“Sometimes the only way out is through the exit.”
I had no idea what the hell that meant but it kept screaming through my minds eye like a flashing neon marquee, advertising something, trying to tell me something, but what? I tried to ignore it once, twice, but by the third time there was a deep voice sternly whispering it to me, so I went to a piece of paper and I wrote it down. I don’t know why, I had no idea what the message was, but something said to write it and keep it because I would understand it, maybe not right then, but eventually.
“Say it to me again,” my best friend said to me on the phone that night, “sometimes the only way out is through the exit,” I said,” C’mon seriously? No shit! that is after all what exits are for!” She laughed the laugh of a woman that really loves you and understands your plight without judgment or criticism. “You have to read between the lines, Sunshine, you’re taking it too literally and it isn’t meant to be literal, the message is in the middle.”
Then she said something to me that stopped me cold, “ask him, talk to him about it.” We both got quiet for a moment, she was referring to my biological father, the writer, the dreamer, the man I never knew. And I suppose that you’d like to know more about him right now, I imagine that things would make a little more sense if I told you about the winding twisting roads that brought him into my life 21 years after his death, but it’s not time, you’ll have to follow along for awhile and try not to go to sleep while I make my way there. I thank you in advance. Now where was I; ah yes, the message. I went to bed that night the same way I had been for many nights before, in tears, lonely, confused and more lost and abandoned than I can remember feeling for a long time. I spoke out loud then, to him, to the dead man who shared my genes…
“I don’t know if you’re listening to me, but if you are will you please help me. I need you, I’m lost and I’m afraid and I have all this stuff inside that I need to get out before it chokes me, before it suffocates the very life force in my soul because I am barely hanging on these days, I feel like I’m losing the fight, Bill, and although I don’t think I am a quitter, quitting just seems so much easier than dealing with all this shit inside of me right now.” I paused, sniffling, tears running from my eyes to the pillow below, hell I was too weak to even really sob it was more just a steady stream of falling rain from my tired eyes. I waited to hear an answer of some sort, I guess I was waiting for some voice in the darkness to lead me out into the light, but nothing came and I eventually drifted off to sleep. The next morning I pulled myself out of bed, quietly puttering around my tiny house as I tried to wake up and gather enough mental strength to be hopeful for the day; I stood in the shower pleading silently with him and with God for guidance, for strength to make it through another day and just for the simple will to even want to. As I stood in front of the mirror going through the motions to get ready for work, I heard it.
“The only way out for you this time is through the exit, no shortcuts, no secret passage ways, just straight out through the exit.” My breath caught in my chest, tears welled up in my eyes and I started to understand. In the aforementioned conversation with my soul sister and bff, she said something profound to me that came loudly back just then, “write from your heart and stop trying to control what you’re writing because you know that’s the only way you can do it, that’s where your best work comes from is your heart, sunshine.” In those words came more understanding and clarity than you can imagine; it was about more than my writing at that point, it was about ME, about what was going on inside of me, about the changes I so desperately wanted in my life, and about my damned fear. FEAR.
I believe that fear is the number one underlying cause of depression in people, we fear what we don’t have, what we think we need, the bills we can’t pay, the kids that are out of control, the jobs that leave us feeling lifeless and hopeless, we fear ALL of it at some level within ourselves. That powerful F word wakes us up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat because we don’t know how we’re going to make ends meet ‘til the next paycheck or where we went wrong with our children who seem to be completely insane all of a sudden. The very real Fear of stepping on the toes of people you love, people who mean the world to you, so that you can heal and rightfully claim all that has been stolen from your very spirit, not because you want to hurt people, but because you want to heal those wounds that have been left open and oozing silently for far too long!
I’ve looked in the mirror and I have learned how to love and appreciate certain things about myself, but what I am learning now is that you know when real growth is happening when you can look in the mirror and really see YOU, not who you have been told you are by people in your life, well meaning or not.
