So, some friends of mine are working on a play together. My friend wrote it. He is acting in it, and the church this group attends is letting them put it on in June. Which is sweet. I am very proud of all the people in it because I know that putting your pride and rep on the line with your artform is never easy. And everyone's putting their all into this play. It's gonna be amazing. I have no doubts.
See, the thing though is that this play. . . Well, it's my life. In a way. And not intentionally of course. The dad has terminal lung cancer and was an alcoholic, but has now turned to God. And he just has a small amount of time to try to get his kids to get together as a family for the first time really.
This is a bit of a parallel.
My dad has cancer. He is an alcoholic. Is. For some reason, he can't eat because of the radiation treatments but he can drink his sorrows away. I finally have the emotional strength to have some sort of relationship with my father. . . but he's very sick. And that dominates, well, everything. My mom and dad are both sick.
And it's not freaking fair!
You know, every time I watch this play, I just. . . cry. There's this scene at the beginning, where the dad and the mom are talking about the fact that the dad is dying and they have to tell the kids. He's tenderizing steaks; she's slicing carrots. But neither of them has called the kids yet. And the mom says, "I'll call them right now."
Dad says, "It's okay, you can call them after dinner, honey."
"No, I wouldn't want that hanging over our heads," mom says, "It might ruin the steak."
I can't freaking take it. Every time I cry. Tonight, I ran to the bathroom. And I bawled.
I just wanted a normal family when I was growing up. I wanted to be loved by my parents. I still want those two things. And now, I also just want to know that I matter to them as a person. That I'm not just some freaking claim. Like property. "This is my daughter, " they say, "and she is our pride and joy." Bull crap! Bull! Crap! I am just someone you can manipulate. Someone you can tell what to do. Do you even give a crap about the hell I have been through? Have you even bothered to think for one second that maybe what I do is good enough and you have no freaking right to judge me due to the fact that you are miserable excuse for human beings?
Hmmm. I'm surprised. I've forgiven, and I've asked forgiveness. You keep shoving the knife in. Harder. Deeper. Until not only are my old wounds fresh again, but I have new gaping holes in my heart that I must contend to. Just leave me be. Just leave me alone, because I just don't know how much more fo you I can take. I loved. I loved and I trusted. I was violated. Betrayed and left for dead by own parents! I was left to drown in my deep sorrow. I wish I could forget. I wish I could wipe it from my memory.
I was abused.
My dad hit me a few times. He threw things at me and called me a "whore" when I was like seven.
My mom scratched me and left bruises from holding my arms so tight and shaking me. She screamed at me, "Why didn't you die?"
"I didn't want you," she said. "I didn't want this! I wanted an abortion. I should have had an abortion."
I was a child!
Innocence was stolen from me by the very people that God put in place to protect me. To protect my innocence.
Where was my advocate? Where? No, please. God! Somebody tell me where.
I was left alone, to my own devices. Hiding in closets, while my dad beat my mom in the head with the telephone. Stuck in a small, dark space. Afraid to show myself. Afraid to breathe. Afraid I would be next. Afraid my mom would die. "This is it," I would think. "My mommy isn't going to live through this."
"I'll kill you, you b%$@&!" My dad would scream. "You're gonna die tonight!"
I would stand there, frozen. Thinking if I could just be a better little girl, they would stop. My mom would stop being sad, erratic, angry. My dad would stop drinking and starting making omelettes on Saturdays and we could go to museums and baseball games together like normal families.
All I wanted was a normal family. That's all. Just some semblance of normalcy.
And last night, when I talked to my mom on the phone. When I see this play. It all comes back to me.
And all I want is to be loved! And to be good enough! Not manipulated into being what someone else wants. Dang it!!
Why the jank am I crying?!
This play. It's made me think more deeply about what I went through. Who I am. What my parents did.
I mean, my mom just doesn't relent. No matter what I do.
Over and over again, I forgive. And move on. Again. And again. And again.
Seventy times seven.
A prophet is never accepted in his hometown. Surely not amongst his own family.
I'm tired of this rant, and I need to calm down and talk to God about it. Admitting some of these things the second time, well, it just doesn't feel any better that I went through them. But it does feel better that I can talk about them now.
And I know God was there. Jesus was right there with me. Every time. Through every scrape bruise and black eye. Every time.
And he saved me from worse. I could have been a statistic. But I am a child of God. He is my daddy. My love and my friend all rolled into one.
Today's manic outburst was brought to you by the letters V and G and by the number 5.