Coincide.

October 15^th, 2006

Coincide

The Day That Hope Lived and Died

Outside, the cars routinely machined north and south on that memory littered street. The sun shone sweetly as it always had; as it always should and it always would. The sun was unaffected by the two story white house with shutters neatly wrapped around each window. I suppose the great force of the sun was fulfilling its course amidst the day; however, it would be arbitrary to say that the girl was participating in its splendor. I imagine the trees stood tall like soldiers, standing guard against the rays that would powerfully, forcefully, and persistently seep into lives of those who dared to step out into the world.

The garage door was open; causing the house to feel vulnerable, the way a child feels when she realizes she has lost her father. From thirty five feet directly in front of the house were trampled white and purple daisies who were constantly watching everything with their unseen eyes. They watched in wonder always; the details of that day were wrapped up and trapped in their petals as the sun went down and the ugly flowers closed out of purpose or out of habit.

At twelve years old I was not still a child. My innocence had faded as footprints on the sand that are angrily washed away by relentless waves. I don’t remember what the people who belong to me were doing, but I remember where they may have been. My brothers were in the garage. My sister was in the room which we ironically referred to as the “family” room. I can almost still see my mother standing in the cubed kitchen; making it presentable. She stared outside into the backyard that should have made us all happy; with its luxurious swimming pool, luscious lawns, carefully thought out plant patterns, stone steps, plush patio furniture, and shade from the constant, impatient force of the sun.

I was in the place where I always seemed to find myself. It was a place of solitude, safety, insecurity, imperfection, power, familiarity, deception, control, peace, and lies: my room. I had my own room; I was my own support. It’s been seven years since I’ve dwelled among those horrible yet comfortable walls. The waterfall always fell, the moon repeatedly shone through my window at precisely the same needed angle, and I always made it through each hellacious night of brokenness.

Children gravitate toward excitement. Curious faces await unknown circumstances. Hope renews its fuse as quickly as a fish forgets its last mission. The voices came from downstairs and outside. Familiarity was, at many times, my downfall. Being whirled around in a sickening spiral becomes difficult to think outside of. It holds more containment than a simple box; moreover, familiarity blanketed my entire existence as a child. Hope: let down: anger: mourning: confusion: maturity: denial: hope: let down. The cycle became life; consequently, life became a vicious cycle to survive the let downs: the repeated let downs.

Today would be like the rest. It is an unnerving feeling to be told that your father would return home from a mental hospital when you stand unsure of every surprise attack at the age of twelve. Those places are for crazy people: people who shouldn’t have other people who depend on them. A hospital with people who can’t manage their own lives is no place for a father; it was the place for my father. The fact that he finally submitted his demonic will to a place of such utmost supervision spoke half truths and half lies to my weak and bleeding heart. This man whom I wanted to depend on was using this as an excuse to not be strong enough.

Strength does not come from being sovereign. I needed someone who was strong enough to need me. I’ve opened my eyes to see that strength is uncommon among the common man. I don’t want common and I can’t do common; common has been not strong enough to survive this world.

The driveway sloped downwards. If I were to pencil the way the cracks appeared on the driveway onto a canvass, I could do so explicitly. There were the two perfect lines that crossed directly in the middle of the pavement which remembers all days. When the lines were crossed, as they always had been, the driveway was separated into untouchable entities. That divided cross was our family: separated from one another since before remembrance of daring into each other’s worlds. My belief was viciously divided. “That used to be my playground, that used to be my childhood dream, that used to be the place I’d run to, whenever I was in need.”

The amount of shot attempts I took on that basketball hoop, which stood on the right side of that driveway, were as numerous as the stars that would shine brightly on a hopelessly dark night. Passions are nurtured when holes crave to be filled. My well was empty as a child; I allowed horrific days of pain to be comforted by the time spent on that solemn driveway. It used to be my playground: I used to be a little girl.

The noticeable, ugly and unsymmetrical break on the side of the driveway marked the line from which free throws should be shot. No closer; no further. Children create their own set of rules based on the knowledge they are capable of acquiring given unique circumstances. That broken line, which protruded crookedly from the grass to the middle of the bottom quadrant, represented order to us as we played our game: my saving grace. The rules I created for survival in life signified my defense against this merciless existence often referred to as living.