Almost 41 years ago, on a November day I was born to a young mother, a mere child herself in so many ways, and to a man that was not my father, but was a name on paper for the sake of "saving face" in a time and generation when a bastard child was shameful and damaging to a family's reputation as far as the outside world was concerned. I dare not claim to know what that young girl was feeling, or how damaging to her own spirit that was, but I can imagine it was a very scary and lonely time for her, and for that I am so sorry at the thought of her pain and lack of security in the world around her; I only know what those choices did to me, and how they affected my well being over the years that would unfold as my life, and I am the one who has had to swallow the fact that I was robbed of a piece of me way before I ever had a shot at a say so about it. People take for granted that they know their parents, even if your parents sucked at their job, you knew them! Imagine if you will, NOT knowing one or both of them, not knowing who they were and how you are connected to them and vice versa. I don't believe that you can imagine that with any amount of realness unless you have been there yourself; and it is here that the collision happens.
In life, we have to accept and understand that we are all unique, that all of us have traveled different roads to perhaps meet here at this one particular crossroad; there are no traffic lights there, it's a free for all and each person has to take care in choosing when to move through the intersection so as not to collide with others; my Mother and I are standing there now, but instead of pausing and reaching out for understanding of the others position, we collided head on in a massive collision of hurt and betrayal, yet again.
I understood that this child, this pregnant child, did what she had to, what she was basically forced to do in 1970, maybe I didn't for awhile, but I did realize it over time and I forgave that which she had so little control over. I firmly believe that we can only go through life hiding behind other people's mistakes and blaming someone else for what we need to be responsible for, for so long before it's just sadly and grossly pathetic. At some point in life, we have to own our own bullshit, our mistakes, our pain, caused and suffered, and we have to step firmly into how our choices have affected us and all those in our path; and now and then, that means that we have to come face to face with some of that pain that we have caused and do the right thing and take that burden of hurt away from the one who didn't deserve it, and OWN IT as our own and then forgive ourselves and move on.
It all sounds so easy, but if I know anything, it's that it seems to be one of the hardest things to do for us human beings. I was a child, an innocent in this game that people were playing with my life. I'm no longer a child, or innocent, or free from the harsh reality that I too have hurt people in my life over time, people that I truly do love in the very depths of my soul, but that I don't always like, and I have learned to be okay with that; but in my Fear I have allowed others to control and take from me so that I could spare them the pain that would surely be revealed if my truth were to ever be spoken. What does that mean? It means to me, that I have sacrificed my own well being and spirit for the sake of protecting and sheltering those around me who should have been and need to be, owners of this pain. It didn't then, nor does it now belong to me, but I have carried the burden of it; so now, out of Fear I will step, and into my truth I will firmly stand, because in order for me to heal, to move forward in my own life I have to go directly through the exit, no shortcuts, no sidesteps, just straight out through the door with guns blazing.
That isn't necessarily my choice; it is though, what I have been forced to do.
In 1983, as a confused teenage girl, I found out that the man on my birth certificate was not actually my biological father; questions flooded my mind day after day, wanting to know about THE man that gave me life, but the answers I received were one sided and biased. I knew that I resembled him in some of my physical features, but I knew nothing more of who he was as a man, except that he had made mistakes and been unkind to my mother. My grandparents had their discolored versions of who they thought he was, uncles with words like "loser" and "asshole", but not a good word was spoken to me. So, inevitably I grew up thinking that half of who I was, was tainted and awful, because how could I be anything else with a father whose genes ran through me as well? And there is where Shame entered my life and became a constant companion. I felt shame for being a constant reminder to my mother, whom I loved so much, of a time in her life that was not happy and so hurtful according to her accounts. I felt shame for wanting to know him anyway, for wanting him in my life and for wanting to give him a chance to tell me his side of the story, and why he went away. I felt bad, I felt worthless, I felt unlovable, because after all, if this man who lay with my mother and conceived me could walk away and never look back, why would anyone else ever stay? To say that I was set up for years of failure, insecurity and betrayal doesn't even begin to cover it.
