by Ayn Dillard
“Really, how nice for you, Mr. Duncan.”
The repairmen’s eyes glaze over as my father continues his bragging. Obviously, he’s uncomfortable that my dad’s talking about a man, they’ve worked for and for an extended time. Geez, he even tries to look like a big shot to men who work in a tire shop, or is he saying this for my benefit, or anyone else in ear range? He’s buying a couple of tires to help me, or is it really more an opportunity to feel important and to hear himself talk about his money? He doesn’t notice how uninterested everyone is as they politely humor him.
What a stupid braggadocios old man, he appears a fool. Further examining my father, as he continues his self-serving dialogue about his money. I notice how blurry his eyes look. His skin is bumpy and red, while the look on his face is one of torment to match his begging words, ‘Please notice me. See how important I am because I feel like nothing inside. Show me that you do and I’ll pat you on your head and give you a bit of my very important attention because you’re really nothing. I’m the important one on this planet.’ It’s as if the portrait of Dorian Gray has come to life in front of me. I’m embarrassed for him as I observe my farce of a father flaunt his wealth, while half-listening workers go about their duties occasionally nodding to patronize. This self-anointed despot who lords his power over the waitstaff, repair people and his children. All of lesser importance and exactly, in that order because his children do come after persons of service. Would anyone give Dad the time of day if he had no money?
“Yes, I’m getting these tires for my daughter here. She lives in Dallas. I want her to have a safe drive back. Okay boys, we’ll pick this car up in a couple of hours.”
“Fine, Mr. Duncan.”
Obviously, my father feels proud of himself for today’s good deed—atonement for his alcoholic verbal diatribe last night. Driving home, I decide to ask him for the money to pay the taxes on my house, since he appears to be in a generous mood and is ‘wealthy not rich’.
He replies, “You, stupid loser, why’d you marry that guy in the first place? He sure left you holding the bag. Where’d you meet him in a bar? What did you do—go to Dallas and hang out in bars to meet the biggest loser that you could find? I hope you know, you’re a big disappointment to your mother and I. Answer me, did you meet that loser Paul in a bar?” he shouts as spittle spews from his mouth.
“Daddy, I don’t go to bars because I hate them, remember? I met Paul doing a decorating...”
Not listening, he interrupts to continue his assault. I stare at him as I’m captured in the car with no way out. I try to speak, but again he interrupts. “Your mother and I have done everything for you and you never show us any appreciation. We wish you were never born. Why don’t you just die? You marry the biggest losers—that Paul was the biggest bullshitter.” He shouts louder, “All your husbands have been—knew it the moment, I met ‘em. You sure can pick losers. What are you just some kind of a whore hanging out in bars?”
I am certain I flip into shock, as my mind shuts down for protection and I can barely breathe. To even be able hear the words, he’s saying I must block it on some level. I laugh silently painfully in fear and disbelief as I wonder—okay then, why didn’t he tell me all this before I married these men? He voices disapproval only after the divorces.
He continues, “That first loser of yours, Terry, even gave the son of a bitch a job and he almost ruined my company. He had his affairs right in front of me, that damn fat secretary of his having his bastard kid. It’s your entire fault and you show us no appreciation. God damn it, answer me! Where do you meet these losers in bars?”
I stare at the side of dad’s face as I wonder—can’t he see me at all? I hate bars, while he’s spent most of my life trying to get me to drink and calling me no fun, because I don’t. Now, he’s accusing me of going to bars and picking up men. It’s just too bizarre. He’s projecting who he is onto me.
Then instantaneously, I see clearly that this father of mine is relishing his power over me—knowing I need his financial support—he’s enjoying, even getting a charge out of making me pay by torturing me with anything he can think of to say. He delights in pushing me down. He’s generous in front of people, but when no one is looking, he tries to kill my soul.
