I keep on seeing all of these shows about "finding that lost person" and "reuniting" with them, finding that missing parent or long lost friend. They all want to paint this beautiful picture of the "reunion", lead you to believe that it's always roses and sunshine and happiness and joy. In my personal experience, that's not the case. There can be a tragedy that happens in your reunion.
My story begins at birth, I suppose. Being born to a couple in south Texas, who had no right to propagate. The mother was young, rebellious and angry at the world; the father an addict of sorts, equally angry and more vengeful. Alas, there's no way to stop people from having babies, even those that shouldn't. So. I was born. The marriage quickly dissolved and my mother and I moved out. The couple reconciled and remarried. Then, redivorced. Shocking. We moved out again and moved in with my grandparents. Bliss. The home was calm, for the most part, and loving, for me. My grandparents loved me. The right way.
My mother finds "love" again when I'm seven and she marries, yet again. Several years later, we move from Texas to Colorado. Yay. (Not really.....) I go for years and years and don't hear a word from my MIA father. I grow up. I move out. I get married at 22. Yeah, I know, I know, cliche'. Then, one day, as I'm minding my own business, paying my taxes and working "for the man", cleaning my house, living my life, my mother calls me and tells me that she's received a letter from my father. Okay. And??? She wanted to know if I wanted it. Hm? Good question. I don't know.....DO I want it? So, curiosity takes over, of course, and I do fetch the letter from her.
It wasn't EXACTLY from my 'father', but, from his 'house keeper'. In it, she writes how ill my father is and how desperately he wants to see me 'before he dies'. It explains how he suffers from 'agent orange' from his time in the Vietnam War. Oh, how he suffers! She's not sure how much longer he has and is pleading with me to 'come visit before it's too late'. Compelling.
Except for the fact that he was NEVER in the Vietnam War. He was never in any war. My father was NEVER in the military, at all. Interesting, right? Wrong. This is what my father does. He makes up stories. He lies. He wants the world to 'feel sorry for him'. He manipulates people, in any way he can. I know this. I've KNOWN this, my whole life. Regardless, I feel like he's reached out to me and that's a step in the right direction. I'm only in my early 20's, so I'm still a bit naive and, in truth, I wanted him to want me. I wanted him to miss me. I wanted him to love me. I was, after all, his only child.
I call my father, at his friends house because he doesn't have a phone (huh?) and make arrangements to come for a visit. I quickly notice how "well" he sounds, yet I don't mention that fact to him. Hell, I barely acknowledge it to myself. I'm a baby girl in desperate need of her daddy. I stuff any other feelings way down deep, take a deep breath and step on a plane with my husband to go see the man who helped give me life! Nervousness doesn't even begin to describe it. I felt a combination of joy, fear, sorrow, excitement, anger and relief. It was barely containable, truly.
After a perceived eternity, we land in Texas. We race (ha-ha) off the plane. Keep in mind that this was back BEFORE the horror of September 11th and people could still meet you at the gate. My father was supposed to be there, with a sign, with my name on it. We don't have any idea what the other person looks like, so the sign was a 'necessary evil'. I scan the area. Nothing. Hm. Disappointing. Yet, not surprising. We ran to pick up our luggage. We wait for another eternity and FINALLY, the luggage monster spits out our bags. We landed nearly an hour ago and still, no one's there to pick us up. I search out a pay phone (no cell phones in this day and age). I call his friends house, which is the only number that I have for him. No answer. I wait for another 15 minutes and call back. After about 20 rings, someone answers. I young girl, by the sounds of her voice. She tells me that my father lives 90 minutes from the airport and that he's 'on his way now'. Um. Okay. My husband and I decide to get something cold to drink. As we're wondering through the airport, I see a man who appears to be homeless walking towards us.
I notice how torn and tattered his clothes are. I see how grimy and unkempt he appears. I walked past him and gagged slightly at his body odor. As I glance back, over my shoulder, it's then that I read the small card board sign that he's holding. I truly had expected it to say something in the order of "will work for food" or "anything helps". It didn't. It had two words on it. My name. Oh, My. God. This is my father.
Once we made eye contact, he recognized me. I couldn't run away, as I had wanted to, no...he charged at me. Tossing his small, poorly made sign to the ground. He embraced me with such love and passion that, for a moment, I forgot how he looked, smelled and kept himself. He was just my 'daddy'. Once he let me free, I pulled back and really got a full view of his face. At once, I saw that he was high. His pupils were quite dilated and red. His mouth was so dry that he had a white foam on the corners of his lips. Cotton mouth, in true form. Wow.
He's talking a mile a minute, I can barely keep up. My mind is swimming. What have I done? Why am I here? What's WRONG with this man? My gut tells me to turn around and get on the next flight home. I ignore it. This is one of the reasons why I beat it into my daughters heads to "listen to their bellies". Your belly NEVER lies.
