Scared Speechless

Selflessness and self-deprecation... where do they meet? Where does one end and the other begin?

I used to serve others first, always. I have since learned the benefits of sometimes choosing me, but I don't always know for sure if I'm doing enough of the other to satisfy my own kind spirit. At my worst, I am unsure of who I am. At my best, I remember that balance is key and that I am different every day.

I am happier since choosing me and not feeling guilty about it. I worry less, I feel good in my own skin, and I often feel motivated enough to pursue the causes and voice the valiant concerns of these selfless energies.

I guess my struggle is stepping foot where I am unsure. Being an encouragement to those who I look down upon. Or rather... those I am angry with.

My father. My dad. I switch between using these two words: the familiar, intimate, and... the more detached.

I don't know how to refer to him because I don't know where our relationship stands. Even more confusing: I don't know how it got this way. There was no turning point where it veered off in another direction. If there were, I could back-track and maybe repair things. No, instead I wrestle with what to say, if I should, how I would bring it up and what I would say. Should I ask him how he is? How he really is? That would be awful compassionate of me. Should I instead tell him, "I know you pushed mom." Should I make it more vague: "I know you lost your temper and got physical with mom."? I don't want to reveal how I know, since I was not there. I would not tell him who told me. But I want him to know that I know.

Why? Because I am angry or because I want to be there for him?

I know the answer to that. I am angry.

My dad has never been the kind of person to hurt someone that he loved. When I was little, he was nurturing to me and my sisters. Kind. Affectionate. Safe. Fun. And always there. Even the fact that he only got us every other weekend - only two days - did not stop him from driving for hours after work on Friday, taking us out to do something on Saturday, and driving for hours to take us back on Sunday. Then, he would return to work on Monday, and in two weeks, we would do it all again. Even heavy snow and a drive through the mountains did not stop him. As we got older, and we started to want to do other things on the weekend - go on a trip with our friend's family, attend the state fair, or any number of other social things a kid looks forward to - he did not consent to "giving up his weekend with us."

He was always attentive and everything else I thought a father should be. He took us fishing, could do our hair, brought us up in church and sang worship songs at home with us. He loved to sing, so we loved to sing. We would spend the hours in the car going through our familiar repertoire of hits that we had learned - and loved - because of him.

He could do no wrong, and even though there were six of us, there were many moments when I felt like I had a special bond with my dad. He made me feel special and seen, in all of that noise. We both loved reading (although my mom did, too, and she was not the object of my affection. Ever.) We both loved football. Well, I loved watching football with him. I liked being next to him on the couch. I loved laying on his chest and hearing his heartbeat. I loved going anywhere with him by myself because he always introduced me as, "the good one." These are the things that have stayed with me for more than 20 years.

But what I see now is a shell of that man. Years later, after an almost-separation with his wife (my stepmom, earlier referred to as mom) that ended in her public mental breakdown, what I can only assume was his private mental breakdown, drugs, stuff that no one talks about, and finally, the youngest two kids living with grandma, he is... hard to look at in the same way.

I am terrible. I lack empathy for people who wallow in their own sadness, despite having experienced depression myself. I am disgusted by cowardice. I am only impressed by bravery, especially the emotional kind. I am disappointed and ashamed that my father will not be a decent person. I don't think I will be kind in my approach when and if I finally break the dam that holds all these unsaid words and emotions.

I speak with my cousins, who ask me how he is. I do not lie. I tell them he is an asshole. I've heard from the wives of my boy cousins how he assaulted them - grabbed their ass or made an unwelcome comment about their tits - in the last year. I am ashamed and disgusted. I repeat this story when speaking with my other cousins. Our family is very large and we are all pretty close. Which means we all know the worst parts of one another, but most of us still show up to the BBQ. The attendance has faltered over the years - one sibling dropping off for a while and then returning, but less often - and again with another one, and again. Slowly, we drift apart. An aunt who is a school teacher was the first to put a palpable wedge between her own little family and the rest of us degenerates. My sister has the most distance of all and does not speak to anyone - cousin, sister, aunt or uncle. None of us have the best set of tools to work with, but my generation feels the emptiness of the tool chest as if it were their own.

Emptiness is interesting. It is always much heavier and more dynamic than you would imagine. Echoes have the power to make you feel one slight multiple times. Besides that, it has a depth and dimension to it. As it bounces off of each wall, a new emotion is introduced: anger, guilt, compassion, disgust, sadness, alienation, jealousy, understanding, numbness and on and on with subtle, but unique variations. It is all I can do to keep it straight. It is easier and more comfortable to stick my fingers in my ears, close my eyes, or even walk away, without looking back.

The reality is, I cannot hide where I came from. I cannot disown my father because nothing could not make him my father, could it? The happy past cannot be erased, just as any version of the past cannot be erased. It is a part of our story.

I do not agree with who he is today and I think I have a right to be angry. I can do whatever I want and feel whatever I feel. In fact, if I were to deny my anger, it would still be there anyway.

I guess what I need to know is, can I shout at him? Can I divulge my sister's secret? Can I tell him that I know and do not like the man that he is now, behind closed doors? Can I bring myself to ostracize the one who has always told me that no matter what he is on my side? If I'm being honest with myself, words can be cheap. Action is necessary to prove that you mean what you say, and I guess none of that has anything to do with the fact that the things he has done are wrong. They are hurtful to other people.

Is any of this my fight? My right? To speak, to rebuke, to correct, to repair, to make any attempt at communicating? I do not even want to. I am dreading it now and trying to swallow the feeling that I should speak up, so that I can just leave here again, go back to my safe and cozy home, and forget about all of this entirely. It really is not my business, besides it being awkward for a daughter to teach her parent about proper behavior. Nevertheless, I feel as if I should.

I just don't even know where to begin.