Misty Water-Colored Memories

When my father died, my family began down the road of disintegration. I had been married to the love of my life for nearly 2 years at the time. He was and is the one person to love me and accept me completely. My father liked my husband. I think part of that is due to the fact they were kindred spirits in many ways. Like my father, my husband is loved fiercely, especially by his wife. Like my father, my husband speaks boldly, often saying things that most of us wouldn’t say. At times I hand the phone to him to handle a difficult situation. Other times, he hands the phone to me when a lighter, “nicer” touch would work best. My father would embarrass my mother beyond belief. My husband doesn’t do that, though sometimes his way of handling things makes me uncomfortable. I have a hunch that sometimes the way I handle things makes him uncomfortable as well.

Because Darryl and I had a new blended family at the time my father died, we immediately noticed an implosion in our relatively small group. My oldest daughter blamed us for not letting her go to the hospital to visit him when he had a second heart scare in a matter of a week. She was so upset that he died 2 days later, and we were the obvious place for her to direct her fierce anger. That’s fair. Of course, it simply didn’t occur to us that he was going to die. I will never forget the absolute shock when my brother told me he had died. My first words were, “You’re kidding!” I think there was some minute hope in my heart that he was.

I am the oldest of four children (three living). Daddy was a harsh parent, yet I never doubted his love for me and my siblings. He and my mother had a solid marriage, and none of us ever thought of spousal abuse and my parents in the same sentence. The very first time my first husband laid a hand on me, my initial reaction was shock. I hadn't imagined that was something that would ever be a part of my life. I thought, “that’s not how any of this works.”

As I grew into my adulthood and found my footing, as unstable as my environment was, Daddy and I had a good relationship. I got along better with him than I did my mom. He didn’t like my first husband, and he said some things that hurt my feelings, but looking back with the eye of experience and maturity, I recognize that he was angry that I continued to live with this man who was hurting me: HIS baby. Again, later in my adulthood, he and Darryl hit it off right away, and their ability to get along was such a joy to me.

After Daddy died, we worried about our mom, and my brother took on (and continues) her care. She was only 58, not elderly by any means. Her health at that point was good. But the unexpected death of her husband of 38 years shook her to the core. I am no doctor or psychologist, but it seemed that without our dad there to shield her and to be the larger-than-life partner, she was a shrunken version of herself. It was hard to watch.

As the years progressed, we continued to struggle with my oldest daughter. Anger was her main emotion. Some years later, after HER father had taken his own life, and after she had begun down the path of casting inflammatory aspersions on my husband, she defensively stated, "I hate men, and you knew that!" I guess, in her mind, feeling that way about men, and our not respecting that, meant that any measures she took to combat her pain and anger and loss were acceptable.

Not being satisfied with her own destructive departure from the family, she turned her attentions on the other kids, managing to bring a few along with her. She cited "examples" of his mistreatment that were completely innocent, even kind exchanges that deserved no criticism. One who couldn’t even remember living with her own father joined her older sister in honoring his memory (bear in mind that the oldest daughter HATED her father much of her life) by turning all those feelings on my husband, whom I suppose they saw as the reason I wasn’t married to their father any longer and the reason said father committed suicide. Neither could be further from the truth, by the way. I say this because we lived a short time in the town where I had spent most of my first married life, and we experienced this time and again with people who had been my friends but who had known my ex and decided that Darryl was at fault for the mess.

As their oldest grandchild, my oldest daughter was the favorite of both my parents at the time my father died. Losing half of that support was devastating to her. Much as she disliked her father, losing him completed the job, and she was destroyed. Any fantasy she had that one day she and her father would be able to mend their differences was taken away from her. That was another reason to turn to my husband and direct her frustration at him.

I started this blog post by speaking of my father and the effect his death had on our family. My daughter, as she escalated her accusations and demands that I leave this “horrible” man (basically, it was either her or him, not both) and as she tried to drag her siblings along with her, also began to cultivate support from my brother and mom. I can’t imagine my father would not have listened to me. My brother immediately believed her and bolstered her story. It worked out great for him. He has 7 living grandchildren who are my biological grandchildren. None knows of my existence. None needs me because they HAVE grandparents. My mother broke my heart (one of dozens and dozens of times) when she refused to listen to anything I had to say or that Darryl had to say. Her mind was made up. Now she can’t understand why I struggle so much to be civil.

This all exhausts me. So many other thoughts and feelings flood my mind. I write them down so they will have a place to be. They are too much.

My husband loves me. I know that and can feel that. I even believe it (because who really feels they are worthy of being loved?) No one….NO.ONE. has ever treated me so well. He is my rock. He is also my soft place to land. When we married, we were each broken in so many ways. Life had been so hard for each of us, and our individual traumas had created cracks in our veneers that greatly needed repair. I know I wasn’t perfect then (nor am I yet). He certainly wasn’t (nor is he yet). He has made mistakes and has faced difficult consequences. He learned after some of these mistakes that great injustices had been done to him before he was even old enough to be aware, so he was suffering the consequences of those actions that were not his own. My largest mistake had been to get involved with my first husband, refusing to listen to my parents, and the consequences of that mistake persist, even after over 22 years of marriage with Darryl.

In church yesterday a man said he loved his wife even though she made him mad when her faith wavered. It stunned me. I can certainly imagine being talked to or about like that because that was my previous life. But it’s only an imagination now because it wouldn’t happen in my current life. What it made me realize was the fact that my husband stays by my side and forgives me and continues to love me even when I make mistakes, even grievous errors. How on earth could I look at myself in the mirror if I did not extend the same willingness to accept and forgive and try again?