My 'father' directs us to an old black clunker that his friend is driving, in the parking lot. My 'father' explains that he has no drivers license, so his 'friend' will be in charge of all our driving needs whilst where visiting. Little did I know then, we wouldn't be going anywhere. At all. Ever. It's summer in south Texas. We're in an all black car. With no A/C. Hell. On. Earth. We're driven for 90 minutes to what I can only describe as a crack house. The windows are all covered with aluminum foil and black sheets. This USED to be my grandparents home. It was small, but, nice. Clean and well loved. It was unrecognizable now. All the beautiful crystal door knobs that used to fascinate and delight me as a child, were all gone. Pawned. If I had to guess. There was no running water in the house. None. I would have to go to his 'friends' house to shower. Although, he didn't think that I was going to need to do that. I was only going to be there for a week, after all. Was he kidding? Nope.
I had to use my dirty clothes as a protective shield between me and the bed sheets. They were so clearly filthy that I was terrified of getting some horrible disease if I slept on them directly. The "shower" across the street required a wrench be used to turn the water on. It also hadn't been cleaned since I was born. I wore my shoes IN the shower. My husband had to bathe me. Wash my hair. I stood as still as I possibly could and cried the entire time. I shook and convulsed at the filth. Embarrassed that my husband would forever equate this experience with me. With who I am. Mortified is probably a better word for it.
I spent the week in those two houses and watched my 'father' do drugs and drink himself into oblivion, on a nightly basis. There was little to no food. No water. No sight seeing. Just watching him. Feeling myself fall deeper and deeper into the hole I had to dig to protect myself from this traumatic experience. I wondered if I would ever be able to climb out of it. Somedays, I feel like I'm still trying. Digging. Scratching my way back to surface.
After the longest week of my life, I was finally driven back to the airport and allowed to return to the real world. The clean world. The world of sunlight and free flowing water. The world of clean clothes and clean sheets and clean showers. The world of fresh meals, cooked hot and with love. My world. I was more excited on the return flight than on the arriving one. I simply could not wait to go back to the way it was. To pretend that the last week had never happened. I'd rather be an orphan than have that person be my father.
That man has only reached out to me since that visit during a drunken stupor. He only calls me to ask for money and to tell me that he 'forgives me for not talking to him, but, does God?" Brilliant. Kind. Asshole.
So, a word to the wise......sometimes, NOT knowing is better. Sometimes, there's a real tragedy in reunion. You can't unsee things. You can't unfeel them. I feel less than, now. I feel more broken. I feel tainted by his blood. I feel like I never should have stepped foot on that plane. I wish that I hadn't. Not every choice is a good one. Not every reunion is a good one. Living with those consequences can play on your spirit for the rest of your life. Choose wisely.
Take a deep breath...............it's just another day in Perfect!!!
My story begins at birth, I suppose. Being born to a couple in south Texas, who had no right to propagate. The mother was young, rebellious and angry at the world; the father an addict of sorts, equally angry and more vengeful. Alas, there's no way to stop people from having babies, even those that shouldn't. So. I was born. The marriage quickly dissolved and my mother and I moved out. The couple reconciled and remarried. Then, redivorced. Shocking. We moved out again and moved in with my grandparents. Bliss. The home was calm, for the most part, and loving, for me. My grandparents loved me. The right way.
My mother finds "love" again when I'm seven and she marries, yet again. Several years later, we move from Texas to Colorado. Yay. (Not really.....) I go for years and years and don't hear a word from my MIA father. I grow up. I move out. I get married at 22. Yeah, I know, I know, cliche'. Then, one day, as I'm minding my own business, paying my taxes and working "for the man", cleaning my house, living my life, my mother calls me and tells me that she's received a letter from my father. Okay. And??? She wanted to know if I wanted it. Hm? Good question. I don't know.....DO I want it? So, curiosity takes over, of course, and I do fetch the letter from her.
It wasn't EXACTLY from my 'father', but, from his 'house keeper'. In it, she writes how ill my father is and how desperately he wants to see me 'before he dies'. It explains how he suffers from 'agent orange' from his time in the Vietnam War. Oh, how he suffers! She's not sure how much longer he has and is pleading with me to 'come visit before it's too late'. Compelling.
Except for the fact that he was NEVER in the Vietnam War. He was never in any war. My father was NEVER in the military, at all. Interesting, right? Wrong. This is what my father does. He makes up stories. He lies. He wants the world to 'feel sorry for him'. He manipulates people, in any way he can. I know this. I've KNOWN this, my whole life. Regardless, I feel like he's reached out to me and that's a step in the right direction. I'm only in my early 20's, so I'm still a bit naive and, in truth, I wanted him to want me. I wanted him to miss me. I wanted him to love me. I was, after all, his only child.
I call my father, at his friends house because he doesn't have a phone (huh?) and make arrangements to come for a visit. I quickly notice how "well" he sounds, yet I don't mention that fact to him. Hell, I barely acknowledge it to myself. I'm a baby girl in desperate need of her daddy. I stuff any other feelings way down deep, take a deep breath and step on a plane with my husband to go see the man who helped give me life! Nervousness doesn't even begin to describe it. I felt a combination of joy, fear, sorrow, excitement, anger and relief. It was barely containable, truly.
