argh! i'm done!
Daddy
When the divorce started, Daddy used to keep strawberries stocked in his crummy yellow fridge. He knew that I loved them; he knew it was a way to keep me coming back. It took me the longest time to make the connection that I could have just stopped liking strawberries and everything would have ended, everything would have been alright. But I was stupid and naive as a child, and even still as a teenager. I didnt understand what was going on as it was occurring; I didnt know it was so wrong until almost too late.
Think about the earliest memory of your childhood. Its probably a fond one - maybe something involving an inside joke with your best friend, ice cream dripping down your chin, or learning how to swim. Mine involves the loss of my innocence.
I can remember it like it just happened last night. I was sleeping soundly in my purple unicorn-clad bed when I awoke to a whisper in my ear telling me to be quiet and move over. I knew it was Daddy, of course I knew. I did as I was told, being ever the obedient child, not understanding that it wasnt right. I dont think I need to go into details here, but what happened was wrong on all levels, and also extremely illegal.
As it started to happen more and more, I came to realize that this wasnt the same daddy I knew during the daytime. He wasnt the man who carried me around on his shoulders, who created a ritual called tickle torture, and tucked me into bed almost every night with a hug and a kiss. Hours after I was tucked in and my mother had gone to bed as well, he would stumble into my room and whisper to me in sharp, bitter syllables that tasted like stale cigarettes and beer.
Daddy wasnt really that great of a father, despite the picture I just painted for you with my few fond memories. I grew up with him hardly ever being around. He was a truck driver, and I think he liked doing it mostly because he didnt have to deal with his family. He would be gone for weeks at a time, and it wasnt much fun when he was actually home. He never did much for fatherly things; there was no reading of bedtime stories, no attending softball games and choral concerts, no help with math homework. On the first night back from a trip, he would usually get home late at night, watch TV and drink, then fall asleep in his recliner. For the rest of the time he was home, our routine would continue behind closed doors.
How my mother didnt find out about our little secret until years later, I have no clue. Its just something you cant imagine occurring in your own home, I guess. But it was obvious to see the stress going on in my family; my mother did everything around the house and ran the family business, not to mention the fact that she was mothering three children practically by herself. The only thing she could count on him for was financial support, one of the things hed always been good at.
After a while, my mother stopped being able to handle Daddy. They finally decided that they were unhappy together and should get a divorce. He moved into a trailer across the street, so it wasnt like he was really gone. I visited him for a while, always stopping by for some strawberries and chocolate milk after I got off the school bus. I think Daddy almost liked not living at home, which makes sense considering hed always been so unhappy around us.
When your mind is twisted and manipulated for so long to believe something thats supposed to be wrong is right, you start to lose sight of reality. I always thought I hid the secret so well - I never thought wed get caught. Yes, we. I started to believe, after it went on long enough, that we were in it together, that it was my burden to carry in life as much as it was his. We had our secret and no one would ever find out, I promised him that. But secrets are discovered and promises are made to be broken.
After Daddy moved out of the house and into the trailer, I started to sleep in his bed with him on the nights I stayed there. I cant say for sure how long this went on, but we were bound to get discovered eventually; nothing lasts forever.
One morning, my mother brought her lawyer with her to Daddys house to sign the final divorce papers. It took three years for this moment to arrive, and it couldnt have happened at a worse time. She knocked on the door, but after a minute of waiting, no one had answered. She knew from previous visits that Daddy couldnt always hear the door from his bedroom at the other end of the trailer (and it was morning so he might have still been asleep), so she let herself in and had the lawyer wait outside. She came down the hall and opened the door to Daddys bedroom. I was still asleep, naked in his bed, but Daddy had just gotten up and was getting dressed. My mother saw all of this and quickly understood the situation. I can imagine the years of hell between them making sense to her in an instant.
It took me a long time to realize that what happened for the majority of my childhood wasnt my fault. My mother sent me to therapy and in time I discovered that this was not supposed to happen to little girls. I was just a victim, and like most children this happens to, I was just doing what I was told. To this day I cant eat anything that looks, tastes or smells like strawberries.
