Freedom.

6 January 2007

Freedom

The phone call this morning felt like an act of betrayal. Sarah, you should call. You should call so that he knows you’re coming up to see him. You can’t reveal too much though, so simply say you want to give him something. I don’t want to call. What will I say? Can I get away without saying dad in the beginning of the conversation? He doesn’t deserve “dad.” Maybe Jeff and April won’t want to go today. Maybe I should wait another week: maybe a month. I am not ready for this. I don’t really need to take this step. You should simply ask if he is at home, and say that you are driving up there to give him something in about an hour. Leave it at that. It needs to come as a surprise to him, so that he does not have time to plan how to manipulate this meeting. It needs to hit him fresh. Pick up the phone and dial that number for the last time. You won’t have to dial it again for anything: ever. Why do I always have to face these challenges? Do other people have things that they are terrified to do, yet they have been almost forced to step over the edge? Do they jump too? Do they conquer each terrifying trial like I do? Or do they wait? Why can’t I wait like other people do? I am not other people: I am stronger than that. I want more. “Lord, please give me strength to do this today. I am surprised at how scared I am. I have not planned this out at all really. I need you so badly. I cannot do this on my own. It feels right. I wish I knew if this is what you wanted of me. Am I pleasing you? Would you say to my soul, “Well done, my good and faithful servant?” Am I finding you in this life? Is this okay? Am I okay? Please Lord, I don’t have anything to offer besides all of my untrusting heart. This is all that I can give right now, and that’s my everything. Okay, I should call and see if he’s even there, because Jeff and April will be here soon to go with me to his apartment. As I dial like I have so many times before; I am unprepared for his voice. I am always unprepared. I have never found the solution to preparedness with him. “Hi dad, (I said it, I didn’t want to say it. At least it will be the last time I will have to) this is Sarah. Fine, how are you? Yeah, um… I was wondering if you’re going to be around for awhile. Okay, because I want to bring you something. What? Oh, I will leave in about a half hour, I will be there by eleven o’clock. Yeah, okay, bye.” My half truths felt like betrayal. Why do I feel like I am betraying him when he is the one who has betrayed himself. Get those thoughts out of my head. I have to do this. I have to do this today. Poor guy, he probably won’t understand. I might hurt him. To hell with that thought from the devil. This man is unfeeling; I do not need to be concerned with his feelings. I don’t need weak thoughts right now; I need peace, I need strength, I need to get this over with because I feel the weight of it hanging over me.

“Hi Jeff, okay, I’ll be out there in a minute. Will you drive me to his car? I parked it on a hill a few minutes from my apartment. Okay, be right out.” I printed out two copies of the ten points I had written to read to my father the day I would give him his car back and finally smack him with my honest heart. Oh, how long I have waited to be free from his wicked binds. His hands are so filthy. His mind so far. His motives so blurred. His existence so pitiful. Could I actually read these things to him? How could I say all of this? Should I just hand it to him and walk away? No! Sarah, you’ll never have this day again. Today is your opportunity. Your little girl inside who has been murdered deserves for these words to be spoken aloud. Please say them Sarah. Do it for yourself. You are strong enough. You are capable of doing this. You will go in there, say what you want to say, and leave, like you have always imagined. You’re not hurting him maliciously. You have thought out your words carefully like you always do. You have chosen your deepest genuine feelings. You are a woman of God, so you have chosen to sever this tie peacefully. Say what you want to say. Don’t feel weak; those thoughts of weakness are not from God. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I feel absent from my own life. Do I really have to do this today? Here I go. I walked towards the place where my sister and my brother-in-law would meet me. I was purposelessly rummaging through my purse. I was nervous. The word nervous doesn’t do any justice to what I was feeling at that moment today. Seeing the faces of my sister and her husband calmed my soul like nothing else could have done. They are my angels in this place. “Hi, yeah, I feel fine. The car is just a couple minutes away. Thanks so much for doing this with me. Yeah, I am nervous. I don’t know if I can do this. I brought the paper. I want to say it out loud to his face, but I am scared. I might just leave the paper and keys with him, and not say anything. I don’t want to do it that way. I don’t know, I’ll figure it out when I get there. Turn left here, it’s right on that hill. Okay, I’ll turn around and then we can get on the freeway at Crown Valley. Yeah, I’ll call you if I need to before I go talk to him. Okay, see you in a little bit.”

