I didn't do it

I chose not to publish my story at this time.  I haven't decided yet if I "chickened out" or used valid reasoning.  It would have hurt people I love.  It may have caused irreparable damage to a relationship with my mom that is, for all its flaws, unconditionally loving and supportive.  And so, I just couldn't do it.  Not now, not yet, maybe not ever.

I can finally talk about what happened in my life, to both friends and strangers.  I still choose whether or not I want to based on setting, reasons for discussing it and other factors.  But I am able to do it. 

However, there is a huge gap between being able to tell my own story and handing my story to someone else to tell.  For them to edit it down to what they feel are the "important parts" and then give their version of the events to anyone and everyone.  And the feeling of handing over the control of to whom, when and where my story is told wasn't a step I was ready for.

In our CASA training a couple weeks ago, a man presenting to us declared, "It is not possible to be a drug addict and a good parent simultaneously.  The two are mutually exclusive.  You just can't be both."

I disagree.  I think there are probably few exceptions, but the exceptions exist.  My dad was exactly as he says.  But my mom, she was an exception.

I am not just saying that.  I have thought about it for YEARS, examined it from every angle, relived events and conversations.  It's true.  She was a good parent.  Perfect, no.  She made mistakes, sometimes huge ones.

But I grew up KNOWING that my mom was my biggest fan.  And that is an important reason I made it to the place I am in.  It's a huge factor in why I attended school, made good grades, was involved in extracurricular activities and volunteering, went to college and made it through.

I remember a few days after my dad's arrest that my grandparents bailed him out to await trial.  I was in a car with my grandma after that and she said to me that they had done it for my brother and I, that they didn't want him to be away from us and that he needed to work to pay child support.  I told her the child support was all fine and dandy, but that him being away from us would be a good thing, not a bad thing.  She was angry, and responded from what I believe to be the place of being his mother, saying, "You blame your dad for everything.  Well, you should know that your mom used drugs with him, too!"

For the only time in my life, I felt like slapping my grandma.  She's a great, Godly woman who would fit in well on 50's housewife tv shows, ala Donna Reed.  She's sweet and even tempered and patient.  I love her.  But that day, I wanted to hurt her.  I still feel pain when I really think about how much of that time she spent defending my father and how little time she spent defending us, protecting us, or even considering how we felt about the whole situation.  After all, we were the ones who had lived in it.

I can't remember exactly how I phrased my response to her, except to say that it was LOUD and was the first time (and only) I had ever cussed in front of her.  I distinctly remember using both damn and fucking, and there may have been more.  I was mad, hurt and my teenage brain couldn't think of better words to describe exactly what I was thinking and feeling.

I remember though, what the essence of my response was.  I let her know that , DUH! I knew, and had known for a VERY long time that my mom used drugs, too.  And should she have?  No.  Was it stupid? Yes.  Was it my dad's fault? No.  My mom was a child of the 60's and 70's.  She was smoking dope before she ever dated my dad.  I know that.  However, my mom held down a steady job, always, my entire life.  My dad spent many, many years unemployed and not even looking for a job, content to get high on the couch while my mom supported us.  My mom made sure we had lunch money, school supplies, clothes and food.  My dad did not, in fact my dad spent the propane money on drugs while our house was so cold water on my nightstand froze solid.  My mom was on time to pick us up when we were at friends houses, girl scouts, baseball games, etc.  My dad was either late or didn't show up at all and we had to bum a ride from a kind parent of a friend.  When we got back home, we would either find he was passed out and not answering the phone, or not there entirely, but at a friends house getting high.  My mom didn't use drugs in front of us.  My dad used them not only in front of us, but in the car with us while driving.  When I complained of the smell (not being brave enough to tell him he was risking our lives), he told me to shut up and roll the window down.  My mom was there for me, she cared about me and for me.  My dad was just there.  And even that was sporadic.  My mom never disappeared for days at a time to sleep with other people.  My dad had a habit of it.  My mom loved me.  My dad never had, or at least had never acted in such a way that would cause me to believe he had.  So, yeah, she used drugs, but their behavior toward me resulted in an entirely different attitude toward them.  So did I care if my dad was out of jail?  Not even a little bit.  In fact, I thought jail was a pretty good place for him.

