Digging Up Bones Part I, Childhood Scars
Posted: Tuesday, October 27, 2009
by Debi Strong
"I'm diggin' up bones, I'm diggin' up bones
Exhuming things thats [sic] better left alone…" Randy Travis
As this Randy Travis song suggests, digging up the bones of your past is not the greatest thing to do for your psyche. But I can't help it. The graveyard of my life, where my childhood, past relationships, and old regrets are buried, is not the quiet, contemplative place that it should be.
My childhood, for example, was a pretty sad place. Not because I wanted for food, or clothing, or a home, but because of a divorce, back in the days when it was still a relatively rare occurrence, shrouded in shame and secrets.
When I was halfway through my fourth year, I helped my Dad pack for a business trip. I felt important and useful. I had no idea that he was leaving…forever.
As my late mother used to tell it, he just came home one day and announced, after eight years of marriage, that he'd been miserable for the past five years and he wanted out. Of course, I'm old enough to know now what I didn't know then, i.e. there are two sides to every story. But it would be almost 40 years before I would really get to hear the other side.
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At four, a little girl's life pretty much revolves around her Daddy, and I was no exception. I absolutely adored him. He could do no wrong. Even the fact of his sudden disappearance from my life was not something I blamed on him. As I saw it, it had to have been something I'd done. Either that or the fact that I was born a girl and he'd wanted a boy. I truly believed it was all my fault, somehow, which at that stage of childhood development is perfectly normal.
However, it is the parent's responsibility in a divorce situation to dissuade children of this notion, but that never happened. My mother couldn't comfort me – she was too distraught and busy dealing with her own emotional issues as well as my six-month-old baby sister. For her to try to deal with my misery only meant she had to be reminded of her own despair, and she wasn't going "there" any more often than she had to. And my Dad couldn't help explain things because, 1) he didn't want to, and, 2) he was gone!
So thinking that I still could make a difference, I wrote notes to him begging him to come back. Where these missives went after I wrote them and dropped them down the mail chute of our apartment building, who knows. But at the time, I sincerely believed that they had reached him. I tried to find his office telephone number on Wall Street, but that proved to be a bit more difficult for an almost-five-year-old.
I remember that once in a great while I would see him for a few precious hours, when he was required, I guess, to come visit me at home. Then he would disappear again, for very, very long periods of time.
I was sad, and I became a loner. I just couldn't play with other kids, and be happy like them -- they couldn't understand the grief that I was drowning in. (All except for one special little girl, that is, whose parents had also recently divorced. Although she moved to California a few years later, we have maintained a unique and wonderful friendship over all these fifty years!) No one seemed to understand, or else they did but couldn't find a way to help – it was easier for people to ignore me, or…take advantage of the sad little girl who only wanted her Daddy.
One example of "taking advantage": There was Eddie*, the male counselor at the after-school program I attended, who would sneak me off into the back rooms of the church basement, where the wrestling mats were stacked, and "wrestle" with me in the musty dark, rubbing hard against me while I wrestled in earnest. It was out little secret. I felt special. It took me years to understand exactly what was happening there...
Time passed, and my Dad remarried and had a son. I got to go visit him and his new family, where they lived on an idyllic little farm in upstate New York (I lived in the city, but longed not to). It was fantastic when I was there. I loved his new wife, their house, the little pond, the tree swing, and their horses. The times I spent there at the farm were very happy indeed. Life was good because I was with my Dad!
So, things changed, again. Now, on the rare occasions that I saw my father, he always brought a beautiful woman along on "our" dates. Obviously I still wasn't enough for him to love. Apparently my only option was to somehow compete with these women…as a pre-teen. I tried being smarter and more interesting, I tried making things for him as gifts, I tried to be as sweet and wonderful as I could be to each and every woman he brought along, in the hopes that maybe they'd put in a good word for me. But no, these tactics didn't work either, and I assumed I must really be worthless and ugly if even my own Dad couldn't love me enough to spend a few hours alone with me.
You might ask what my mother was doing all this time. Well, she had remarried as well, and had given birth to another daughter. She was still, however, nursing grudges and wounds and refused to talk with me about what was going on. She would only tell me that she didn't want me around him. It didn't matter what I wanted. I couldn't get my feelings, my hopes, my dreams across to her -- she wouldn't, or couldn't, listen. I soon realized I couldn't talk with her without her crying and getting upset, so finally I just gave up and stopped trying..
I walled myself off totally from her and the rest of the family. I spent as little time with them as possible. I hated my stepfather, and every night at the dinner table we would get into a fight and I would get sent to my room (no wonder I love to eat so much at night!).
Then, in another incomprehensible act of cruelty as far as I was concerned, my Mom decided, and my Dad apparently agreed, that The Stepfather should adopt my sister and I, and so our last names were changed to his. I was appalled and heartbroken when this fait accompli was announced – the last shred of connection to my father, my last name, had been taken away from me. I was angry. I was sad. I was powerless.
