Over a year ago my father passed away. Then two months later, my mother passed. Of course, I did not find out about my mother’s death until two weeks later when her bank contacted me. I thought it was one of those spam emails but it had too many details to ignore so I called them. Sure enough...while this woman on the other end of the line prattled on and on, my mind reeled with the realization that my mother had been gone from this earth for two weeks...
...and I didn’t know.
Finding out about her death in this way hindered my already-screwed-up grieving process. Everyone grieves in their own way but for those of us who have suffered at the hands of the deceased, it’s difficult and even more so when a cease fire had never been called.
When my father passed we hadn’t seen each other in over sixteen years and had rarely spoken. He had never shown remorse for the things he had done which ranged from raping me to telling everyone I was crazy (so they wouldn’t believe me when I told on him) to trying to convince me to kill myself.
In a way, I had already mourned my father’s passing in small increments ever since I realized he would never be any kind of a father to me. Still, when I received the phone call saying he was in the hospital and not expected to make it I struggled with whether or not to visit him.
My internal dialogue went something like this -
Why did I have to visit my dad?
Because it was the right thing to do.
Why is it considered the right thing to do? No one would ask the victim of rape to visit their rapist if he was on his death bed but because my rapist was my father there are special circumstances? No! He shouldn’t have raped me because he was my father. Because he was my father, he shouldn’t have lied about it thereby destroying any chance for me of having a relationship with anyone else in the family.
However, none of that matters now. He’s dying.
How did that change anything? The fact is, nothing changed with my father dying except he could no longer directly hurt me and he no longer had to endure me as his daughter.
Over the next few days I would read messages of support from those who were still in my father’s life and it was like taking a bullet each and every time. My father was not that man to me.
Why not? Why did I get the bad version of my father when everyone else seemed to get a good one?
The next morning, after a restless night, I woke up to a beautiful, sunny day. My Morning Glories were in full bloom and breath taking. I felt grateful for my husband and kids and dogs. I felt grateful for my simple life. Then I realized - at that moment in time - did any of it matter?
At the end of my father’s life what good did holding on to these thoughts do?
I had always told myself that I had already forgiven my father but in that moment I found myself asking God to forgive him. That was when I knew what it meant to truly forgive.
Now, other than the occasional visitation of an unwanted memory, I’m in a good place regarding my father.
This did not happen with my mother.
(to be continued...)
No comments:
Post a Comment