What happens when you get the one thing you so desperately want? Then instantly want it back? I remember vividly years and years of crying myself to sleep, curled into the fetal position in bed trying to not be heard. The only thing I wanted was love, unconditional love. More importantly, from the one person I looked up to the most. The day my dad died still scares the hell out of me. He was 3 feet away from me when it happened, and sometimes even now when it is really quiet, I can hear his 'Death Rattle' as it's called. The second most horrific sound I've ever heard. And when it was over, the silence was deafening. I went into the living room, grabbed a cigarette out of his pack, and smoked the entire thing. Then creeping down the hallway to my bedroom, peeking just enough inside the door to see his feet. I went and sat back down, "Holy shit, that happened." I actually said out loud, and I smiled. I picked up the phone, called 911, hung up, then sat there and laughed hysterically. The nightmare was over. I had no clue whatsoever what I was in store for. Had David just slain Goliath with merely prayer? The implications scare me even today.
But the next week or so is what amazes me. Aside from a day or two, I didn't want to leave the house. I wanted to be home when dad got there. I stayed in his bedroom, and my best friend stayed with me for a few days. We'd just sit in there, play guitar, talk on the phone and laugh. Everyone just kind of let me be.
At night however, I hardly slept. Soon before he died, dad made a few remarks about mom being in the house. My sister had a few remarkable experiences with him one night, supernatural, actually. And aside from her not being one to lie about something like that, there's one thing I never told anyone. I knew she was there too. The night before he died, I came riding my bike up into the lawn that evening to find dad sitting on the porch. He told me to sit down next to him. "Guy Edward, I'm probably not going to be around much longer. I need you to be a man when that happens. I need you to tell me you'll look after your sisters, they think the world of you. Promise me you'll do that, OK?" He was choking tears back the entire time, and whenever he cried, I cried. As afraid of him as I was, I could always tell he was a broken man. So we sat for a minute, he got in his car and left, and I walked inside the house. As I walked from the front door to my bedroom, I saw a tiny woman, leaned up against the kitchen counter. It didn't register until much later, and I just looked, smiled, and went about what I was doing. So after he died, I went through all of his things when everyone else was asleep. I smelled his clothes, I even remember laying some out on the bed, waiting for them to just fill up and there would be dad again, I honestly don't know. I put t-shirts of his on under my clothes. And my God did I ever cry. When I was alone, it would be all I could do to pace around the house, bawling and yelling. I always avoided the spot in my room where he died. I pretty much avoided my bedroom altogether. That house scared me to death, but the thought of leaving it even more. I drive by it every time I go to Hilliard, and the NEED to go inside is overpowering. But what's there now? It's just a house, right? No. My mom came to see me in that house. As many times as I got beat in those rooms, that's almost sacred ground. That's where, sitting alone at the kitchen table, head in my hands, I said aloud "What the hell am I going to do now?" and the salt and pepper shaker fell over right in front of my eyes. It's where I would lay in bed with my sisters, and we'd talk and laugh and watch movies until late at night.
For many many years, I judged dad as the big, mean scary drunk. I thought that was who he was. That was totally wrong. He was the brokenhearted man that often sat at the kitchen table, looking at pictures of mom crying. He never was a big scary person. He was a sick, lost man who had no idea what to do, and no way out. Locked in a prison he created for himself, behind the heavy door he pulled shut behind him, knowing he never made a key to get back out. And despite everything he did to me, I can only smile now when I think of him. Because I became him. The only difference, is that when God intervened for me, I listened. I grabbed His hand, and am letting Him pull me out of the muck. Dad had that chance, and bailed. And that's OK. I'll live for him. His undying love for mom has became a great example. His quiet insanity a great lesson.
He died when I was 14, over 21 years ago. To this day I only have very few things of his. I gave most of it away. I didn't need it. In becoming who I am and who I am to be, letting his ghost go physically had to be done. But it took me 21 years, almost to the day, to let his ghost go in my mind and forgive him. To tell him that I am sorry for what happened. I'm sorry he couldn't make it out. But also, that dad, I forgive you. And today, you have to go away and let me be. I'm OK. And, most importantly, that I truly love you.
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