After a perceived eternity, we land in Texas. We race (ha-ha) off the plane. Keep in mind that this was back BEFORE the horror of September 11th and people could still meet you at the gate. My father was supposed to be there, with a sign, with my name on it. We don't have any idea what the other person looks like, so the sign was a 'necessary evil'. I scan the area. Nothing. Hm. Disappointing. Yet, not surprising. We ran to pick up our luggage. We wait for another eternity and FINALLY, the luggage monster spits out our bags. We landed nearly an hour ago and still, no one's there to pick us up. I search out a pay phone (no cell phones in this day and age). I call his friends house, which is the only number that I have for him. No answer. I wait for another 15 minutes and call back. After about 20 rings, someone answers. I young girl, by the sounds of her voice. She tells me that my father lives 90 minutes from the airport and that he's 'on his way now'. Um. Okay. My husband and I decide to get something cold to drink. As we're wondering through the airport, I see a man who appears to be homeless walking towards us.
I notice how torn and tattered his clothes are. I see how grimy and unkempt he appears. I walked past him and gagged slightly at his body odor. As I glance back, over my shoulder, it's then that I read the small card board sign that he's holding. I truly had expected it to say something in the order of "will work for food" or "anything helps". It didn't. It had two words on it. My name. Oh, My. God. This is my father.
Once we made eye contact, he recognized me. I couldn't run away, as I had wanted to, no...he charged at me. Tossing his small, poorly made sign to the ground. He embraced me with such love and passion that, for a moment, I forgot how he looked, smelled and kept himself. He was just my 'daddy'. Once he let me free, I pulled back and really got a full view of his face. At once, I saw that he was high. His pupils were quite dilated and red. His mouth was so dry that he had a white foam on the corners of his lips. Cotton mouth, in true form. Wow.
He's talking a mile a minute, I can barely keep up. My mind is swimming. What have I done? Why am I here? What's WRONG with this man? My gut tells me to turn around and get on the next flight home. I ignore it. This is one of the reasons why I beat it into my daughters heads to "listen to their bellies". Your belly NEVER lies.
My 'father' directs us to an old black clunker that his friend is driving, in the parking lot. My 'father' explains that he has no drivers license, so his 'friend' will be in charge of all our driving needs whilst where visiting. Little did I know then, we wouldn't be going anywhere. At all. Ever. It's summer in south Texas. We're in an all black car. With no A/C. Hell. On. Earth. We're driven for 90 minutes to what I can only describe as a crack house. The windows are all covered with aluminum foil and black sheets. This USED to be my grandparents home. It was small, but, nice. Clean and well loved. It was unrecognizable now. All the beautiful crystal door knobs that used to fascinate and delight me as a child, were all gone. Pawned. If I had to guess. There was no running water in the house. None. I would have to go to his 'friends' house to shower. Although, he didn't think that I was going to need to do that. I was only going to be there for a week, after all. Was he kidding? Nope.
I had to use my dirty clothes as a protective shield between me and the bed sheets. They were so clearly filthy that I was terrified of getting some horrible disease if I slept on them directly. The "shower" across the street required a wrench be used to turn the water on. It also hadn't been cleaned since I was born. I wore my shoes IN the shower. My husband had to bathe me. Wash my hair. I stood as still as I possibly could and cried the entire time. I shook and convulsed at the filth. Embarrassed that my husband would forever equate this experience with me. With who I am. Mortified is probably a better word for it.
I spent the week in those two houses and watched my 'father' do drugs and drink himself into oblivion, on a nightly basis. There was little to no food. No water. No sight seeing. Just watching him. Feeling myself fall deeper and deeper into the hole I had to dig to protect myself from this traumatic experience. I wondered if I would ever be able to climb out of it. Somedays, I feel like I'm still trying. Digging. Scratching my way back to surface.
After the longest week of my life, I was finally driven back to the airport and allowed to return to the real world. The clean world. The world of sunlight and free flowing water. The world of clean clothes and clean sheets and clean showers. The world of fresh meals, cooked hot and with love. My world. I was more excited on the return flight than on the arriving one. I simply could not wait to go back to the way it was. To pretend that the last week had never happened. I'd rather be an orphan than have that person be my father.
That man has only reached out to me since that visit during a drunken stupor. He only calls me to ask for money and to tell me that he 'forgives me for not talking to him, but, does God?" Brilliant. Kind. Asshole.
So, a word to the wise......sometimes, NOT knowing is better. Sometimes, there's a real tragedy in reunion. You can't unsee things. You can't unfeel them. I feel less than, now. I feel more broken. I feel tainted by his blood. I feel like I never should have stepped foot on that plane. I wish that I hadn't. Not every choice is a good one. Not every reunion is a good one. Living with those consequences can play on your spirit for the rest of your life. Choose wisely.
Take a deep breath...............it's just another day in Perfect!!!
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