It feels weird to be in this car again. It feels routine. I like ‘Freedom’ better now. He is mine. Turn up the heat, turn on the radio, and drive. I listened to one song as I merged onto the freeway. It was something dumb and mindless that I was singing to as an escape. Sarah, turn off the radio. You don’t need it. It is not helpful on this drive. You don’t have a lot of time to prepare your heart for this. You have only 25 minutes to get ready to do what you’ve been wanting to do since you were eleven years old. This is an important drive and you should be seriously thinking about the events which are soon to take place. Turn off the radio and be alone with yourself. Pray to your God who loves you. Talk to the one who has always been here for you. Tell him how you feel. Express your horror. Ask Him for His peace. Weep in His presence. He will hear you, He will listen to you, and He will save you from the uneasy feeling which is dwelling within your heart. Talk to him Sarah. Talk to you. Don’t escape this event in your life. It will change you. This day will continue to piece you back together again to the wholeness which you so deserve. Turn off the radio Sarah: sit with Jesus. “Dear Lord, please love me right now. I hate the fact that I come to you in times of deepest need, and I am too weak to come to you most days. I’m sorry Jesus. I don’t have it all figured out. I have this knot in my heart right now. I feel like I am on my way to do one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. My life lessons keep pouring like the rain. How much do you have for me Lord? Will you use my life because of all I have made it through? I need you right now. Please give me peace when I speak with my father. Please give me strength. Please dear Lord, speak for me as I am too broken to speak for myself. I need to do this today. I don’t know why I wasn’t given a father who is capable of loving me purely and knowing me genuinely. I am worthy of love, yet I know it not. This man is one who you’ve used to bring me here. I do not know him at all, nor have I ever known him Lord. The only reason he speaks to me is because of his financial support through allowing me to drive his car. He doesn’t know his daughter, nor has he ever fought to know me. Lord, please, as I go to do this, calm my shaking hands and my childlike heart. Thank you Lord, I love You.” Sarah, do you feel ready to be bold and completely truthful with this man who has hurt you so much. I’m not ready. What if I am wrong in doing this? What if he doesn’t understand? What if he doesn’t hear me? He has never heard me, so why do it now? Maybe I won’t say these things to him. I took out the paper and glanced at it. I am glad I wrote these things down. I am really thankful that I have written them down. If I had not written them down, I might have not spoken what I actually intended to say to his expressionless face. Do you remember? Do you remember all of the pain? Little pieces of you died each day as a child. This man needs to hear what you have to say. You are not speaking these words to change his mind. You want nothing. You realize nothing will come. You are so strong. You’ve been forced to be strong. Do you remember the night he swung you around by the shirt collar? Do you remember your fear? Do you remember being scared? Do you remember being horrified? Do you remember the countless nights you heard him screaming at your feeble mother? Do you remember the night you stood with Timothy by the front door and pondered walking away forever? Do you remember the nights you fell asleep in tears with only the comfort from the light of the moon? Do you remember when he hit …? Do you remember when he demanded you to do anything and everything at his beckon call? Do you remember how he was never there? Do you remember how he called you selfish? Do you remember how he used to call 20 times a day and leave threatening messages on your mom’s answering machine? Do you remember Sarah? Do you remember how he said you don’t know God? Do you remember how he told you that those you love are going to Hell? This is that same man. You can do this. Do you remember how he abused …? Do you remember how she went through that and you couldn’t help her? Do you remember how he convinced her of lies and shattered her little girl’s soul? That is it… yes, that emotion right there. It has triggered you. Take that, take that anger which you feel right now towards him and let it be your strength. You are not weak. You are meant for more than a life bound by this misery which is wrapped up in this man. Go on, do what you came to do, and explore what else there is beyond this wall. This is your day of Freedom: go and make it yours.

I pulled up to the apartment complex like I have done several painful times before. It felt different this time. This time I was in control. I was the one who would determine the destiny of this anticipated conversation. “Yeah, park right here. His apartment is right there on the corner. I will be fine. I will be right back.” I walked confidently in the direction of my dreams at that moment. I shook like I haven’t shaken since the day I taught my first lesson to high school students. I knew I had to do this. I knew nothing could be taken away from me now; I was giving back the only thing that this man was holding over my stubborn head. I walked up the stairs and looked back down again. I kept walking up though. I was ready; I had to be ready. When I got to the top of the stairs I waited a moment before I knocked on the door. I made sure that I surrendered to Christ. His will and not mine. I looked down and in front of me I saw a cheap door mat. My father lived with a Romanian woman in a small two-bedroom apartment in Brea, California. He lived a life which I will never understand. How has he come to this? The door mat looked like it belonged in a child’s bedroom. It was blue with vivid splashes of yellow and green with hints of red. Who picked that out? It made me think of the pharmacy in Lake Tahoe. Only briefly though. I didn’t have time or strength to develop that memory from my lost childhood which was a lie to begin with.

