The Diary of Queen Mothy |
I Am Okay written @ 3:41 PM on June 13, 2004 I have come to the conclusion that if this is the worst thing that ever happens to me in my entire life, I'll have gotten off pretty damned lucky. Thus far, after wandering through this incarnation for the past twenty years, it is safe to say that this is, in fact, the worst thing that has ever happened to me-- and the worst of it is over, so in a way I've gotten off somewhat lucky, right? Thursday night was just the crowning jewel to a wretched week. It was after ten o'clock, I had just gotten off a fourteen-hour work day between two jobs, and I was tired down to the marrow of my bones. It was the kind of fatigue where you wouldn't care if you fell asleep and never woke up again. I took a shower and was sitting at my computer when I heard Dad's heavy footsteps at the stairs. He called up to me, "Sam? I need to talk to you and your brother in the kitchen for a moment." I rose from my chair. I knew then what was coming. I took a deep breath and thanked God that I was too tired to cry. I said to M and Grandma, "Well, ladies, this is it. This is the final blow." I descended the stairs slowly, feeling my heart sink into a deeper abyss with each step. I felt like I was walking down to a funeral, or a wake. Like it was time to pay your respects and get on out of there so you could grieve the death of a family member and begin to move on. Mom was sitting at the table, already crying. I pretended I didn't notice her. My brother stood in the threshold to the living room. My dad paced nervously, fumbling with three envelopes in his hands-- bills, I thought they were-- until he sat down. He couldn't get through his first sentence without his voice quivering with his own tears, and soon they were falling down his cheeks like water stains on a cold basement wall. "I have something to tell you," he said importantly, "and I don't know how to say it. I've been trying to figure out for a long time how to say this, but there is no easy time or place for it." I stared out ahead of me cold and emotionless. Has there been anyone who has seen their father cry as much as I've seen mine? I was waiting for the proverbial guillotine to drop on my family's crest. The curse of my great-grandfather was about to strike again. "Your mother and I," he said, swallowing, "have decided to get a divorce." I felt my grandmother's arms descend around me. M and Dolan placed their hands on my shoulders. I felt warm and protected; Dad's words didn't hurt as much as they should have. No, I thought, you decided to get a divorce. Mom doesn't want this. Even now she would be willing to forgive you and try again if you would change your mind. He went on, "I decided it was for the best. I've been thinking about it for a long time. I haven't lived here for almost a year. I know this kills you. I want to tell you that when I went to see the attorney, I told him your lifestyles were not to change... That everything is to be the same for all of you. I love your mother but not in the same way as I did 23 years ago. The only thing I can say now is that I hope you won't hate me or reject me." How can you reject a corpse of someone you once knew? Somewhere in the corpse you still think that the true essence of the person dwells there even at this late hour. Still my eyes were dry, my heart was weary, and I ceased to be surprised. "So," my father said, "say something. What do you say?" Jonathan shrugged. "Whatever. I knew it was going to happen." "Yes," he agreed, "I knew this wouldn't really be a shock to either of you. I knew you both would have suspected somehow. Sammy?" I shook my head and said nothing. I watched him finger the envelopes in his hands. "Please don't hate me," he pleaded. I shook my head again. I felt myself growing weaker. He seemed so pathetic to me, a father begging his daughter not to hate him for turning her entire world upside down. I looked at my mom. She was still crying silent tears. Somewhere I heard dad going on to offer more explanations for justifying breaking my family apart, but I wasn't paying attention. I had no time for his goddamned excuses anymore. All I could do was look at my mom and remember her face-- not too different from now-- when she first told me four years ago what was happening between her and Dad. How could things have been reduced to this? I thought of a story she told me of when she first met him, how she met him on a cruise in the Caribbean and he tried to charm her by selling her shells from the ocean floor. I remembered them having their evening walk side by side in the summer when we lived in Pittsburgh. I remembered them kissing each other at the door when Dad got home from work each day. That is what I saw as I sat at the table. And finally I began to cry. Because the love story should not have been ending like this. Because something was sincerely wrong with this picture. Because he crushed my innocence and helped to sculpt me into the cynical, selfish person that I am today. Because this was, indeed, the final blow. This was not my father telling me these things. This was the shade of someone who might have been like him. In my mind my real father was dead. "I wrote you letters," he said, passing the envelopes out to my brother, my mom, and me. