for things, but demand from me. Give him the candies or other food we brought him. No please. No thank you. 

My dad was secretive and paranoid. He was frugal in giving out any kind of personal information. He stayed with my sister when he had knee surgery and I had no idea any of that happened. He would tell a friend when he had a heart attack and needed a ride home from the hospital but not his kids. Maybe that's why my dad didn't want a memorial service. Too many people he knew together who could share information to get a more complete version of my dad. He would sometimes call Ryan (for "man talk") and then told Ryan not to tell me what he shared. Ryan laughed that off and would tell me anyway.

After my parents divorced, I felt like I was his one link to staying in the land of the living. According to my mom, it was not the first time he was suicidal, but it was the first time talking him out of it fell to me and not the last. I was needed. But then when he "met" someone online and wanted to get married, my opinion on the matter had no weight or interest. I didn't need to meet her. He couldn't even be bothered to bring her and her two daughters by my house to meet me when he moved them to his place in Renton from Wyoming. It was a little out of the way to come see us, but not that bad. He said they would come by, then changed his mind and didn't tell me. We had food prepared and waiting and they just didn't show up. Any slights on my part to his new wife and family were met with swift anger. I didn't send a thank you card for their Christmas gifts quickly enough. We left to go visit family the day after Christmas for a week. No one got thank you cards quickly (I'm kind of hit and miss on that anyway). But I got an angry email detailing my failings. His wife later asked for something my dad had given me as a teenager because he was feeling nostalgic about the past. I said sorry no, but I had been given photos from my childhood from my mom and was happy to share. I spent hours scanning those in and then emailed them. The only photos I included of my mom were ones of the entire family, usually in the formal family portrait setting. That was offensive that I would hurt Kelly's feelings by giving him access to photos taken to document his family over the passage of time. How could I be so rude? So I sent him the western belt and silver buckle and haven't seen it again.

The last time I ever talked to my dad, I wouldn't help him because I believed he was being scammed out of his money. He wanted me to help him sell his car and find the money/coins he had squirreled away to get his money out of the online "investments" he had made with his girlfriend whom he had met on the old Twitter. Because getting the money out of the online investments required more money. He'd wanted us to mortgage our house to get $300,000 for that investment. It's a long and complicated story. But I wouldn't help further ruin himself. He swore at me. He said he wasn't sorry he hit me growing up. I said I loved him, wouldn't help him do this, and then hung up on him. The last time I heard his voice was in the background of a voicemail. His brother-in-law called Ryan to say they had my dad. His voice in the background said, "I didn't want them to know I was here."

When I was in therapy a few years ago, my counselor had me envision taking my teenage self out of the house we lived in and put her in a safe place. Then I got to imagine blowing up the house. Action movies would be proud of what I imagined. There was a blackened crater left. Then I threw the house key away. It was therapeutic.