~sometimes the only way out is through the exit~
Self sacrifice can be a beautiful quality in a person, it can also be the knife that stabs and kills a person, and it's done with their own hand without ever really knowing or understanding what they are doing. I have been doing that to myself for so long and it is only now that I am fully coming to grips with it, and seeing it clearly for what it is, but that is okay, because with awareness comes the ability to change, to heal and to forgive, not just myself, but everyone involved. In order for me to move forward, I have to release the past and in doing so I have to hand over what was never mine to hold on to and give it to the person/people that it belonged to all along. I can't make anyone accept it, I can't force anyone to be responsible now, but I can step out of the fear of hurting you, and sacrificing my own soul and leave it at your feet to do with what you choose. We are at a crossroads in life where choices have to be made, I offered an opportunity for a meeting of minds, a chance to help me understand You and the choices you have made and continue to make, and an open dialogue from me to help you comprehend the depth of emotion inside of me where it all exists, but instead you shut me down with angry defensiveness and secrecy. I don't have time for short cuts anymore, I don't want to leave creaky doors ajar, I want them closed so that the noise doesn't keep me awake at night. Mostly, I don't want to hurt anyone, but I am done justifying the hurt that I cause myself to protect others who need to stop hiding behind blame and disregard for the scars on my heart and mind.
I was denied a part of myself, and initially I accept that it was done all in the name of being "best for me," but what I have to ask is, how was it repeatedly justified over the course of my childhood when I asked questions and made it evident that I needed to know, needed the connection to this person? Was there never a point in time when it just became apparent that perhaps it was "time" to let me in to this part of my own being, and allow me to make some decisions for myself? Obviously there wasn't, because I was shut down time after time in my life when I asked, pleaded even, to know this person, to have him be accessible to me, to allow me to ask him the same questions I asked of my mother about WHY. I have to wonder, was everyone just blind to my pain; to the horrible emptiness in my spirit; to the discontent in my very being? All of those who claim to have loved me, yet you turned the other cheek and never gave a thought to what was happening in my mind and in my heart as I tried to comprehend it all and come to terms with not being loved or wanted by my own father.
The man that I know as my "Dad" told me the one story that I have held on to everyday since he gifted me with it, about my first and only meeting with my biological father. I have tried to travel back in my subconscious mind, to the vault where memories are stored looking for that moment in time, wanting desperately to bring it out into the light of my mind so that I can see it, experience it, but there is instead, just darkness.
In 1990, pregnant with my first child, sitting at home watching the Phil Donahue show of parent/child reunions, I made a choice to search for this man. I made calls, I talked with strangers and with the help of a few along the way, I got as close as his sister, only to be told that he had passed away a month before. For a brief period of time we stayed connected, although I was given little insight into who he was at his core as a man, I was given snapshots and tiny glimpses into some aspects of his life, and for those I was thankful. It was then, 20 years into my life, that I first heard about his aspiration of wanting to go off to Australia and whisk my mother away with him on an adventure. I recall so clearly standing in the yard with her as she recounted that tale to me with such a smile on her face, and I loved her for sharing it with me; and then the nagging of unanswered questions hit me again like a powerful wave, but I was so afraid to ask for more, so I waited for her to open the door and just offer me entrance, but it never came, so I swallowed it again and let it go because I did not want to open her wounds, wounds that I had believed he caused her. So once again, I hurt myself and made excuses for her, and for him so that I could try to find peace somehow; peace that never came.
We learn a lot of different ways of filling voids in our lives, with drugs, food, sex and any multitude of other destructive ways and props, hoping that something will take away the empty space that haunts us day after day emotionally, spiritually and psychologically. We find false fulfillment for a moment, but then reality comes crashing back down and the hole is still there, sometimes deeper and more infected than it was before, because it's never really been treated, it's just been bandaged over. My feelings of unworthiness in life trailed me like my own shadow, never leaving, only fading slightly with the changing angles of the sun in my days, but always present and waiting to come back out and follow me boldly as I made my way through life.
~sometimes the only way out is through the exit~
Another 21 years has passed and illness prompted me to once again reach out of my safety zone and search for the people, or person who could give me insight into who this man was that is half of who I am, this man who passed on his genes to me. Initially it was merely for medical background, for some clarity about his illness (es) and how they might be or could, affect me. What came out of it was so much more than that, and through this experience the EXIT sign was boldly lit up and the door was swung wide open for me; the question then was, will I go through it, or will I stand in the doorway stuck and unmoving?
Sitting in my mother's home that morning I mentioned it to her that I wanted to seek out his wife and possibly the two daughters that he left behind, to gain some knowledge for my medical background. Without missing a beat she went right to her computer and began searching for people with the same last name and we wrote them down on a piece of paper; all six of them.