As the sun shone sympathetically upon my broken soul, I spent guarded days expressing my heart to the game of basketball: through the game of basketball. That creatively compassionate cement vicinity saw my innermost parts as openly as a surgeon sees the intricacies of a patient’s vulnerable existence. My sad soul sat stubbornly on my sleeve while those whom I needed offered me ‘clothing’ to conceal my deepest desires. Pieces of my lost childhood are buried deep below that layer of unbreakable cement. I gave myself wholeheartedly to that place of solemn belonging amidst an unforgiving world.

The day that hoped lived and died has little to do with my childhood driveway. In fact, that exact pavement only serves to further explain the depths of my sharp scars. That driveway correlates with a day on which clarity came to my mind. Permanent clarity has yet to dwell within me, but the understanding I gained on that day marked the turn of innocence. Innocence meant irresponsible and stagnant weakness. Since those days of feebleness I have been a responsible adult: facing the wicked world from beneath my protective cement. It is safe here. Come and find me here. This is where I need you most.

I heard their voices that day. I heard the conversations of those whose voices I knew. I knew their laughter, I knew their tendencies, unfortunately I knew their anger too well, but looking back overall, I knew them not.

I descended the stairs as I always did as a child. I could get to the bottom in three long leaps. I learned this successful technique from my older brother: my childhood best friend. He was a part of me then. I trusted him and counted on him to lead me in the direction of my dreams. He has yet to do so. He left me alone there.

One hand should be placed directly in front of the other on that dark wood wobbly banister. At the top there was a slight drop before the straightaway began. We would start with both feet on the top stair. Particulars are vital to children; patterns are an inevitable reliance of all. With both feet ready to jump into action, both hands should be placed as far down on the banister as possible without beginning the practiced unconscious journey.

Once the initial lean was in place, we would leap with our right foot first. That foot would venture to the furthest stair possible with precision, pause, and then quickly rush into the wind while following the right foot. It was then time for the left foot to skip five or six more stairs with the right foot faithfully and obediently following. Without a thought we could be at the bottom of the stairs in three to four steps. Our bodies would be twisted and angled perfectly. One slight misstep or mistake could ruin the entire comfortable and effective sequence. All the while, our hands would grasp tightly the banister with such fierceness that when done, the palms of our hands were left with a tingly burning sensation. I remember feeling as though it was worth it to get to the bottom of the stairs as quickly as possible. It was worth it that day. This was a day of genuine hope: my last day of genuine hope for him. Or at least I longed for it to be my last day of hope for this person whom I once thought I belonged to. Descending the stairs was a practiced and perfected patterned behavior. Our safe places were the ones which we thought not of; the ones which we had control over.

As I looked out my window that day, I could see my father’s car climb the hill on which we lived then. I cannot remember the car he drove at the time. My stubborn heart neglects to allow memories back into my cognitively over analytical adult mind. It had been awhile since we knew that he needed help. I was a child, yet I knew my father was not like other fathers. Towards those last years of my parent’s marriage my father used to act in abnormal ways. I can remember how he used to sit for hours on end at the corner of the brown couch in the living room. He never looked comfortable. He was a man who never let down his guard. He looked as though he knew his world was going to end. Perhaps his world did end when he was a child, and he has been unsuccessfully attempting to survive his personal dark hell ever since. Each day that he lived was another failure, another broken attempt at a genuine remedy. He appeared to me like an uncomfortable victim of his self induced downfall.

I can still see the way in which my father would sit on that couch. He would sit on the end where the lamp would shine upon him. The light can’t reach him now; my father is a part of the eternal darkness destined to take hold of the permanently lost ones of this world. This was the day that I lost hope for his return to me. He won’t return to me. Why won’t he return to me? Why doesn’t he want to do what is necessary to return to me? When he would sit there he would be completely sullen: trapped in his own beautiful mind. Was it his doing? When had he lost his ability of discernment? I remember him always being dressed in a collared buttoned-up shirt, tucked in to his pleated dress shorts, with a belt wrapping his defenses tightly together, and boat shoes upon his feet that have failed to lead him to down straight paths since the days of his helpless youthfulness. No one raised him up as child in the way he should go: he never found a way to be stronger than the uncommon man who is helplessly weak by innate nature.

My father could and would wear the exact same outfit for weeks on end. He was a creature of highs and lows. Some call it Manic Depression, some call it Bipolar Disorder, some call it Schizophrenia, some call is Multiple Personality Disorder, some call it Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and some call it crazy; I always called him dad.

