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Fear and Loathing
Fear and Loathing
I sat on the bed with her. I reached over and started to rub her bangs out of her eyes, and I found myself saying, “Your dad’s not coming home.” And as if that wasn’t enough within itself, I instantly recognized the sound of my heart beating in my ears, my breath becoming jagged.
I was six years old. She sat beside me, with my brother who was four at the time. “Your daddy’s not coming home,” she said. “He was hunting with your uncle….” I don’t remember anything else that was said.
I remember standing at the gravesite, and I think I was wearing a black velvet dress. And I remember telling my first grade teacher upon return from Thanksgiving break that my dad had died. “They said my name on the news,“ I told her. She touched my arm and said, “I know.”
There I was, giving the same talk. But, thanks to The Universe, my girls’ dad isn’t dead; he’s just an ass. But I was absentmindedly trying so hard to remember how I had reacted to the news that I was forever to be without my daddy. Did I take it as Grace was taking it? Sobbing. Pleading for me to bring him back. I don’t think so, because surely I would remember that, right?
As of two weeks and five days ago, I became a single mom. Again. And it wasn’t amicable. No, that would be too grown up. Instead, my daughters have the fucked up privilege of being one of those my daddy went to work and never came home stories.
And I’ve listened to those stories. I’ve heard people say that everything that has ever gone wrong with their lives went wrong because their story was written that way. And I don’t like it because I could easily use that excuse for every fucked up thing in my life: My daddy went deer hunting on Thanksgiving Day when I was six years old and never came back…. My mom uses it. My brother uses it. It’s a crutch. And what scares me is that I know how easy it would be to use that crutch too.
But I can’t.
Because I don’t want my girls to be able to grow up using that crutch. I don’t want them to be able to recognize the bitter taste of regret when it creeps into their throat. I don’t want them to almost unknowingly set themselves up for hurt because it feels comfortable, hurt’s familiar, because it was allowed and defined me-their mother.
I don’t want them to know, not now at the ages of five and two, that I wait for them to go to sleep before I start my freaking out and my sometimes seemingly endless prayers/pleas with The Universe/God to help me find my way, all the while thanking Him for the fleeting moments of peace that come and go throughout the day, the moments for which I am so grateful. I don’t want them to realize that he left with every penny we had between us. I don’t want them to know how scary it is for me because I don’t have a job. And the bills don’t stop coming just because the money has.
And I don’t want them to know that I stupidly allowed myself to become dependent on a man to support me, to support us, all the while knowing in my heart of hearts, that one day he simply wouldn’t be here. Kicking myself in the ass because I knew better. I knew better because in my world daddies don’t stay forever. They never have.
My second dad, Charlie, died in August. I brought the girls into the hospital room to see him and have a few moments of final goodbyes with him. I sat on the hospital bed with her, rubbing her bangs out of her eyes, listening to her sobs. Holding her while she pleaded for me to bring her pappy back. She didn’t want him to go either. But daddies don’t stay around forever in my world. They never have.
And so begins another chapter. I am totally at the mercy of The Universe. I have given it all back to Him: the fears, the doubts, the uncertainties.
We’ll be alright. Because in my world, mommies stay forever.
posted on Feb 10, 2010 7:10 PM ()
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