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to write." He placed it in front of me. I saw my name in his slanted scrawl, in capital letters. I wondered how long he spent composing it. But I wouldn't touch it. And I wouldn't open it. Having said all that he could think to say, he sat and watched me, trying to read something he wanted to hear written in my face: that I didn't hate him. No, I don't hate him. But it's going to be a while before I forgive him. I took a deep breath, yet I still said nothing. "I know what you should ask him," my mom said suddenly. I could feel the rage in her voice. "Ask him why. Why?" My dad narrowed his eyes. "I'm trying to be civil about this. You and I have talked. We know why." "No," she said, "I never got a straight answer. I want to know why. I think they should know why." Dad rose from his chair. "I think it's time for me to go." I sighed. A year ago, I would have jumped to my feet in hysterics trying to get him to reason with me and stay. Now I sit perfectly still. Because now I can't stop him from leaving. I can't stop them from fighting. He cut the ties and has the right to walk out on me now. Typical. Always walking out when he won't face the music. "Why won't you answer the question?" my mom demanded. "When they are older and enough time has passed, I will tell them. Right now they are too young to know." No. He's waiting for enough time to pass so he can spin his lies and then convince himself that they're true. He doesn't have any reasons. He doesn't know why. As if 16 and 20 is too young to understand. I know I have every right to question why. But even now I'm not ready for the answer. "Well, I want you both to know that I have been looking into new houses. Smaller houses for the three of us, maybe a condo," my mom said. "I don't know if we're going to stay here." "No," my dad said, obviously shaken by this, "we've looked at our finances. They will stay here in this house." "Not necessarily true. I don't know that I want to stay here. This house is too big for us. Why should we stay here? I would like to stay in West Chester. You will finish high school where you are, Jonathan. We just might not be here. We might even move to Fairfield. I don't know yet. I just want to make you both aware." That's okay. Moving doesn't bother me. I've been getting uprooted my entire life. This is just par for the course. "No," Dad said sternly, "you should stay in this house. You can't move." And why can't she? Why can't we? This house has brought us misery. And now that you've cut the ties, she has the right to walk out on you, too. I knew he didn't want us to leave because if we did move into a new house, he would not be able to see his children. "You tell us why then," she snapped. "You tell us why you had to break up this family." He answered, "I think you've crossed the line. I'm leaving." He kissed me and told me he loved me. He did the same for my brother. And he walked out. Mom followed him, trilling some more. Jonathan left ahead of the two of them, got into his car, and went to a friend's house. The house fell strangely quiet. I sat at the table perfectly still, looking down at the envelope. Already I was wondering how I would begin this diary entry. M was looking down into my face. I was keenly aware of the three ghosts, too. They watched me. Grandma tried to comfort me. It always intrigued me how I was most aware of them when I was at my lowest point. "I'm okay," I said to the empty house. I sat for a long time, waiting for my mom to come back. But I couldn't hear anything in the house, not in the garage, not muffled voices from the outside. I rose from my chair and picked up the envelope. "I'm okay," I repeated. I went down the hall, climbed the stairs, braided my hair, and went into my room. I put the envelope down on my bureau. "I'm okay." I sat down on my bed. I spoke to my grandmother and my spirit guide and my angel, "All of us knew this was going to happen. But it doesn't change the fact that it still hurts." "Go ahead and cry," my grandmother said. I already was. I looked into my mirror and saw that my eyes were scarlet and my face was blotchy. "I am relieved, though," I told them. "Because now I no longer have to worry. Now I don't have to fight anymore. This was the final blow to kill an old horse. The worst is over. I carried my cross. I can grieve like my family is dead. I am going to move on from this point; I am going to be successful in whatever I do. This night will one day be far away from me. I will move on. Life goes on. Worst things have happened to better people. I shouldn't act like this is a new tragedy." Then I heard my mom call me, and I went down into the kitchen, where she was smoking a cigarette and holding a rag to dry her face. We talked for a long time about what was going to happen next. She doesn't want to stay in the house because it has bad mojo. I understand that. I wouldn't be opposed to moving, to