His illness has led him to that pattern of life. At times he would long for freedom from the fastidious binds of materialism. Other times he was a man of wealth and status. Regardless of what he was with us, he was presentable to the outside world; he had the humor, the ease of bouts of enjoyable presence, and words to lead an army to battle. He did not have the strength to keep a family together: to keep himself from the devil.

As a child this left me with a confused young mind. I am an adult now: my mind is as confused as it was when I was filled with youth. One day daddy wanted to buy us the very stars which shed light upon our empty hearts, yet other days this man let his anger run loose upon our protected hearts while he longed to go back to his life free from possessions: free from the responsibility to be my strength. Unfathomable was the ability to determine the intentions he had. This man whom I have never known was as unpredictable as an irregular heartbeat. I would always hope I had it figured out; I always believed that each time he broke my heart it would be the last: it never was: it never is.

Today was the day my heart almost exploded with a sense of rekindled hope as I jumped down the stairs. We had figured it out; we had solved the weaknesses which was infecting the foundation of our household. Without a stronghold, structures fail. Our structure had failed before we knew it; I’ve always tried to avoid ignorance with the defenses of strength, responsibility, determination and perfection.

I ran: I raced: I rushed. I did everything within my twelve year old strength to get to my father as soon as possible. As I opened the door to the garage I saw my fatherless brothers standing in wait for my father to pace up that crooked and pain-soaked driveway to reach them.

They’ve been waiting for the day they would be fathered all their lives: they’re still waiting. A boy with no father is like a story with no ending. Everyday I see my brothers wandering aimlessly in the direction opposite of their unknown dreams.

As for the little girl who dwells within me; I was a child who did not get loved enough. I did not get loved enough. I was not loved enough when I was a child. Those whom I needed did not love me enough. I have learned this in my later years. As I lived through those days of anguish I never knew the severity of my let down: my beautifully lasting letdown.

He walked up the driveway towards us. The larger portion of the three car garage was open. My father walked diagonally atop the lasting cracks in the direction of his heartless children. He had long since lost his ability to go confidently in the direction of his dreams. I don’t remember hugging him or welcoming him home that day; I remember watching his actions from a dangerous distance. I have lived my entire life at a distance from those who have crossed my life path. I wait with perfect precision and intent. I wait on purpose. I’ll wait for you here. Here is where I’ve always been; watching the wicked world wander without me. It was as if I knew my father would let me down although I had hoped this glorious homecoming would be different than all those which I had encountered previously. My capacity to hope rises and falls deeply and passionately like waves fighting to survive through a storm.

His mood at that moment soared high above my ability to keep emotions in perspective. Children are surprisingly quite capable of learning to guard their hearts against terrifying explosive behaviors. Although these defense mechanisms are not always beneficial, they are temporary remedies to unfathomable and intolerable madness. It has been said that childhood is what we spend the rest of our lives overcoming. What causes children a desire to protect themselves is what causes anxiety and uncertainty when stepping out into the illuminating light of the sun which sees all crevices.

It has also been said that, “Time waits for no one.” This world continues without concern for the shattered souls it holds in its hands. It will leave people behind if they don’t hold tightly to each passing hour. Hold tightly little child: this too shall pass. Will this pass? That is my genuine hope in this emotionless existence.

My father had entered back into our worlds; he entered back into my heart again, and again, and again. I would love to say that this would be the last time I would allow him such freedom. It seems as though I have never had control over my father’s ability to come into my heart and scatter its understanding.

He stood in the driveway as we welcomed him home. I was apprehensive, yet still I longed for my translucent willingness to have him back, to be as clear to him as the eyes we stare through each waking moment with. My father walked back up the driveway to the edge of the garage. The boys had been carefully shaving sticks from trees down so as to smooth them for a vitally significant purpose. That sounds significantly more purposeful than stating that they were mindlessly filling their heart wrenchingly lonely days with trivial tasks.

My mother and sister had joined in on the commotion of the awkward welcome home incident. The affects of my father have never limited themselves; they were able to trickle into all of our hearts like identical drops which make up a masterfully horrifying waterfall. The waterfall of life was always pulling us in, grabbing our sympathy, tapping in to our hope, leaving us with our intimately lonely quest for successful answers and analysis while rushing through the continuous cycle mercilessly.

There we were. We stood in front of him and waited. We certainly did a lot of waiting with my father. If there was a way that we could revoke his control over us, I wish that someone would have enlightened us with this answer key in my ignorant years. I can remember waiting.