My love for him and my desire for his love and approval gives him this power over me and the freedom to say anything that he wants. Almost as if I’m his prisoner with my need and love bonding me to him. Therefore, he can say whatever he desires because no court in the land would care or notice. There’s no one to hold him accountable as he spews his poison—not even realizing what he’s saying because it’s not making any sense and certainly isn’t accurate. He has a desire is to control me, because he’s lost control of himself. My respect for him being my father, is the only reason I don’t slap his ugly face. In this moment, I hate this man more than I can express, while at the same time, I want him to shut up his litany of abuse and show me love.
I state, “I never go to bars. I met Terry in a college classroom and it was you who asked Terry to work for your company. It was your idea—not mine. I’d probably gotten out of the marriage sooner had he not worked for you. You and mother liked him more than I did and even more than you like me, because he’d drink with you and was the son you never had. He was the one having affairs, out in bars at all hours, many of those times with you or your employees and gambling—not me!”
With that, he screams louder, “What the hell are you talking about? Your mother and I don’t drink much and certainly never went out drinking with that bastard. If you’d been a good wife, he wouldn’t have had to cheat.”
I am in disbelief at what I am hearing and I state, “What Terry did was his decision. He was a womanizer, a gambler and became an alcoholic by hanging out with you. Nothing that I did caused him to do all he did. It was his character.”
Dad continues, “Only reason any man would marry you is for my money because you are nothing. You can’t keep a husband.”
I ask, “Do you really feel that way?”
He yells louder, “Yes, you’re full of shit and don’t know what you are talking about. Your mother and I are tired of your abuse and disrespect. I ought to cut you off. You’d be out on the street right now, if we weren’t helping you keep that damn house. We have a good, happy, well-adjusted life, until you come around. Your memory is wrong and you’re a liar. Oh, and that car of yours is a piece of shit—that mechanic Rodney, you like so much is ripping you off. You’re just a stupid whore of a woman.”
He continues his tirade all the way back to his house as I sit in silence. Arriving, I quickly get out of the car to happily notice my niece and my youngest sister have come to visit. My sister and I hug, then she departs to do errands leaving her daughter. My niece and I exit into the bedroom that I’m staying in to talk and play. I adore my niece and after being with her for a while, I can breathe again and come back into my body—out of the blur of painful numbness that I had escaped into in order to survive. She’s twelve, thin with long dark hair and full of life. She tells me about her friends and activities.
In a couple of hours, my sister returns and takes me to pick up my car. Her car is its usual mess, full of junk, horse-stuff and looks as if it’s never been washed. Her once auburn hair is ninety percent gray. Being five-years younger than me, she looks at least fifteen-years older. She’s let herself go in all areas—weight, grooming and has forgotten any ounce of class she ever knew. Scary to think, that she’s my youngest sister and we have nothing in common, except my niece.
She shares, “We don’t see mom and dad often. As you know they hate my husband. I bring Catherine to visit them occasionally, but I don’t like myself when I’m around them. So, I stay away.”
I reply, “He laid into me this whole time.”
Driving back from the tire shop, I make the decision to go to a hotel. I’m not putting myself through another night like the one last night and I can tell my father’s just warming up. I walk quickly to the back of th
e house to gather up my belongings and begin loading my car. Mother numbly asks, “What are you doing?” as she stands staring out the kitchen window.
“I’m getting out of here and going to a hotel.”
In her usual blankness “Oh, you know how your father is. I don’t understand why you can’t get along with him.” She continues to stare out the kitchen window at the swimming pool.
I think to myself—because mother, you dimwit, you don’t understand much of anything ever. Just as I’m walking out the door, my father throws a check at me and yells, “Here bitch, maybe this will last you a while. You better sell that God-damned house fast! It’s all the money you have left in the world and you better pull it out. I’m not helping you in that lawsuit with that no-good bastard either. You made your bed now lie in it.”