tell you the truth. I'm going to be moving the rest of my life. "Bad memories," she said, "that's why I had to get rid of the bedroom set. Do you think I want to look at that?" Apparently Dad had been preparing for this since February. He didn't move out last summer because he was trying to "fix himself." He moved out because it was one step closer to ending this. "Tell me what you think, Samantha." I breathed deeply. "I take comfort in knowing one thing: one day he will have to answer for what he's done. Only when he is old and no one is left in Cincinnati to care for him will he realize what he has lost. I won't be here the rest of my life. Jonathan is not going to be here the rest of his life. And you?" "I think I want to move south eventually," she said. "Or back to Rhode Island." "Fine," I said. "You do what you have to do." At one point she said, "Look around you. Did you ever think you'd be the product of a broken home?" I gave a wry smile. "For once as an artist, I'm joining mainstream America." She laughed a little sadly then, but then she composed herself and whispered, "No, that's not funny. We shouldn't laugh. That's not funny." She lifted her eyes to me. "I have been hurt so deeply. I don't even want to look at him." "I know." "I tried so hard to save this marriage," she sobbed. "He thinks I didn't try at all. But I tried. I think I tried. Do you think I tried?" I nodded. "You tried. I never saw him try once." "He makes me doubt myself. How do you think I tried?" "It was in the little things. You were the one who went to marriage counselling, he didn't. You were the one who tried to find help. He didn't. It was in the little things that you did that he never would do. You tried. Don't ever think that you didn't. He'll make himself believe that you didn't try." I remembered how at his birthday last June she went to Glamour Shots at the mall, did up her make-up and wore her best clothes, got her picture taken, framed it, and gave it to him on his birthday-- to try and remind him how beautiful she is. The little things. I couldn't even bear to watch him open that present. "And what about you?" she asked. "What about me?" I replied. "It's going to be awhile before I can forgive him, the same as you. He's like a stranger to me. But I'm not going to worry anymore. The worst is over." "We'll move on," she said. "Yes," I agreed. "I want to live, Sam. I'm not going to stay here and feel sorry for myself. I want to go out. I want to have friends like Jan and Sue. I only see them once a week." "You will." "I was loyal. I never had a boyfriend or an affair. Why did this happen?" "It's not fair. You got screwed." "I don't know that I'll ever date or meet someone again. If I do, you wouldn't hate that, would you?" "No." "And you wouldn't care if your dad got married again?" "Who would want to marry him?" I said bitterly. "If the woman was smart, she'd see his true colors early on. And then she'd run. Fast. Mom, he's going to be a lonely old man. And only then is he going to see his mistakes." "His mother is orbiting in her grave now." I raised an eyebrow and looked to my right where Grandma was pacing furiously, going between the house and dad's apartment. "You have no idea." "If there's one thing I'll say for Bill-- even though you think he's creepy-- he's got manners. His mother taught him that." "Grandma taught Dad manners too. She'd kill him now if she could, I think. This is not the way she raised him." I looked at Mom. "Don't marry Bill." She laughed. "He's on his fifth marriage. I don't think so." "I swear, I'll move out and get my own place if you do," I muttered. "Don't let this affect you at work." I hesitated. "It won't. I can't afford to dwell on it at work. We're in tech week for the play. I have to stay focused. I have a lot to do." But the next day I was still reeling. I went through my day as if in a dream. Suffering from a migraine due to stress, my brain was on auxilary mode. Three days later I know I am not the same person that I was. I am still grieving, as if the funeral march is still playing. I don't feel sorry for myself-- I'm sorry that my family has become just another statistic. And worst of all, my mom has suffered greatly for it. It hasn't been a good week for either of us. In retrospect, we both sacrificed a lot for love, and we were burned for it. Actually, I'm sure I will think of many philosophical things to say about my parents as the years go on; it's just that right now my heart is still too broken, and I'm slowly picking up the pieces again. But I know one thing for certain, one thing that every woman in my matriarchal family has said at one point or another: "I'm okay." My mom is okay. I am okay. This is just another trial, another test. And in spite of this divorce, which will be final in the coming weeks, we passed. We survived. We have scars, but we survived. And I'm okay.
A Bit of History ~ And Onward! L'Amour Toujours! - August 08, 2005 |
Latest Entry | Archives | Diaryland |
Profile | Diaryrings | |
Guestbook | E-mail Me | Leave a note |
Art Work (Coming Soon) | Genealogy (Coming Soon) | The-Last-Unicorn.net |