Fear once again pulled at me; what if I found one or all of them, what if my intrusion all these years later opened up wounds and caused pain to people that didn't deserve it? What if... what if. I let that day pass into night and I never attempted to make the calls, although I stared at the names on the paper for a time, praying about what and how. The next morning on my way to work I began dialing the numbers one by one. I didn't go from top to bottom for some reason, I picked a name to start with that just jumped out and said "start here!", and I got an answering machine so I hung up. I mean, honestly, how do you leave a message for someone in a situation like this? I decided then to go to the top of the list and work my way down, number after number was a recording, "the number you have dialed is no longer in service, if you feel you have reached this message in error..."bla bla bla. I had called them all, and only one other one was not a disconnected number but an elderly woman who wished me well but said that had no knowledge of the person I was looking for, so I went back to the first number I called and decided to try it again, determined that I would somehow find the right words to get this person to call me back so I could explain myself just in case they knew anything and could be of help to me, I just couldn't give up until I knew for sure one way or another. One ring, two rings, third ring and then the sound of the answering machine message began, but was suddenly interrupted... My heart was racing as I heard the woman’s voice say "hello" on the other end, I was tripping over my words trying to say the right things, trying to explain but feeling so unsure of how to do it or where to begin. So I just did the only thing I knew to do and introduced myself. “I know how odd this call is and I realize that you don't know who I am, but I am looking for someone named Bill and I also know he is deceased but...." I heard her breath catch in her throat when I said his name, and it hit me like a ton of lead, that I had found someone important. Not once did she try to turn me away, but instead spiritually reached out her hand to me and offered me in to her space, to her memories, to a man and the life they shared together, and in doing so, has begun this journey of awareness with me. She has shared with me who he was to her, to the people around him, how he affected others lives with his charm and his magnetic aura, and to the gifts he gave her just by being who he was and being a part of her life. Twenty one years later she still refers to him as her best friend, and Love, and together I know that we will embark on an incredible journey together as she paints the picture of who my father was, and the mark he left on the world around him; which brings me back to that crossroad.
I, of course, called my mom after work that day and gushed all the exciting news that I had at that point, and she wished me well and said she couldn't wait to hear more, but again, there was no offering of any of her own memories or any of the good that he may have left in her life and on her spirit, so I just accepted once more that he had really just hurt her so much that she really didn't have anything to give me in that way. I wasn't angry at her, it never crossed my mind right then to be angry, I just felt bad in some way for her.
I made those phone calls that day and put my heart on the line, I am the one who took the risks and exposed a very raw unhealed part of my being to a stranger in hopes that I would find solace, understanding and a sense of completion finally. After that first conversation with his wife, I was joyfully overwhelmed and wrote well into the night about all that I was feeling and shared it with the handful of close and trusted people in my life, my mother being one of them. So many things made sense in my world all of a sudden, so many aspects of my own personality parallel to his, and in those things I found connection, comfort and beautiful peace.
Then came an email from my mom in response to what I had written, gushing with warm memories of him and who he was to her so long ago, and how he was still so ingrained in her heart. It was like a dam had burst open in me emotionally, but it was not good emotion, it was rage and resentment that was hot as fire and daring to consume all in its way; red hot, raw rage like I had not felt towards this woman in years. I didn't speak to her about it, I didn't even respond to the email, I reached out to my safety nets and unloaded the tears and the anger, so that I didn't have to release it on her, where it really did belong. Where was all this information all my life? Did her memory just fail her for 40 years of my existence where any good of him was concerned; or was it just easier to allow me to believe he was mean and cold so that she could feel justified in keeping him and I apart? I was mad as hell! How many times over the years had I needed to hear something from her, something positive, something that would make me feel like this man was not horrible, but perhaps just a mere imperfect human being who, like herself, was just young and misguided, but instead I got a 5 minute story about his desire to travel and then years more of silence until someone else came forth telling of a man that was beautiful and loved and cherished by many, and miraculously then there was all this warm fuzzy recollection of him and the part he played in her life! Which, please don't get me wrong, was wonderful to read from her, but then begs even further, if he was all of this to you WHY IN THE HELL WOULD YOU KEEP ME AWAY FROM HIM, DENY ME THE ABILITY TO KNOW HIM AND BE TOUCHED BY HIS PRESENCE?
