To Those Who Side with the Dad

“Just fuck him,” the first best friend used to say, “you can borrow my Pops.”

But he’s my dad, though,” I’d respond. “Why would he be like this?”

Because he’s an asshole.

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Yesterday the mom, brother, and I drove home to Alabama to visit with a member of our family (related by choice, not blood). She just lost her son without warning and I wanted to hug her and see her face and just feel her presence. She’s important to me. When my first best friend died I called her that night, sitting in the dark of my old apartment living room, on a chair in the corner, knees drawn to my chest.

“I don’t know anything, Hubba,” she said when she answered.

“I know,” I said. “I just needed to hear your voice.” And then she listened to me cry.

We got to make another stop on the way in and see another person whom I consider family and his wife and kids. (Look, our Alabama family is large and not blood-related but sometimes you do get to pick your family, and we did that with our Alabama people, and my luck runs deep that there are so many people I can call that I know will always answer.)

My heart felt full, my sentences were taking longer to tumble out of my mouth, and my slight twang had returned.  (I think that’s an involuntary reaction to crossing the state line.)

As we were visiting, I (as I always do) felt myself shift into the more confident, more comfortable version of myself that doesn’t mind being the center of attention and laughs too loud and kicks off my shoes as I lay down on the floor so I can join in on the gossip.

Whoever that girl is fades as we drive back north. I can’t explain it but I’m different down there. It’s my place.

…I have to be honest, I had one more mission for this trip – I failed – but I intended to go for a run while I was in town. Not just any run, but I wanted to set out on the path I used to try to run in elementary school. I tried to run it not for fun, but because the dad would tell me I needed to get my “running legs back under me” which meant I was fat. He would sit outside and watch as the sister and I went for a “run” because he told us we needed to do it.

I have always carried extra weight, sometimes a lot, sometimes a little, and that was a bad reflection on the dad who liked to take responsibility for anything we did well but shied away from anything we did that wasn’t so great. Like being fat.

So I envisioned myself completing a run down there and then taking a picture of myself flipping the bird (in homage to the first best friend and also because, are you serious, I was in like 4th grade and I didn’t want “running legs” back then) but we drove back early and I didn’t get to do it.

What I did get to do, though, was hear that the dad was still calling people from MY home, the place where a tiny piece of my heart always resides, and telling them how terrible the mom, sister, brother and I are. Yes, y’all. Over a decade later.

Now, I could write an entire book on all the bullshit he put us through, and how he’s a genuinely bad person, and a liar, and delusional. I could title it What Not To Do To Your Kids When Their Mother is Divorcing You Because You Slept with Whomever You Wanted because You Need Constant Reassurance from Other Women and, Oh, Wait, Now One of Your Mistresses is Pregnant and You’ve Drained the Bank Accounts and Stopped Paying the Mortgage and Still Owe Back Child Support To This Day but I guess I won’t do that.

I guess I won’t write about the time we were in Applebee’s after the divorce, because the mom forced us to have dinners with him, and I made him mad and he screamed to the entire restaurant that I was a whore. Did you know visiting colleges with friends made you a whore, too? I didn’t know that until the dad told me. (Also you can’t make friends in college if you’re fat, that’s another thing he taught me.)

I probably shouldn’t write about how YEARS passed before any of us heard from him – we were all living in a different state by then – and he popped back into our lives and the sister and I, as we always used to do, shrugged and said: well, he is our dad. So we met him with the sister’s first kid (his first grandson) and hung out at a park and then he called us for a few weeks and we tried to make plans to get together at Christmas – years had passed, after all, and we were grown now and then, wait…..no. He calls and asks us to be deposed for his new divorce, because he needs statements from us, and the sister and I do it and then he’s disappeared again. He didn’t return our messages afterwards to get together for the holidays. He didn’t need anything from us anymore.

It would be immature of me to put out there that every year his son from another woman plays in a soccer tournament in my town, at a park about 2 miles from my house, but we don’t hear from him.

I would look silly if I told you he blocked me on Facebook over two years ago.

I am not going to add that after his stroke, his sister called me (my aunt who will probably not appreciate this and who handles everything with more class and grace than me and for that, I’m sorry) and said he might not make it, so the mom drove me to the hospital and waited in the parking lot as I went inside, past his new wife who hadn’t called, and begged him to get better. Or when he was sick at his new house (dying, again?) and I drove myself out there and knocked on the door and his new wife’s dad didn’t want to let me inside the house.