I pick up the check knowing if I didn’t need it desperately that I’d tear it up and throw it in his face then I turn and walk out the door. In my car, I begin to cry. Okay—okay, you’re out of there—so, breathe. You can find a place to stay, then you’ll be okay. You know how they are. They’re alcoholics—sick people. So, don’t take it personally. Only how much more can I take before I collapse? My mother obviously couldn’t take it because she had a breakdown. I’m from her genetic pool. So, can I continue to take this emotional abuse and turmoil with no relief and survive? Is that what my father really wants—is for me to become catatonic like she did? Is that what he’s trying to do—destroy me with his words? Then he could totally control, abuse me and then I’d do whatever he says—even probably drink, until I can’t think and then, I’d be like my mother and sisters.
Talking to myself for comfort, isn’t working and I cry harder. I’m beaten up, but the wounds and bruises are on the inside, so no one knows or can see them, but me. If I’d been stabbed, I’d be able to go to an emergency room and get immediate help because my wounds would be visible. Wounds inflicted deep inside bleed internally and if I didn’t feel so much deep pain, I’d try not to notice them myself—then I’d not have to deal with all this pain and accept the truth that they’re being inflicted by a man I love—my father—who’s supposed to love me.
I know to feel my pain is to own my pain, then I can release it. Except God, it hurts too much. I cry harder for myself and my little girl inside, who needs and wants love from her parents. I try so hard to do the right thing. It doesn’t make sense that I’m always catching such grief.
I check into the Doubletree Hotel, then take a hot shower and snuggle into bed. Shivering in relief, as it feels so good to be out of that horrible house. God, must not have heard my prayers because this was one awful visit.
After dozing off for a while, I decide to call Art.
He answers, “Hi sweeteee, are you having a good visit with your family?”
“I saw my niece and it was fun, but I am leaving tomorrow.” I don’t dare share the horribleness of my visit with him because I’d be too embarrassed. He’d think that I’m from a weird family and I am.
“Please, come see me.”
“I’m planning to—tomorrow. I’m having lunch with a friend, then I’ll leave right after.”
“Can’t wait to see you, honeee!”
I order some dinner then watch TV, ‘From the Terrace’ starring Paul Newman and Joanne Woodard, a movie made in the fifties is on. I watched it as a teenager. I feel like I’m the character Newman’s portraying—Alfred, the unloved son whose only sin is surviving and getting out from under the family’s spell. The movie shows how men deny their feelings and hide behind their facade and ‘success’—then when one of them rebels to express the truth of it all and his true feelings—how the others condemn and alienate.
Men are searching for the wisdom of a woman’s tender touch as she expresses her feelings for him and to assist him in reaching and processing his emotions. Guess, it’s been going on forever and will continue. My poor father—my mother’s emotional compassionate touch never came from her place of wisdom because it was cut out. I try to give my tenderness to undeserving or unseeing benefactors—thus, the hideous circle of my family lineage continues with no one being truly fulfilled. I’ve got to break through this cycle, if it’s the last thing that I do. It’s as if it’s operating inside of me just as programmed in its duty as my heart or kidneys.
I wake up several times perspiring because of remembrances of my father. His words feel like snake bites with their venom flowing through my blood as they take peace from my mind and eradicate a bit more of my fragile self-esteem. I am tormented by memories of him coming into my room pulling a chair up bedside my bed where I was innocently writing ‘thank you’ notes for wedding shower gifts. And proceeding to tell me that he was thinking about divorcing mother because she was so boring and wasn’t any good in bed. He didn’t think that she even liked sex, but she’d do it anytime he wanted, even if she was angry at him. She disgusted him and he didn’t know why he stayed married to her. This was supposed to be a happy time for me and I was appalled and shocked hearing his confession. I mediated, “Well Daddy, maybe she’s trying to make you happy.” Then he asked how’d I feel if he divorced her. I never felt close to mother, but hearing him reveal these things made me furious and I instinctively jumped to her defense. “Daddy, mother is a nice person and I don’t want to hear about all this.” I was embarrassed that he was telling me such personal things, even though I always knew their marriage was a sham which his words confirmed. Except, how dare he betray my mother by sharing this information with her daughter. While, he also betrayed her with his assorted affairs. Everything, about my father except his money seemed to be a façade. He sickens me.