I knocked on the door which read X205. My father opened the door. He looked like I expected him to look. He was wearing the same outfit that he was wearing when I saw him last weekend. He always did that: wear the same outfit for days at a time. He was wearing blue pants and a tan shirt: tucked in and closed off from the world as he always had been. I walked in slowly and tentatively. The first thing I said was, “Hi, I just have some things I want to talk to you about.” He asked if I wanted his wife to leave the room and I said yes. I said that I wanted only to talk to him. She is caught up in his game; I pity her pain that will eventually and undoubtedly rupture. She left the room. I sat on the pink couch on one side of the room, and he sat across from me on a white couch. I sat on the edge of the couch; I wasn’t staying long. I began with this, “There’s no easy way to say this to you, so I am going to read a few things.” I didn’t ask if it was okay. I didn’t care if he wanted to hear what I had to say: he was going to listen. I have lived 23 years; I deserve to finally be heard. I began to read my list:

1. I appreciate the financial support you have shown me through allowing me to drive your car.

2. I feel that you let me down as a little girl and failed to be the father I have needed ever since.

3. I feel it is important for me to independent of all financial support from you.

4. I am angry that you got caught up in your own life and mistakes and did not love me the way I needed.

5. I have been without a dad for a long time, and I don’t like the fact that our relationship exists because of this car.

6. I was grateful to having been given the opportunity to drive your car when I could not make ends meet on my own. So, thank you for that.

7. For what it is worth, I feel as though I don’t even know you. Driving your car feels inorganic, and I would rather let go of that solely financial attachment to you.

8. I wish things were different, but in actuality I don’t feel that a relationship with you is in my best interest.

9. You do not put any effort into investing in my life as your daughter, and I realize that will probably continue without you ever genuinely caring to know who I am and who I have become.

10. This is not so much a goodbye as it is a realization that you yourself said goodbye to your responsibility to me many years ago when you weren’t strong enough to show me pure love.

While I was reading the first few points he reverted back to the man I remembered. Things like this always bring that evil man to the surface. He can’t hide when he is under attack. He began to speak. He began to pick apart my words as if we were in a court of law. I was strong, I was scared, my hands were shaking, my words were not completely clear, and I asked him to let me finish. I said another one of my sentences, and he began to interject once more. Again I said, “Please let me finish, I want to get through this; it isn’t easy for me.” I read these honest words out loud to his face. I said things like, “I am angry that you didn’t love me the way I needed, you let me down as a little girl and ever since, I don’t even know you, you don’t put effort into investing in my life as your daughter, you will continue never genuinely knowing who I have become, and you weren’t strong enough to show me pure love.”

I said all of those things I have kept inside for so long. He just sat there. I looked up a couple of times into those eyes which I have never known. It was reassuring to know that he couldn’t take anything away from me because I was saying all of this. I am independent of him now. I am free. I said, “Here are your keys, your car is parked right outside.” He said something stupid like, “Okay, thank you.” I walked down the stairs and towards the rest of my life. I felt safe knowing that I was leaving that dirty corner of my heart behind me. My father still doesn’t love me: he is still gone. That hasn’t changed, and it probably never will. I didn’t take this step for love; I took it in hopes to grow and become a more complete person. I don’t know how he felt. I don’t know if that man is capable of feeling. I felt comforted by the fact that I had only a matter of steps to take before I joined April and Jeff in their car. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else there with me. I didn’t have to explain my feelings, intentions or emotions. April is the only one who truly knows what it’s like to do something like this, and Jeff knows what we’re going through, because he loves April genuinely and he has made every attempt to support every broken piece of her past. They said they were proud of me. April asked me a couple questions which I don’t exactly recall. My heart was still racing and beating quickly from the surreal event that I had just conquered. “I read it, I read the whole thing. I said what I wanted to say and then left.” I read them aloud to Jeff. He gave me a high five and they reassured me that this was the right decision for me. It was so good to have them there. I could not have done it without them. Knowing they were waiting for me made me strong. They love me; I believe them when they tell me that they love me.

Today I did one of the hardest things I have ever done. I severed the last tie to my father. It has been a long time coming. It has taken longer than I wanted it to. I was ready today. It happened as I have imagined that it would. I wanted it to be on my terms, and it was. I didn’t want to be bitter and violent; I wasn’t. I wanted to sit in front of the man who has caused me unexplainable pain, look into his eyes, and audibly say those thoughts that have been crowding the flow of my broken heart. My journey is not over, and I am not complete. This is one step along the way. In regards to this man, it is finished: I know Freedom.