What would be the point of telling everyone that as he was moving out, I sat on my bed and cried, hard,  like the snot-down-your-face-heaving-crying, and he came in my room and I asked him why he would do this, why, why, why, and he looked me in the eyes and said, “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

Probably should leave out that before the divorce the sister, brother and I used to try to cope by telling whomever he was meanest to that day that he had pulled their name out of his hat and that tomorrow he would draw another name so it would all be okay.

It would be unnecessary to fill this page with all the ridiculousness of this man, like when I ran into him outside the first best friend’s funeral and had a strained but polite conversation with him… but then afterwards at the burial site he pretended he didn’t know who anyone was there, because that’s one of his favorite games to play, to pretend like he’s lost his memories.

No, I shouldn’t stoop to his level, shouldn’t put my business on the internet, shouldn’t add fuel to the fire. Because on a day to day basis it doesn’t affect me anymore (except my trust issues, body image issues,  and general disdain for all middle age men).

So I guess, per usual, I will keep my mouth shut except to say (OVER A DECADE LATER, ARE YOU KIDDING ME) that if you donned your Team Dad shirt after my parents divorced, if you ran our family business around town acting like you knew what was going on, if you still shake your head at the mention of my people because you think we are awful… Then I sincerely hope you never had to experience what we went through with that shell of a man.

I haven’t ever written much on it because, what would people think of me? That I’m begging for sympathy or that I’m a liar? Would I embarrass myself or my family? Would the mom, who is not without faults, of course, because she’s a human, but who held us all together all those years and never once thought of herself, be upset with me? The woman who made us visit with him, sang the common refrain he’ll always be your dad! and who still, to this day, will say, “I don’t think that’s true” if ever I bring up that he doesn’t give two shits about me.

Would I come off as some sad, silly little girl who can’t let things go? ….Turns out I most likely have been misrepresented all these years,  anyway, by the 1/2 of my parents who decided it was appropriate to, incorrectly and incessantly, attempt to garner sympathy from the residents of my small-town home by, well, lying. A lot.

I love my Alabama people so much that the word love doesn’t seem sufficient. I have family down there that would drop everything for me, do anything for me, and will always, always answer when I call.

The dad isn’t one of those people. He never was and he never will be, and I don’t write this for pity.  Please believe me that we don’t still sit around talking about him. I write this because over a decade later he still taints my most favorite place with his venom and I’m so over it that I can’t hold the words in any longer. I can’t even drive down there in the midst of a tragedy without hearing about more self-serving lies he’s spitting. I’m done. Honestly, truth be told, I’ve been done for a long time.

Need more stories? These are nothing. Nothing nothing nothing – these are just my less offensive memories smushed together in a semi-coherent way. I wouldn’t dare take anyone down the darkest roads.

If anyone has a problem with my truth, and it is mine and it is true, you know where to find me. I’ve always been here.

MKJ

GO HOME. (Part 1 of 2 Things I’ve Done Recently)

I tend to get a little behind on the times, because I’m super busy watching Pretty Little Liars  pretend shopping online  reading teenage fantasy fiction  working and going to the gym and being an adult.

Two things have taken up my time recently, and I’d like to share them with you.

Here’s the first one.

→ I Went Home.

10933771_10152999771845930_3349327187969304998_nLast weekend the mom, the sister, the brother and I went home.

I have multiple homes, and I am perfectly okay with that.

One home here, where I am now, with the boyfriend and Rafferty.

One home wherever my mom is, because her house is always my home.

And one home in a small town in the south, where I lived until 6th grade, and where I was brave and confident and self-assured. This home is important to me because I knew who I was when I lived there. I wasn’t as anxious and I wasn’t as doubtful and I was just me, and that was enough.

After this home, we moved twice, and I forgot myself in the shuffle. Moving in middle school is hard. Kids are mean. It was confusing. Once we left my first home, I got a little lost.

I watched the movie Now and Then a lot growing up, and one of the first scenes has Demi Moore stating that you can never go home again. (I tried to find a clip of this, but, alas, it does not exist.)

I always thought that was so strange. I guess, as a kid, I took the statement at face value, because you CAN go home. You just… go there. Right?

