Dichotomy

I talk to my dad every once in a while. Sometimes, once or twice a week, other times, not for months in between. Sometimes, it's easy; sometimes it's hard. I miss him, you know? I miss the guy I remember growing up with, the guy who taught me to throw a football, started tickle fights, took me with him to his work in the summer. Those are the times it's easy, the times I call often. And sometimes? Sometimes, I'm so mad at him, I can't breathe. I want to shout at him, or shake him, or smack him upside the head and ask how he could be so blind, so stupid, so complacent! But I don't do any of these things--besides, it would have to be a hell of a smack, considering he lives about 1400 miles away. I remind myself that 1) he made his choice, and for him, my mother will always, always, always come first; and 2) he's taking baby steps. It's better than nothing, the small bits of defiance, and stepping away from Larry's control, well, it takes time to do something like that, and it's not like it's a surprise that Dad's passive. He's been that way as long as I can remember. But those are the hard times, the times when months pass between calls. It's especially hard, now that Anthony and I are talking more about babies and such. The dichotomy is I'd like my (potential) children to know their grandfather, but I don't know if I want them to know him like this. I want them to know him like he was.

I'm even more conflicted when it comes to thinking about my mom. I mean, she doesn't even want to talk to me, or at least, she's not willing to defy Larry to do it. She certainly endorsed sending back my letter, since it was her handwriting that said "return to sender". So I have even more reason to be angry with her. It seems like the more involved my mom got with Larry, the more she pushed the "traditional" woman's role for me... which... what the hell, mom? I mean, really? And at the same time... what? I don't know, exactly. I mean, it's stupid, but... I was experimenting, making up a soup recipe, and I put in too much pepper. I couldn't think what to do to rescue a soup with too much pepper, I mean, I know what to do if there's too much salt, but pepper? Even after all these years of her not talking to me, the first thing that popped into my head was, "Better call mom, she'll know." And then I wanted to cry. It's stupid, I mean... except, not really, because the underlying issue is that I want her in my everyday life, even with all the dumbass choices she's made, and I can't have that. I can't just call and ask her what she'd do to rescue an over-peppered soup, and what if it was something big? Like me struggling with depression? Or fear that I may not be able to have kids? Or that I'll be a horrible parent? But, of course, that would just turn into an ugly, nasty, messy fight, because I wouldn't even these doubts if it weren't for everything that happened. I mean, sure, I'm sure I'd be wondering if everything would work out ok, and thinking about whether or not I'm actually able/ready/willing to be responsible for someone else's life--eep!--but, I seriously doubt I'd have this bone-deep fear of screwing it all up so badly, of passing on this... sludge to another generation.

It's just, awkward. And difficult. And it's a dichotomy that I don't really know how to resolve. Some part of me keeps hoping for the magic wand/fairy godmother solution. But the fact of the matter is, that as long as Larry is in the picture, there is no solution.

Goodbye, Earl

I'm going to completely change the topic, for right now. This morning, the song Goodbye, Earl came on the radio. If you've never heard it (and don't feel like clicking the link to the lyrics), it's a slightly tongue-in-cheek story about a couple of high school friends, one who ends up with an abusive man. She files for divorce, gets a restraining order, and counts on the police to keep her safe. But the guy (Earl) beats her so badly she ends up in intensive care. The girls decide that "Earl had to die". The rest of the song talks about how they do it, tell the police they haven't heard from Earl, and go on to live normal lives, mostly.

I remember when I first heard this I was simultaneously appalled and envious. The reason for being appalled is obvious. The reason I was envious was because these girls actually did something about their situation. Not that I wanted Larry to die, but the thought of taking charge and changing something rather than just sitting by when the police didn't keep her safe was so very appealing. It seemed an incredible courage to me (you know, aside from the illegality and the immorality of it). I think that's one of the first times it occurred to me that I didn't have to be a victim. Writing that now, I look at it and think, "How absurd! Of course I didn't have to be a victim!", but at the time, it was such a complete revelation to me. Things could happen to me that were beyond my control, but I could actually do something about it! That was mind boggling. I remember giggling with friends every time the song came on, but there was also the secret, heady sensation of realizing I could make a difference in my own life, I could change something. The song came out my senior year of high school, and I think it's part of what helped me to feel that I had some control over the decisions I was making. There was a lot of pressure for me to live at home and go to the local college. Financially, it would have been a very smart move because the local university was cheaper and I wouldn't have had to pay room and board. Emotionally, it would have been a horrible move. I couched my refusal in terms of which was the better school from a Biochem standpoint, and stubbornly insisted on going to CSU. I ended up failing there, but even that was something about which I felt I had made my own choices. I was the one who chose to stop attending class, start drinking, and a half-dozen other dumb decisions. But they were my decisions.

It's been a long, hard road to get to the point where I can (most of the time) actively participate in my life. That sounds strange, doesn't it? But here's the thing: I was a passive bystander in my own life. I didn't stand up and take charge of anything. I just let things happen. I know some of that is a defense mechanism for the abuse. There really wasn't much I could do when I was younger, and the one time the police did get involved, they didn't believe me (well, actually, the problem was they did believe me when I was lying, but that's a different story). I could have run away, but the time I tried that, it didn't work, either. While I didn't have options, going with the flow kept me from worse harm. It was a good survival trick; it's not any more, though, and hasn't been for a long time. It's strange how often I find myself fluctuating between wanting someone else to make all the decisions for me and getting angry about how few decisions I made in the past. I guess, what I'm saying is this: I'm not magically, 100% cured of bizarre or destructive behaviors, but I am doing an awful lot better. I guess it's just funny that it's such a silly song that made me think about all this. Maybe I'll name my passivity Earl, and try to remember that Earl has to die. Goodbye, Earl.