I can remember waiting hours for him to return from his runs so that he could take us to get donuts. I remember waiting for him to finally sit down to dinner. I remember waiting for him to get home from work, only to find that he would not return home until too late to be our father. I remember waiting for him to make his coffee on Christmas morning while our eager young hearts almost burst within our chests from stifled anticipation. I remember waiting for him to finish the bills before he could talk with us. I remember waiting for him to read his books before being our father. I remember waiting for him while he took us into his office at work on the weekends. I remember waiting for him to complete all of his errands before he would finally, if we were lucky, follow through what he had originally promised to us if we accompanied him on his outings. I remember waiting for him to explode at any moments notice with anger, rage, and horrifying negative passions.

I remember waiting for him to be pleased with me. I remember waiting for him to be proud of me. I remember waiting for him to prove his love to me through genuine actions. Among all of these things, as I looked at the hollow capsule of a man who stood before me that day in the driveway of my heart, I remember waiting for my father to love me. I’ve waited for many things in my life, and my father’s genuine love is one that I convinced myself that I was never worthy enough to attain. It isn’t true, but my life which was filled with hope and letdowns led me to feel that way in all genres of my existence. It is still my greatest struggle to allow myself to feel valuable to the new faces and places I belong to.

As my father walked up the driveway he asked something of me. I can’t remember what it was. I recall him needing a certain item from within the house. He did as he always did; he manipulatively phrased his request so that I believed deep within my soul that it was my duty to carry out his demand as quickly and as precisely as possible. I became impeccably precise when it came to getting anything done; I had to. It was typical to whirl myself into a relentless frenzy to appease. No more. Before he had gone into the hospital this time, there would be no questions asked when he made a request of this nature.

Of course, I was a stubborn child. I was as stubborn as a five year old who doesn’t want to share anything that she believes “belongs” to her. Even before his venture into the hospital I challenged him at every corner of his unnamed behavior. Why do you want me to do that? Can this wait until I am done with what I am doing? No, I don’t want to do that. Why do I have to do it for you? Why don’t you do it yourself?

My sister has expressed to me that she admired my ability to stand up to this man. To be honest I didn’t even realize that this was a quality, good or bad, that I possessed. I simply developed bitterness towards his inability to reciprocate love and commitment to me as his daughter. Stubborn and bold, maybe, yet I simply believed then that I deserved to have a father who truly longed to be strong for me.

I have never been a soft spirit to those who see only my exterior. If you truly could see inside this vessel though, you would see that I am about as strong as a broken rubber band. I can’t show that instability: without my strength those who were capable of hurting me would have won. Maybe they did win. On the contrary, in my own understanding, strength is capability and survival.

It was a known fact among our family now: this man went to a mental hospital and had mental illness tendencies. Now that he had been diagnosed, we ignorantly thought that his medicine and our limited understanding of the madness within his wild mind could actually bring all of the pieces back into organizational order. Perhaps we are not to blame for this naivety, but we blindly fall victim to its all encompassing claws repeatedly.

I told my father that I wouldn’t fulfill his instant demand that day when he returned from the hospital. I felt that I deserved that fulfilling freedom to decline his control over me. I felt safe in doing it. I felt that it was acceptable because his recognition of his illness to his mind was fresh and he was still underneath its grasp. It would soon fade away, and my deception and lack of cooperation would not always be tolerated. I found it imperative to capitalize on my opportunity to show him his faults on this day. It is skewed and makes less than comprehensible sense to anyone outside of my personal existence, but, to me on that day, it made perfect sense and it was liberating.

Sadly, a heart-wrenching letdown is wrapped up in that moment. At my depths, I honestly believed that my daddy was cured from all selfishness and explosive, confusing, and erratic behavior.

This is it! He is home. The authorities have wrapped their expertly trained minds around what is wrong with this man. He, himself, knows what is wrong with him. My mother knows what his weaknesses and needs are. Finally: this is the end of all of our turmoil. It has been a disastrous long road, but we have arrived at the solution. Broken, we reached out to help beyond the power of the corroded nucleus that was our family. Today is the day that we will begin to fill in the missing colors to the courageous castles of our hearts. What a glorious day. The answer to my tear stained prayers had finally been delivered.

