Where do we begin? There are so many moments in a life; how do we know which one starts the story?
Sometimes there is a pivotal moment, the hook on which we hang our coat and hat and call it home. But even that hook was once a bare wall, molten metal, mere threads. How did they come to converge in this place and time?
There is always a before that.
I have so many questions.
For instance: what was my father doing in the days before he died?
And this: did he think of us as the darkness came?
And this: who was he, truly? And why?
And this: in the end, was it worth it, choosing them over us?
My therapist tells me again and again that as children, we see our parents as those who know and can do everything. They correct us as we make our way, steering us around obstacles, picking us up when we fall.
And so, when they hurt us or leave us or hurt themselves or hurt others, we believe that they wouldn’t do anything wrong under normal circumstances.
Therefore, it must be something we did, something wrong with us.
I am the reason.
For a long time I thought the beginning was when he brought Her to meet us, his new friend. Our parents had been apart for two years. I was 14, my brother 9. She made her way around his apartment as though she’d been there more than we had, opening the chipped cupboards, pulling one leg under her on the couch.
I floundered in her presence, second-guessing my words, my clothes, myself, the same way I did every time I met someone new. But immediately I knew that her opinion of me mattered in a way unlike anyone else.
That evening was the beginning of the end, but it wasn’t the beginning.
My estrangement from my father didn’t come in one pivotal moment. It wasn’t a sharp pang, a quick injury, a slap across the heart.
It was a withdrawal so slow it was easy to miss. To notice a sense of mild distortion in the fabric of our relationship, but not be able to name it. And then he gained momentum, and the delicate hairs on my skin ripped out along with it.
Because of this, it is hard to pinpoint where it started.
The truth is that the story of our estrangement is just a series of disappointments. Part of me wishes it was more exciting, would make you clap your hand over your mouth and say, oh, you poor dear.
Of course, that’s not really true. But, also, it is true. It’s true in the same way that I used to wish for a broken leg so that I could have a cast for my friends to sign. To have to ask them to carry my belongings while I crutch down the school hallways. To witness their pity.
One day, not long after we met her for the first time, I found myself crying in the bathroom of my Seattle middle school. Why? I don’t remember. I was probably lonely, such a shy, sensitive girl in that maelstrom of puberty and chaos. Two girls I barely knew came in and transformed into mother hens. What’s wrong? they asked, cornering me by the sink. But I didn’t know. I couldn’t articulate it. And so I told the weirdest lie I’ve ever told: that my father was moving to California and threatening to take us with him. It came through my lips with no effort and no forethought. And it worked; their pity was boundless.
I’ve been that same girl, the one in that bathroom, for four decades.
Three years ago, in the midst of a pandemic, perimenopause, and a kitchen remodel, I realized I couldn’t do it anymore. I found a therapist. For our first year, I sobbed through every session.
The journey I’ve been on since is one of actively detangling the threads of my identity and finding compassion for that tender little girl in the corner, hens pecking at her imaginary crisis.
I know I’m not alone.
You’re not alone, either.
Love,
Stephanie 🧡
P.S. If you are also a writer, you might enjoy Writing from the Ground Up.
Love your vulnerability in this writing.
This is so beautiful.