31: Everybody has a story

Since I started “a40something life”, a few readers’ comments got me thinking about how everyone has a story.  But more often than not, they choose to keep it to themselves, preferring not to expose themselves nor re-live the past.  And I get that.  After all, why dredge up the past and re-open old wounds?  And yet, I write.

In a previous life, the one where I was NEVER going to get married or have kids, my ambition was to travel the globe singing and writing songs that would touch people.  I did get a little taste of that life, even going on to win a publishing deal for one of my songs;  but then, life had other plans for me.  And for the longest time after that, I forgot about writing.

In the years that followed, the idea to write did raise its head now and again but I was at a loss what to write about.  It was only earlier this year I decided to take the plunge, opting to touch on a broad range of topics, with the intention of (hopefully) getting a chuckle or two.  To entertain.  But never in my wildest imagination did I think I would end up scrawling more somber topics and leaving myself so bare.  So emotionally naked.  And yet, still I write.

I smile when some of my readers are surprised to learn that it sometimes takes me several re-writes before ‘publishing’, with some taking weeks to complete before feeling ‘right’.  Why?  Because although some of the stories can be heart-rending, it is not my intention to come across that way -- there is no need to feel sorrowful for my past for it’s a bygone time.  Nor are my stories intended to shame or discredit as no one is perfect -- we choose diverging paths, each trying our best the only way we know how. 

And yet, as I reflect on the stories of people all around me, (many of whom have much more harrowing stories than mine), I am reminded that the anguish of my youth is trifle, and pale in comparison with the atrocities that so many suffer undeservedly.  And I feel humbled.  And petty.  And so I write.

Not to air dirty laundry.  Not to garner pity.  But to say: “Hey!  I know things are rubbish at the moment, but hang in there, because things have a way of eventually falling into place and I’m a good example of it.”  For those lucky enough to never have known a hard time, that’s fine.  But for those who are stuck in a chapter of their lives where things just seem impossible, maybe, I can make a difference.  And if I can touch one heart, move one soul, inspire one person, then, that is why I write.

Everyone has a story to tell.  Some have really fantastic ones and others not so.  But our lives are made-up of our stories and chapter-upon-chapter of character-molding and sometimes life-changing experiences.  The person working in a call centre taking your order, the driver in the car overtaking you, the garbage guy, even the person who doesn’t know you but goes around spreading idle gossip about you.  They all have a story and its not fiction.

And so, to everyone out there with a story, you are not alone.  Don’t give up the good fight and remember American author, Mary McCarthy’s words:

“We are all the hero of our own story.”

***************

28. Father's Day

 

Father’s Day is coming up and as I lay in bed last night, too excited to go to sleep as I thought of the surprises in store for Matt, my thoughts invariably went to my dad. 

My memories of dad are fleeting and fractured.  His absences were many.  I used to ask my mom where he was.  “Away on business” was her standard reply.  Whenever he was around, I remember him as an angry man, and always fighting with mom.  Constantly, her screaming and him shouting.  I remember coming out of the bedroom one night to interject in one of their relentless fights, terrified.  They both looked at me.  Mid-fight.  His hand stopped mid-swing.  Her arm up in a protective position.  After what seemed like an eternity, I said “Don’t hit my mom.  She’s my mom.  Not your’s.”  He told me to go back to my room.  I did.  Quickly.  Then, there was deafening quiet.  And a door slammed.  He left.  Brokenhearted, I was sure it was my fault.  But I was grateful for the peace.

When I was around 8, I think the realization that our family was broken beyond repair finally hit us all – in the same moment.  Mom, my two brothers and I were at the mall.  Suddenly my elder brother called out, “Dad, dad!  Over here!”  I heard my mom say something about dad being away on a business trip.  Then, we all looked up.  And saw my dad, with another woman.  He was holding an infant who looked just like him.  Mom picked up my little brother and ran.  The other way.  I don’t remember how we got home that afternoon.  Everything was a blur for a while.  And noisy.  And then graveyard quiet.  And my brothers and I walked around on eggshells for what seemed like an eternity.

In another memory,  dad has come to visit us (ie the children).  I am cautious and wary.  Not so much of him, he is still my hero.  But more afraid that if I got too much attention, there would be repercussions later.  From my older brother.  Or mom.  I had fresh scratches on my face from the former because mom allowed him to ‘discipline’ me.  My dad asked what happened to my face.  I told him I couldn’t remember but must have walked into a door or something.  Then I made a joke about being very clumsy.  He didn’t comment again but as he left that day, I thought I saw him cry.  I was 10.

It was the following year or maybe the one after, but my brothers and I were told we had to go live with dad and his new wife.  Its Father’s Day.  I made him a card.  I spent hours drawing; dad as a baby, at different stages, graduating into an old man.  I wrote “Through the years, I will always love you.”  He takes my card.  Looks at it.  Then stands up and gives me a hard slap across the face.  My cheeks are stinging.  My ears are ringing.  My eyes are wet but I dare not cry or make a sound.  He said I was being disrespectful for calling him old.  I don’t try to argue.  Its no use.  I have no voice in this house.

After that, the slaps and punches start raining on a constant basis.  For singing while doing chores – and other sins I don’t recall.  And yet, as the only daughter among 4 brothers for a while (my half-sister came along later), I was desperate to be ‘one of the boys’; hanging around dad while he tinkered around with his many cars.  But whatever I did, it was never enough. 

I left home at 17 after a beating that involved being punched in the stomach and slammed into a brick wall.  And yet for years after that, I still tried to reach out to him.  To have some sort of relationship.  But he was not interested.  And so, at 30-something, I finally faced the inevitable.  It was time to give up.  He passed a few years later.  And I cried angry disappointed tears as repressed memories threatened to drown me.  He didn’t do the right thing by me or my two brothers (he started on them after I left).  And I don’t know why.  I have my suspicions but, really, the why no longer matters.  There are no excuses that can justify the abuse or the childhood he stole from three innocent children.  His own blood no less.

It’s Father’s Day today.  And the girls have made Matt breakfast in bed and he’s opened his presents and read the home-made card.  We have a full day of activities planned.  I constantly tell the girls how lucky they are to have an amazing man like Matt as their father.   The girls know of my past.  I told them.

And yet, I consider myself incredibly lucky.  The past is the past.  And in spite of all my protestations of never getting married or having children, I ended up doing both.  But importantly, this generation will have wonderful memories of their dad when they too are one day 40-something.

***************