My initial response to my father’s demand for my retrieval of some desired item within those bound and untruthful walls of my parent’s hopeless house was sarcastic and disrespectful. I said, “I am not going to do that for you right now, I am not ready to it, it can wait until I am ready to do it.” Like I said, I can’t recall what he wanted, but whatever it was, I was going to prove my stubbornly hopeful point to him in this instance. My mother, brothers, and sister were witnesses to my bold statement that day. I recall laughter. I recall my father laughing and possibly even hugging me after I had blatantly took a forceful stand against his erratic demand. I knew I could, because he was on his medicine to help regulate his behavior. It was funny. It was light-hearted. It was the last day that an interaction like this could have been possible.

In short, that was the game which my heart has been terribly trapped inside of since before I was able to save myself from developing into the person I was rapidly racing to escape from becoming. My life was a game of masks, of eggshells, of appropriate actions, of hellacious hope, of ebbs and flows, of flashes of change, of anger, of confusion, of torture, of horror, of blackness, of muck, of stagnation, of unknown glances, of unknown personalities, of paranoia, of innocence, of loss of innocence, of loneliness, of dark, of entrapment, of bad to good, of terror, of disappointment, of uncertainty, of lies, of open endings: my life was a game in which I desperately and unknowingly participated in. I clung to survival tactics without the realization that I was falling deeper into the disgusting abyss which I was falling deeper into as each uncompassionate day trudged passed the brown eyes which God has purposefully given me. I still had a Father in Heaven.

The driveway: I wish we could have stayed in that moment forever. You cannot stay in moments: a rule of life which I wish was arbitrary. Once you discover that you cherish a specific moment, the moment has passed and gone away. You’re only hope to retrieve it is in your mind. There are good moments that I can remember, but they are just that: moments. I cannot string together a collection of unconditional moments. The happy moments in my life often appeared and were quickly washed away, and they never allowed me the confidence to believe a consecutive safe moment would follow. Good things which I can recall are long drives, candy stores, amusement parks, and vacations.

The reason I wish we could have stayed in that moment forever is because, perhaps I understood that I would not be able to hold on to that moment of hope longer than was possible. Moments fade away: memories are left as ragged remnants.

I am twelve: she was twelve. How much can a twelve year old understand? I wanted to understand. I wanted to be one step ahead of everyone else. I wanted to be smarter and stronger than anything opposing my soul. I wanted to be able to deal gracefully with whatever evil challenge this mean world had yet to throw into my realm of existence. I learned my successful defense mechanisms long before I could get underneath them to discover that they were just that: mechanisms to handle pain.

My defense mechanisms got caught in the spotlight for full exposure that day. I am early in my story, and I have yet to recall what exactly what moment changed my ability to hope from life to death, but it certainly died after that day.

My father returned home from the hospital with an illness that has been infecting him since his unheard days of childhood. It is a part of him. He brought it home that day, and he brought it into my life the day I was born.

The hope I experienced as I saw him get out of his car, as I saw him walk across my driveway, as I saw him interact with my brothers, as I ran up the stairs and back down again was a genuine hope. That’s all I know. I am persistently seeking genuine all the days of my life. That moment didn’t last. It was gone, but I remember and cherish it. It is a translucent feeling that I still feel inside of me today. I yearned desperately for it to stay. I reached for it, I screamed for it, I chased it, and I have tried to return to it again and again.

This is it. This is his last chance. He will be okay. He understands what is wrong with his brain and he is going to take the necessary steps to learn how to be strong enough: strong enough so I can have a father in this life. Here we are, and we’re a family again. All those tears were vital for me to cry. They had to pour, we had to break, and he had to discover his weakness in order to overcome it. Hope: let down: anger: sad.

It’s too late. That was his last chance in my heart. It will never be the last chance. God, why did you make me so hopeful? The constant hope within this soul of mine is so consistent. When I break; I fall hard. When I think; I force understanding and cognitive sense. When I love; I seek to love with Christ as my example. Hope lived that day, and died that day, as it has lived and died on repeat for my entire life. This is how it is for us.

He did not follow through. He didn’t have time, he didn’t want to be strong enough, he was too weak, he was too hurt, he was too lost, he was too sick, he was too important, and we were alone. A man with Manic Depression, Bipolar Disorder, Schizophrenia, Paranoia, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Multiple Personality Disorder: my father. He has since fallen further into the infinite abyss of his own personal hell.

We stood and watched, and now we turn our backs: our hearts.

June 14^th, 2008