My grandma cried and said nothing else to me that car ride.  She dropped me off at home and to my recollection didn't speak to me for a couple of weeks, at which point she decided to act like nothing had happened and never bring it up again.  In fact, we never spoke of my parents drug use again until this January when I hotlined my brother for drug use.  She was upset that I had done it because, "What about the kids?"  I told her that I had been those kids and that no one tried to protect me and that I wouldn't do that to them.  That when they grew up and wanted to know who tried to step in, at least they could say someone did.  They didn't have to feel like no one tried.  She said, "Well, I hope you don't blame me for not protecting you.  I didn't even know half of what was going on."  That might be true...but I have a hard time believing that the signs weren't there if you weren't avoiding noticing them.

It's not just my childhood that makes me feel more strongly toward my mother.  In my adult life, my mother has apologized to me.  She has accepted blame, admitted her behavior was stupid, admitted to being selfish.  She said she tried her best but screwed up, and I believe that.  She's a loving woman.  She has a huge heart.  She accepts anyone I bring into her home and loves them just because I do.  She treats people with the kindness that more Christians should try and emulate.

In my adult life, my father has written me an "apology letter."  He feels this is sufficient for me to move on and have a "father-daughter" relationship with him.  However, in his letter, he accepted no blame.  He said, "I really thought at the time that what I was doing was the right thing."  Sorry for my language here, but BULLSHIT.  No one could possible think that the the things he was doing were right, ok, good for his family, or anything even approaching the realm of being right.  If he really thought that, then he was on a whole lot better and stronger drugs than I even knew existed.  He then spent the next two pages of the letter detailing all the ways I had been such a disappointment to him as a daughter.  Really?  No, really???  Seriously?  I graduated high school, college, have a career that I am damn good at, I don't use drugs, I don't get drunk, I've never been arrested, I am not a criminal, I didn't have 3 babies by 3 babydaddies, I didn't even tell him all the things I wanted to yell at him for my entire life.  Which part of that is a disappointment?  How have I lived my life in such a way as to emotionally wound him?  You've got to be kidding me.

I called him and discussed the letter, but I still didn't say a lot of what I wanted to.  It was easier not to fight, mostly because I wasn't emotionally invested in having a relationship with him anymore.  You really only fight when emotions are invested.  I had decided long ago to keep it surface and casual but cordial, for everyone's sake. He asked if he could call me once a week and talk and try to get closer.  I agreed and the result were exactly what I had expected.  He called me weekly for 5 weeks, then an average of once a month for 3 months, then...nothing.  Holidays and birthdays, maybe.  And that's the essence of my whole life with my dad.  A little effort, then nothing, then blaming me that it didn't work.  Yes, according to him I am to blame, as he said at Christmas, "You know you never call me.  I'm starting to think your phone is broken."  Excuse me?  The agreement was that you would call me once a week.  Not that you'd sit back and see if I would call you so that you could be hurt when I didn't and blame the fact that we don't have a relationship on me.  I know that sounds bitter.  That's because it is.  I am tired of him believing that all the problems in our relationship are due to me, my actions and my behaviors.  Everyone has crosses to bear, and bitterness is one of mine.  I know it.  I try to deal with it.  But, just as Jesus came off the cross and then was buried and rose again, I can only bury the bitterness for so long.  Then it rises back up in me.  It will probably be the biggest battle of my life, to not let bitterness take me over.

He has had periods of trying, I'll give him that.  He even gave us a car this year, for which we are extremely grateful.  But I do wonder what the motive was.  Was it really to bless us?  Because in conversation with both him and my stepmom, it seems that at least part of the motive was to hurt my brother's feelings.  I hope that isn't the case, but I probably won't ever really definitively know.

But in the end, so few children of addicts can really say they have a good parent-child relationship.  In that way, I've been lucky.  And I can't just throw that away by throwing all my mom's mistakes in her face.  And, to be fair, I can't write my story in such a way that absolves her, either.  So, at this point, I chose not to give CASA the rights to my story.  I think its the right choice right now.  It comes down to a judgment call, there is no distinct right answer.  Feel free to disagree with my decision, but please do know, and accept, that it had to be MY decision.