The next morning, after taking a hot shower, I am still shaken, but determined. I prepare to go forward because what else can I do? I have a lunch date with my eighth-grade boyfriend. He’s the head of the planning committee for our high school reunion. I recall how much I liked him in junior high and how insecure I was in that time frame. We broke up way back then, but we remained friends even into college.
At our lunch, Jake shares, “Natalie, I recall how shy you were in school, not even speaking at all at times. I always thought either you’d marry some great guy or could get into some really rough situations. Apparently, from your writing, I see that unfortunately, you’ve had some incredibly tough times.”
“Yes, even while writing it, sometimes I can’t believe it’s my life.”
“Just one of your bad marriages would have destroyed most women and you survived all three of them. And you still seem so full of hope and are so happy. How have you done it?”
I reply, “By hoping something good is around the corner. It’s faith, the belief in God and learning about myself. Perhaps, the experiences, we draw to us are for us to look at in order to heal. Perhaps, it’s for the growth of our souls. All of us are on different paths and will bring what we need to actualize and to further evolve.” As I think—sounds good, I hope it’s true.
“Well, you’ve apparently taken what could have destroyed most people and turned it into experiences that have given you confidence, insight to yourself and others. I love your writing and I didn’t even know you wrote.”
“I started writing about two years ago and have had many articles published in magazines and newspapers. I’ve tried to figure out, why a girl who only wanted a family and love ended up with neither. I have realized, I was bringing what I thought I deserved based on what my parents imprinted on me to believe about myself.” I recall yesterday and shiver. “My parents couldn’t show me real love. So, I didn’t know what love was or even thought I deserved it. Having no self-esteem, I married no self-esteem over and over again. Being an obedient child, I had to prove to myself that my parents were right. Which is that I am nothing.”
He states “You think so deeply about it all.”
“Having grown up in an alcoholic home, I married two alcoholics, while I detest drinking.”
Jake comments, “It made me so sad to read what you’d written, the
n it made me so proud of you at the same time. It takes a lot of self-evaluation and honesty to write like you do. I’m sorry that you lived through such devastating experiences, but glad you’ve come out of it all so well. When you find your next man, I want to meet him before you get married—to make sure that he’s good enough for you.”
I reply, “Thanks Jake, it means a lot hearing you say this. I’ve changed and grown a lot.”
“You still look the same as you did in the eighth grade, but I remember how shy and withdrawn you were. I knew, I couldn’t handle what you needed at the time. Like I said, I thought you’d either meet some really great guy or some jerk. You’re so full of self-confidence now. Not the same little girl at all. You’re so talkative and outgoing. The strength you have now is amazing. I admire you. You’ve earned every ounce of it.”
“Thank you. I can’t believe you saw all that in me when we were just kids and what a nice gift to be telling me this today. I certainly was a shy and lost little girl in those days.”
“You were sweet, sincere, and caring. I married a girl just like you.” Jokingly with laughter, “Why’d we break up anyway?”
I laugh, “Jake, from the eighth grade, I don’t think we could’ve made it.” Jake is tall, thin with white hair now. He was attractive as a child and I am still attracted to him. It would have been nice, had we been able to stay together.
He says, “I’d like for you to speak at our reunion”
“Um, really why?”
“Because you’ve overcome immense setbacks and can still hold your spirits high. You really have something to share.”
“The girl most likely to do what? Really, I didn’t like high school much.”
“Will you think about it? You can speak about whatever you want.”
“Well perhaps, yes, I will think about it.”
We share a long lunch. He tells me about his life. He’s had a traditional one, marrying his college sweetheart, successful in his business and the father of three. He’s had the life I thought I’d always live.