As an adult, I’ve come to understand that, sure, you can physically go to where you grew up, but you can’t truly go back to where you grew up, because everything is different.

The people are different and the parks are different and the feel is different and you are different. And you can never go back.

We stayed at the home of the mother of my first best friend, who passed away, and, to be honest with IMG_5802you guys, going into that house make me physically unable to breathe. My friend is everywhere and nowhere, all at once. My friend’s mother has a way of reminding me of all the good times we had, and we spent some time flipping through photo albums and talking about her son and putting on brave faces. So it’s the same there, sure. But it’s completely different.

Some things…some little things…they do stay the same.

I’m always inundated with the same feeling when we finally get back to the town where I was young. That… I’m home feeling. I’m always at ease just flinging open people’s front doors when we visit, even though I didn’t live in town as an adult and even though I’m an adult now. I just walk right in. I never feel uncomfortable or like I’m putting on a show or presenting myself as someone I’m not. That’s always there for me. That’s why I love going back.

Just because I’m home, though, and just because I feel more confident being home, that doesn’t mean I’m still not as awkward as usual.

Good example: the sister and I spent a good hour trying to locate coffee Saturday morning, because apparently there’s a Starbucks in town, but we couldn’t find it. For the record, I’m not sure I believe there really is a Starbucks. I think it’s just one of those things you desperately want to be true, so you drive around and convince yourself that you heard there was a Starbucks, maybe, you think you heard there was a coffee shop, maybe, and then you just have to give up.

Like when you check online and see something is in stock in the store, so you jump in the car and drive to the store and when you get there they don’t have it. So you wander around like, maybe that shirt I want is actually in the toy section, I better go check… but deep down you know it’s not there.

Anyway, we finally chose to go to McDonalds, and we decided to go inside to order because we were also responsible for getting everyone breakfast and large orders at drive-thrus kick my anxiety into overdrive. (Like when you’re with multiple people and they tell you to just ask for 3 separate orders at the drive-IMG_5781thru window. You want me to say what? No. You’re a crazy person. That’s unacceptable.)

So we ordered, and I had to repeat my order at least 7 times, and I started to get frustrated because it was really early and I was tired and I just really wanted a calorie-filled sweet coffee beverage and I just really wanted it RIGHT THAT SECOND. But I kept having to repeat the order and the person making the order was apparently in training so I could hear someone describing my order, like, okay now, the caramel, and I was just standing there dreaming of the coffee.

I should probably add that this was awkward because the only coat I packed was a winter white pea coat, so I threw that on that morning and put some boots on over my jeans, all dressed-up like, and so I looked like a real asshole standing in the McDonalds repeating my order wearing a fancy white coat and boots and sounding irritated. (The sister said it was a scene straight from the movie Sweet Home Alabama.)

The order was finally finished, so we grabbed our coffees and bag of biscuits and hopped back in the rental car. But, guys, the coffee tasted like spoiled milk and the sister almost projectile vomited in the rental car when she tasted it, so we opened the rental car door and poured the coffee out. Just a sad little puddle of what could only be last weeks coffee and two month old milk, right in the middle of the road. It was a travesty. All that work. No tasty coffee.

I should probably also add that there was NO WHERE ELSE to go in town. You’re thinking: lots of places have coffee, duh, quit being a baby and go to those other places, and furthermore, Starbucks isn’t even that good (I agree). And my response is: those other places aren’t in this town.

Coffee issues aside (we finally got Monster Javas from a gas station) I did enjoy the early morning drive with the sister through town. Everything was different and everything was the same and even though no one recognized me anymore I still felt like I was in my town.

I got to meet two adorable babies and see a long-lost best friend, who has not changed an iota, and she was loud and sweet and funny and I just kept thinking: you’re a mother. One time we ate pizza rolls too IMG_5787quickly out of the toaster oven and you literally burned your face eating them because we were so hungry and now you have a baby.

It was the same, talking to her. But it was different.

At the end of the trip I felt super cheesily happy, like my heart was really full with great people and great memories and great new babies who will grow up in that town that I call home. I felt like I remembered a little bit of who I used to be when I lived there, and I felt comforted that I could still come back to that part of me.

Going home, wherever that may be for you, helps you remember who you are. And it helps you remember who you’re trying to be. So, if you can, go home.

MKB