Then puberty arrived, and the shit hit the fan…To be continued…
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Note: Throughout this series of memories I would like to add the caveat that there is no blame intended to anyone in my family. Life happens – we all do our best at each point in time. I hold myself responsible for my life now, including all that is good, bad, or indifferent. DLS
*Not his real name.
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Top-level comments on this article: (8 total)Debi,This is a remarkable story. I hope we learn the outcome in Part II, but now that you are grown up, are you able to get together with your dad again? I know full well the special bond between a Dad and his little girl. Believe me, the daughter will always be, cannot ever NOT be Daddy's baby for all time, no matter what. I guaranty your dad feels eternal love for you, whether or not he calls.- GHi G,Thanks for your comment. There will be two more parts to this story, but to answer your question: yes, my Dad and I talk, although sporadically. Actually, my youngest and I will be traveling next month to help celebrate his birthday.I will always love him, and I know that deep down he loves me and always has, as well. He has learned a lot over his lifetime, as we all do. And I have long forgiven him -- he was doing his best at the time, my Mom was doing what she thought was best, and I was doing what I thought was best. Other information has surfaced since my Mom died in 1989, that indicates she felt a lot of guilt for a long time because of her actions. I can't ask her, so I'll never know -- she went to her grave still bitter about the divorce (I think after all those years, she still loved him...).I am scarred, but I know I am not alone...we all have our crosses to bear. I am hoping that writing about these things, after "caressing the bones" all this time ,will help ease some of the enduring pain...Anyway, thanks for reading and commenting.Stay tuned for part 2 of Digging Up Bones -- The Messy Teenage Years.DebiYou are right! I will see her this month to celebrate my 80th B-Day, with the whole family. It's never easy, but the love is always there.Debi's Dad
AKA the Old PhilosopherAnd love is never wasted. I love you, Dad.Debi
Powerful and raw Debi. I have similar "bones" and by the grace of God have experienced healing and help. I look forward to Part Two.Thanks for your comments, Edward. I really appreciate them. It's scary putting all this out there... Your input made me feel less nervous.Debi
Hi Debi.I, too, have such issues, as I touched on in my "No Despair" series. I truly feel your pain and pray for your recoverey.Thanks for your note, Ken. I could read the pain in your articles, as well. I guess we're all wounded, and life's about how we deal with our pain and how resilient we are. Thanks again, Debi
Gidday Debi,I can relate to your story and I cannot help but wonder if that era or generation was somewhat prone to abandonment. I wanted my Daddy so much, and now we don't talk, I call him by his first name. My stepfather raised me and he IS my Dad.It messed me up and I too need to exhume my bones, sooner than later, as I have done to my children what my father did to me. I tried extremely hard not to be anything like him and became like him through my efforts. I am currently doing all I can to be the best I can be, making amends to my children takes the highest priority. It is good for me to read your story, digging up the past is a daunting task at the best of times, it will bear fruit, the healing is almost palpable.I truly look forward to part 2.Sincerely,KianAwww, Kian -- hang in there. At least you are making an effort with your kids, and your efforts could prevent another generation's pain. It's hard not to follow in your parents' footsteps, no matter how much you distance yourself, isn't it? All we can do, in the end, is our very best, paying attention to our behaviors, and acting with love and compassion.Thanks again,Debi
Thanks for sharing such a personal story with us Debi. Writing is great therapy don't you think? Looking forward to your next article.Thank you, Brianna. It is good to write about all this, but very scary as well. Baring all these thoughts and feelings to the world, for all intents and purposes, and letting others read about my darkest demons, keeps me taking a lot of deep breaths!!!Debi
I know how hard it is to dig up those bones. I wish you well and healing on your journey. Thanks for sharing.Linda DThanks for your support, Linda.Debi
I understand the angst but my father died when I was akid and I never got teh chance to know him. Count your blessings and leave them bones alone. Looking forward to the sequel thoughThanks for your comment Nick. I guess I feel that death leaves closure; divorce does not. But I understand your sadness at losing your Dad so young, and I'm sorry for your loss.FYI, I posted Part II on SearchWarp a couple of days ago. Part III is in progress.Take care,Debi
Well done Debi for sharing such personal and painful memories. I hope that it helped you to deal with those feelings, even if only a little.Your point about it being the parent's responsibility to ensure that the children know it is not their fault is a very important one. All children feel guilt when the parents part or a parent dies and everyone around them needs to help them get through this to understand it is not their fault.Thanks for sharing,Ben.Hi Ben,Thanks for your comment, for taking the time to read my article, and for underscoring the need for parents to make sure their kids get the message loud and clear that whatever happened -- whether death or divorce -- had nothing to do with anything they did or didn't do.BTW, Part II was posted a couple of days ago, if you're interested.Thanks again,Debi
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