Ripples

“Who were your parents when you were growing up?”  I knew she would ask at some point.  “You don’t know my parents.  Last time you saw them, you were only a year old.”  That was the end of the conversation, but I knew the topic would surface again.  Someday, she would ask why we don’t see my parents anymore.  My therapist suggested that I keep it simple.  I had the lines rehearsed in my mind - “My dad was unsafe and the rest of my family stopped liking us because we decided to protect you and your brother.”  

There are moments like these when I am reminded.  As much as I try to block these realities out of my mind, the situation is still the same.  Most days, I feel like I’ve moved on.  But then it hits me like a freight train.  Suddenly, I’m on the outside looking in.  My confidence and self worth are nonexistent.  I’m the bad guy.  I can be strong for weeks - even months - and then something will take me under.  A dream.  A comment from our son.   A question or comment from a friend.  A new clue.  A seemingly unprovoked curiosity.  

God knows how many times I’ve tried - how many times I’ve reached out to my parents, siblings and relatives.  For the most part, none of them want to have anything to do with me.  After six years, I finally decided that this is ok.  In fact, most days, I don’t think about my biological family.  But there are times when I wonder if they think about me at all.  I imagine them going on with their lives as if we don’t exist.  I have to wonder how Christians can act this way, but I’ve learned that Christians are capable of anything.  My cousins, nieces and nephews don’t know any better - they’ve probably been told not to talk to us.  I don’t hold that against them.  Certainly, they have to wonder - what really happened?  Who is telling the truth?  My aunts and uncles have taken their sides.  I don’t know which of them know “some things,” but I’m convinced that one or two of them do.  My sister won’t speak with me.  Six years ago, I called her and asked if she thought my dad was capable of hurting our son.  She simply responded by saying, “I don’t know if dad would do something like that, but he can be violent and irrational.”  That was the last time I had a conversation with her.  I know things were done to her and I understand if she doesn’t want to go there.  I get it.  Of every one in the family, my mom is the one who baffles me the most.  My brother will say that she has her reasons.  I’ve been mean.  He’s right.  If I could go back, I would have handled some interactions differently.  But I’ve asked forgiveness.  I’ve reached out to my mother.  Nothing.  In fact, my brother told me that my parents don’t even want me at their funerals.

I should be crying right now, but I’m typing these words without an ounce of emotion.  It’s taken six years to get to this place.  There’s no fixing my biological family.  It’s not my responsibility.  I suppose it’s like losing a limb.  As much as one fights with the idea, the limb is gone.  Nothing will bring that limb back.  One can pray that the limb will regrow, but short of a miracle, that limb is something of the past.  One can spend the rest of his/her life mourning the loss of the limb or can instead embrace the new normal.  I’ve been through every stage of grief - and this is where I’ve landed.  Some days, I’m a complete wreck.  However, those days are becoming fewer and fewer.  No one encounters abuse without an escape plan.  Some live in denial.  Some project their own pain on to others.  Others help those with similar wounds.  Some take their tools and build elsewhere. 

The ripples of abuse are infinite, but not all ripples are bad.  If our son hadn’t spoken up, our daughter could have been abused as well.  I wouldn’t have found my adopted mother if my biological mother hadn’t abandoned me.  I wouldn’t have explored my family’s past if I hadn’t been so determined to understand my dad and his choices.  I wouldn’t have gained a deeper appreciation for my wife, children and close friends if I hadn’t lost those once closest to me.  I wouldn’t have learned to trust my Heavenly Father if my earthly father hadn’t betrayed me.

I will never forget what happened.  Life will never be the same.  I can’t change the past and I can’t change anyone’s mind.  I can simply strive to be a better husband, father and friend.  At some point, our daughter will see how dark the world is.  She’ll discover my family’s ugly past.  But she’ll also realize what she’s been saved from.  She won’t need to learn what it feels like to be short a limb.  She won’t need to wonder who her parents really were and she won’t have reason to doubt their love.  This is the beautiful reality which keeps me going.  Abuse will not win.