Not Going to Jettison a Healing

Suffering does have a purpose, and sometimes the 

purpose to it is its own end.  You don't know

that, however, until you get there.  Nor do you know how you'll arrive.  Least of all do you expect the rant of one sibling, the honesty of another, and the wisdom of three young sons to be its recipe.

If you have no expectations about what you work toward, and simply trust the work, you may come to something marvelous.  Maybe a healing, or an understanding.  You may even stumble upon just why the son is father to the man. 

The recent rants of one sibling had me angered, and frustrated (I alluded to them in the previous two, small posts). I was angered because, once again, this sibling was circumventing me to tell my sons that my story is a complete fabrication, and that my truth, isn't.   

Let me say that again, "my" truth. The one I lived, remember, interpreted.  Is there going to be disagreement with it?  Yes.  Have I stated that?  Yes.  Will it be more egregious in my family due to the nature of our relatively textbook dysfunction for severely alcoholic families, than in others? Yes.

I have stated here that all stories written within my upbringing are true.  Mine, my siblings, my mother's, and my father's.  They are all true because each is seen through the perspective of the distinct role each person played within the dysfunctional system.  

They will vary because of the secrets that exist within the dysfunction of an alcoholic family.  In fact, the system's survival is dependent upon them.  For example, one person may be beaten, or told something, and warned never to repeat it.  If repeating it begets more punishment, you don't casually offer it up.  If there is shame attached to, you swallow it.  And there's an abundance of shame.

I've also stated the one story that has never been allowed an audience is mine.  At least until free blog sites appeared.  My telling it to an anonymous audience has one sibling determined to prove it never happened, and I may not even exist.  When my sons told me this sibling had been coming by with documents to show I'm a liar, I honored it, and asked my boys three things:

• I asked how they responded.
• I asked if they had questions.
• And I asked if they would like to hear someone support my claims.

Their answers to both left me humbled, and grateful.

None, by the way, have read this blog because, as they put it, "they don't really care".  They prefer to discuss things with me, when there is an item of interest.

Called into Question

When I asked what, specifically, had been called into question they said "everything".  

"The beatings?" I said.  

 Yes.  

"My haircut for a toy?"  

 Yes.  And your dad being in jail for a year.  

"Anything else?" I asked.  

Yes.  Your sibling said your family didn't blame you for the move when you came to Aptos, and that they never saw you as a father figure.  And you weren't singled out for any of the things you wrote about.

They also said they called and asked you to coffee a 'bunch' of times, but you always say no.  And that when you see them around town you go out of your way to walk over, and tell them to 'fuck off'.

Yeah, never been asked to coffee.  Never gone out of my way to verbally greet said sibling with a 'fuck off'.  Walk the other direction if I see her in public.

Her story. 

You boys get to choose who to believe.

I thanked them for being honest, and for bringing it up with me even though the sibling and ex had told them to keep it a 'secret'.  There's one of those secrets again, the ones that form the backbone to our dysfunction. 

I thanked my sons for disregarding the directive they were given to 'keep quiet'.  That directive is at the center of the dysfunction that needs ending.  That directive disregards the individual's right to decide for themselves what they can, or cannot, live with.  When you're 14, 16, and 19 you know what your moral code is, and have the right to abide by it.  

Those secrets are the source of a lot of pain, and you aren't allowed to order someone to feel it just because you had to, or continue to agree to it.  That directive creates secrets between the individuals who comprise the group, which feeds distrust within.

Furthermore, those secrets serve the purpose of creating a closed, dysfunctional system.   They create a false unity between those inside the system, and keep individuals who threaten the system, out. If you know our secret you're in, if you don't you're unwelcome.  It protects those who agree to keeping the secrets from addressing what's true, and painful.  You either see things our way, or you see things wrong.   I'd like to keep my sons out of that, if you don't mind.  And they want no part of it.

Catharsis, Perhaps

I asked each of my sons how they responded to the claims that my story and I are 'liar, liar pants on fire' kind of people.  They showed maturity beyond their years, and my expectations.  Each showed evidence that they will avoid subscribing to the code of conduct being demanded.  

One said he told the individual they were out of line circumventing me to talk to them, and they weren't interested in hearing it.  When the individual said I refused to provide a captive audience for their disagreements, my son said, "Then you're out of luck".  Right on.  Perfect.  Brilliant.  Just because you can't get the audience you want doesn't give you the right to order others to be the one you need.