By: Sarah Flanagan

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

Thoughts on M.A.'s and email.

I am going to discuss an issue which I encounter quite often. I do not enjoy it when the parents of my students tell me that they have a Master's Degree. Now, don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the hard work and dedication it must take to earn a Master's Degree. I have not yet earned mine, but I am craving the day when I can go back to school. I have been married one year, and we have a mortgage to pay. We have bills to pay and going back to school in this economy is not condusive to my current life. I have recently been thinking about going back to school, someday, to get an M.A. in Literature. Sometimes I want to get an M.A. in coaching, because I think it would be both fun and beneficial to my passion for coaching basketball and life. Maybe I could get a Master's in writing. I love being a student. I miss being a student. Back to my point though, I am frustrated with parents who use the fact that they have a Master's to show me that they are "wise" and know how things should be done. I am the teacher. I am the one who is struggling to teach your son or daughter comittment. I am the woman who welcomes your child into my classroom each new day and believes the best of them. I am the one who challenges your child. I am the one who understands what students need in my classroom. I would not be in this position if I was not fully qualified. I do not appreciate being treated as if I am ignorant of how to do things properly. I am willing to welcome anyone into my world to teach and coach at the High School level. I have two full time jobs. If these people don't believe that, I suggest that they try it. I respect parents. I respect their concern for their children. I do not respect their lack of respect for me when trying to convey their feelings. I am a woman. I am a twenty five year old woman. I am good at what I do. I am not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. I want to hear what parents have to say. I care about their children more than they will ever know or see. I appreciate suggestions, but I do not welcome tactless criticism. I am a woman. I have a husband. I have passions. I have beliefs. I have dreams. I have wisdom. I have a life outside of being in your child's life. I have much to learn. I think that there are so many people who have absolutely not learned what it means to be a person of gentleness. When I am a mother, I want to be patient with those who lead my children in school and sports. There is a way that communication can be healthy. This cannot be accomplished through haste and anger. Another thing that I do not understand about people is how they abuse the use of email. I prefer email to the phone when the message is short and not related to a frustration on one end. Whenever I send an email, I make sure to use a greeting. For example, "Hello Sally," or "Good Morning Joe," or "Dear parents." Greetings make sense to me. They show tact. They show recognition that one is sending words and messages to another human being. I despise receiving emails, from people whom I do not know well, that do not possess a greeting. I am even willing to accept a simple, "Sarah," or "Mrs. Clarke," or "Coach Clarke." Since I am on the topic of emails, I will go ahead and share the other elements of emails that give me an uneasy feeling. I am an English teacher, but I do not expect perfect grammar, spelling and sentence structure. However, if you are going to attack me in your email instead of in person, it would probably be helpful if you proof read. That probably shows a huge weakness in myself. That shows my limitations. Crap. I should be gracious to all. Anyways, if you're going to shove your wisdom in my face, why not capitalize and punctuate? I also appreciate a salutation. Maybe I am old fashioned. A simple, "Thanks," or even just your name would be stellar. The reason I feel so strongly about the email situation is because I think it reveals an extreme amount about the writer's intent. Does the person sending the email acknowledge the fact that the person receiving the email is in a world with struggles and thoughts of their own? Or, does the sender of the email solely care about their purpose? I will do my best to always include a greeting, respectful body, and conclusion when using this tampered email process. I have learned to be the bigger person, which seems ironic, because in most cases I am the younger adult. I have been forced to put myself last to achieve peace in so many arenas. It works, and it brings peace, in a way. I do not enjoy being attacked, but it comes with the territory of working with the children of other people. I usually keep my response emails short when I can tell that the parent is just in a fit of rage against me. Don't get me wrong, I think parents have the best of intentions in protecting their children. The problem lies in the process of conveying their emotions and hopes for how I teach and coach their child. Ultimately, I am the woman who is the teacher of your child. Ultimately, I am the woman who is the coach of your daughter. You may not see my passion, and you may not see my compassion. I teach truly and I love genuinely. I believe in what I do. I may not be perfect in your eyes. You are not the one who gets to decide how I teach and coach. If you were the one who was able to make the decisions, then I would need to cease to exist in this specific realm. I choose to stay. I choose to grow. I choose to love. I choose to my best, and I find it amusing how often I am attacked. Apologies for this seemingly bitter session of words.