Daddy
When the divorce started, Daddy used to keep strawberries stocked in his crummy yellow fridge. He knew that I loved them; he knew it was a way to keep me coming back. It took me the longest time to make the connection that I could have just stopped liking strawberries and everything would have ended, everything would have been alright. But I was stupid and naive as a child, and even still as a teenager. I didnt understand what was going on as it was occurring; I didnt know it was so wrong until almost too late.
Think about the earliest memory of your childhood. Its probably a fond one - maybe something involving an inside joke with your best friend, ice cream dripping down your chin, or learning how to swim. Mine involves the loss of my innocence.
I can remember it like it just happened last night. I was sleeping soundly in my purple unicorn-clad bed when I awoke to a whisper in my ear telling me to be quiet and move over. I knew it was Daddy, of course I knew. I did as I was told, being ever the obedient child, not understanding that it wasnt right. I dont think I need to go into details here, but what happened was wrong on all levels, and also extremely illegal.
As it started to happen more and more, I came to realize that this wasnt the same daddy I knew during the daytime. He wasnt the man who carried me around on his shoulders, who created a ritual called tickle torture, and tucked me into bed almost every night with a hug and a kiss. Hours after I was tucked in and my mother had gone to bed as well, he would stumble into my room and whisper to me in sharp, bitter syllables that tasted like stale cigarettes and beer.
Daddy wasnt really that great of a father, despite the picture I just painted for you with my few fond memories. I grew up with him hardly ever being around. He was a truck driver, and I think he liked doing it mostly because he didnt have to deal with his family. He would be gone for weeks at a time, and it wasnt much fun when he was actually home. He never did much for fatherly things; there was no reading of bedtime stories, no attending softball games and choral concerts, no help with math homework. On the first night back from a trip, he would usually get home late at night, watch TV and drink, then fall asleep in his recliner. For the rest of the time he was home, our routine would continue behind closed doors.
How my mother didnt find out about our little secret until years later, I have no clue. Its just something you cant imagine occurring in your own home, I guess. But it was obvious to see the stress going on in my family; my mother did everything around the house and ran the family business, not to mention the fact that she was mothering three children practically by herself. The only thing she could count on him for was financial support, one of the things hed always been good at.
After a while, my mother stopped being able to handle Daddy. They finally decided that they were unhappy together and should get a divorce. He moved into a trailer across the street, so it wasnt like he was really gone. I visited him for a while, always stopping by for some strawberries and chocolate milk after I got off the school bus. I think Daddy almost liked not living at home, which makes sense considering hed always been so unhappy around us.
When your mind is twisted and manipulated for so long to believe something thats supposed to be wrong is right, you start to lose sight of reality. I always thought I hid the secret so well - I never thought wed get caught. Yes, we. I started to believe, after it went on long enough, that we were in it together, that it was my burden to carry in life as much as it was his. We had our secret and no one would ever find out, I promised him that. But secrets are discovered and promises are made to be broken.
After Daddy moved out of the house and into the trailer, I started to sleep in his bed with him on the nights I stayed there. I cant say for sure how long this went on, but we were bound to get discovered eventually; nothing lasts forever.
One morning, my mother brought her lawyer with her to Daddys house to sign the final divorce papers. It took three years for this moment to arrive, and it couldnt have happened at a worse time. She knocked on the door, but after a minute of waiting, no one had answered. She knew from previous visits that Daddy couldnt always hear the door from his bedroom at the other end of the trailer (and it was morning so he might have still been asleep), so she let herself in and had the lawyer wait outside. She came down the hall and opened the door to Daddys bedroom. I was still asleep, naked in his bed, but Daddy had just gotten up and was getting dressed. My mother saw all of this and quickly understood the situation. I can imagine the years of hell between them making sense to her in an instant.
It took me a long time to realize that what happened for the majority of my childhood wasnt my fault. My mother sent me to therapy and in time I discovered that this was not supposed to happen to little girls. I was just a victim, and like most children this happens to, I was just doing what I was told. To this day I cant eat anything that looks, tastes or smells like strawberries.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
Nice job with the details