One refused to remain quiet when he was told to, because it didn't 'feel right' when measured against his own code of morality.  Bravo, and hooray.  Still knows who he is.  Still authentic.

And another said, "Isn't it time, Dad, for you to be the sympathetic one to those who don't understand, or who are afraid?"  Super-duper brilliant with a side of neat-o.  Locked in, and humane.

Then there's me...

Then they noted my anger, and asked why it was there.  I told them that if the stories of others are allowed to stand, mine is too.  And mine hasn't, been allowed, ever.  I told them when I started writing I asked my brother (the one who speaks to me, and supports me) to keep abreast of it, and tell me if he felt I was inaccurate, or behaving punitively toward anyone.  He agreed to, and later sent the following response, which I shared with my sons:

 "Pat you are the sanest member of the family.  You are fresh, and new, and different, and more relevant than you know.   You are the truth about what went on in our family, and those who can't find a way to let you into their lives are possibly afraid of what letting you in may expose of pain, and troubling memories.  Continue on your path, and let them continue on theirs.   Stay who you are.   As far as your lack of income, remember this truth- that God will leave you cornered in circumstances that force you to grow, and use your gift of writing and speaking.   All other avenues of making money may be cut off because God wants you to use your gift,  and he knows if you have a steady income from a job you might not write with the crystal clarity, or impact, that you do.   Keep writing, and trust something will come of it even if you are flat broke for a while to come.   Look for opportunities to speak, and any opportunity to publish any of your writing.  You have a supportive landlord, and if you are barely getting by it is the perfect set of circumstances for your gift of writing to grow.  Things will change.  God will deliver you into a new life supported by your gift.  Bear with the near poverty for now, and persevere.  You are going to make it to a new income and life through your writing.  I believe in you.  Trust God's will for you, which is to prosper you. Hope this helps.  Love ...."

The sibling who wrote that suffered, arguably, more profoundly than any of us.  He's never been bitter.  And he's never denied any of us our perspective, or asked that we keep it private.  He believes the stories we hold have the power to heal, and must be shared to do so.  

I agree with him.  

There is no more viable reason for the stories we live.  

Or you live.  

They do no one any good if they're tucked away in shame, and lost, least of all, us.

They must be shared to heal the storyteller, or the audience.

So I called that brother, and asked if I could put him on speaker phone, so my sons could hear

him answer a question for me.   He agreed, and I asked if he felt what I'd written was false, or if his memory was different, or if I had been dramatic.  He proceeded to add his details to what I had claimed.  He admitted witnessing two of the beatings I took, and described, in detail, his reaction.  He provided recollections of how he, and the others, were quick to place blame on me for things I hadn't necessarily done, because they knew it would be accepted by our parents, and unquestioned.  He offered a different perspective on one item without disregarding mine.  He spoke, and I stayed silent.  In the end, he supported everything I've said, even though he didn't have to.  He's worked through the pain of it all, so he could do that.

He also said it was alright for others to keep the memories they have, the ones that are real to them.  The ones they're capable of confronting.

When we hung up, I was bent over the kitchen counter, 

sobbing.  My son asked why, and I explained that after fifty-one years of

having my truth denied, or ignored, it was finally heard.  For the first time in my life someone said to me, "Yes, you're right.  This was done to you, and you didn't deserve it".  Best of all, it was heard by the ones I most wanted to hear it: My sons.  Now, no matter what they are told, no matter what someone needs them to believe, they will have something to hold it against.  Something that's not a secret.  They have my truth, and the corroboration of an uncle they trust.  An uncle they all remarked afterward, "..was way smarter than they ever knew", because they had never heard him speak like that.  

Father to the Man

I told my sons that my healing would have been impossible without becoming a father.  I thanked them, and apologized, all at once.  I thanked them for allowing me to be imperfect, to be vulnerable, while I connect the dots.  I apologized for what was lost in the translation, the thing they deserved:  The absence of a complete father where the parts of me are being assembled.  

Most of all I thanked them for the morality they carry, and trust.

I love that they asked me to find sympathy for those without it. 

The son is father to the man, I know that.

The son forgives the father who failed,
 to insure he doesn't quit becoming.

He provides the shape of the father he needs by acknowledging the loss
of the one his own father deserved.

Yes, this will be much more painful than I anticipated.  Much more.

It will break my heart before it will agree to heal it.