Thereās this church...
I havenāt written much lately. Iām sorry for that. Iāve been very depressed about things that I will tell you about in time. For now, letās continue where I left off.
Thereās this church not far away from where I grew up. There was a time that my Dad didnāt live with us, and he lived in a second floor apartment across from the church. I would sit in the window, in his weird roommateās LaZboy chair, and stare at this church. I wondered what it was like inside. I was taught priests were evil, and churches were beautiful to trick people into going inside. Could that be true? Because I really wanted to go inside. To this day, I drive by occasionally and I feel this longing to go inside. What would I find there?
When I was five years old, my father beat the hell out of my mother. I remember she was wearing an orange top, the sleeves were ripped to shreds, and there were bruises up and down her arms. I was wearing a white summer jumpsuit, with pink trim and little pink flowers and bare feet. My older brother Michael was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt which was also ripped, with white socks that were flopping at hjis toes, and he had a hand print on his neck. He was carrying my baby brother Nathan, who was wearing only a diaper. Together we fled the house, to escape my father but to also find my sister Jennifer who was out delivering newspapers. She was wearing jeans and white sneakers, and was riding a bright blue bicycle. For the rest of my life I will see the expression on her face when we found her.
I think about that day a lot. I have so many confused emotions about it. I remember not recognizing what was happening, and running to my room to hide. I remember my mother at the bottom of the stairs, screaming my name, and Michael standing on the front porch holdng Nathan. I didnāt cry. I donāt remember crying at all. This was my Dad, who I loved and idolized.
I never knew what the fight was about, or why he hit her, but it never happened again. Not ever. And as far as I can remember, it hadnāt happened before that either. So why then? Why that way? I donāt know. Iāll never know. I donāt think I could bring myself to ask him.
I remember the police coming to our house, when we went back to get our things. I was only;y able to take a backpackās worth of toys with me. I chose the Barbie doll set I had received a few days before at my first dance recital. I remember my Dad standing on the sidewalk with a police officer, and the house a mess.Ā
Jennifer was sent to stay with my Aunt and Uncle, with the dogs. I believe Michael stayed with our sister Janine, who had moved out of the house by then. My mother, Nathan, and I stayed at a battered womenās shelter for a time, but I donāt know for how long. I remember the house was yellow, and there were so many women there. One very young girl was there with her newborn son, and I remember being so happy to be allowed to hold him. I also remember the women getting together to help make meals, and to build a large wooden play structure in the backyard. There was a boy who lived next door that was my age, and I remember walking with him to the store and getting penny candy. His name was Darren, and I will never forget him. He was my first boy crush.
Once my Dad moved out into his apartment across from the church, we were all able to go back home. I remember sleeping in my own bed again for the first time, and being so confused as to how quiet the house was. That was the first, of many times, that I was forced to accept a ānew normalā. A life without my Dad being around, visitation, and child support.
Every weekend was the same. Saturday morning, Dad would pick us up for the weekend. Weād have our bags packed and ready. He would take us to McDonaldās for Happy Meals, then to Toys R Us for a new toy of our choosing. Weād then go to a nearby park with several huge playgrounds and a duck pond, or back to his apartment if the weather was bad. On Sundays he would take us to the reservoir to fish or go on a nature walk, or heād take us ice skating or sledding in the winter. On school vacations we would go camping, and my Mom would come too. In late summer we would make the long drive to my Grandparentās potato farm to spend a week running wild, and picking up potatoes behind my Grandfatherās tractor, and my Mom would come along then also. This routine went on for several years, and it was the happiest my childhood ever was. We spent less and less time at the Kingdom Hall, less time knocking on doors. Less time being beaten for small transgressions against God, like eating a cookie that said Happy Birthday on it, or asking for a magic wand at the toy store. Less time in forced prayer, begging God for forgiveness. It was the only truly happy time I can remember.