Why would you not want his daughter to know that about him as well, why, why why?!
~sometimes the only way out is through the exit~
I swallowed again, and never spoke of it to her, never revealed the anguish, anger, resentment that I was feeling, because I did not want to hurt her, my Mom, this woman who is so important and cherished in my life; self sacrifice. It was easier to hurt myself and keep it down than it was to make her own the burden of it. Well, I thought that was easier, but as often happens, what I think I have a handle on, is more so that which has a handle on me. My emotions raced day after day, sleep was eluding me again, my desire to move, to breathe, all of it was being challenged, I felt like I was spinning like a top with all that was playing out in my life emotionally, spiritually and physically, and this was just the icing on the cake, so to speak.
Then I became aware that she had gone behind my back and contacted this woman; without one time asking me how I felt about her being involved in that way, without any regard for the fact that maybe she just didn't have the right at this point to be that involved in it, without once thinking that I deserved to be asked how I felt about it, because once again, my voice and my feelings were disregarded in order to serve her own.
I have my theories about why it happened, and why she did it, but even after I calmed down enough to ask her, in an attempt to open the dialogue between us so that we could meet in the middle and try to hear each other out and understand where we both stood, she lashed out in angry defense and refused a civil conversation. So we collided head on. She recoiled and refused to offer any kind of compromise, and I surged forward with a heart full of venom whose only vision was to give back at least some of the pain she had spoon fed me for 40 years where this issue was concerned. Rage like that doesn't seek prisoners, it seeks destruction.
I am not happy, nor am I proud of the way it all came out, but I will not back down from my position. This is mine to have now, and if I choose to share this with anyone else, that is MY prerogative, MY right and my choice to make. I was robbed of this man in my life, I was denied of all that we could have shared and the ways that I could have grown by having him in my world, but I have him now, I have someone who shares him with me through her eyes, someone who has shared him with me through his written words left behind; and I've learned that in some of the very core aspects of my own personality he is very present and has never truly left me; but I don't have to let anyone else in to that journey. For every action there is an equal reaction, repercussions and consequences that we pay for the choices we make. I have to live with the fact that I cannot physically speak to my father, I cannot hug him, laugh with him, ask his advice about my writing or sit by the ocean with him talking about life and my dreams, at least not in the everyday "normal" way; but I believe and feel that he is very present today, and perhaps in so many ways has been for 40 years, and I do not have to let anyone else in, I do not have to share this anymore than I want to, and no one has the right to intrude or place themselves into it without first asking me how I feel about it. No one ever asked me then, but you damn well will ask me now.
*Authors note:
I wrote this two years ago,but I wanted to re-post it now because I know millions of people seek these reunions with parents, siblings etc whom they have never met. It affects us in more ways than we realize it does. And thankfully as this is posted, my mother and I have risen above this as well and came out on the other side still intact.
I didn’t write this to wound anyone. I wrote it because I have a right to my voice, and to what I feel and writing is my therapy. I wrote it because I feel like he sent me that message and was trying to tell me to stand up and take my place in my own life; I feel like I’m speaking not just for me, but for him, for Us, my father and I.
©2013.NOVEMBERGOLD.All Rights Reserved.
I had no idea what the hell that meant but it kept screaming through my minds eye like a flashing neon marquee, advertising something, trying to tell me something, but what? I tried to ignore it once, twice, but by the third time there was a deep voice sternly whispering it to me, so I went to a piece of paper and I wrote it down. I don’t know why, I had no idea what the message was, but something said to write it and keep it because I would understand it, maybe not right then, but eventually.
“Say it to me again,” my best friend said to me on the phone that night, “sometimes the only way out is through the exit,” I said,” C’mon seriously? No shit! that is after all what exits are for!” She laughed the laugh of a woman that really loves you and understands your plight without judgment or criticism. “You have to read between the lines, Sunshine, you’re taking it too literally and it isn’t meant to be literal, the message is in the middle.”
Then she said something to me that stopped me cold, “ask him, talk to him about it.” We both got quiet for a moment, she was referring to my biological father, the writer, the dreamer, the man I never knew. And I suppose that you’d like to know more about him right now, I imagine that things would make a little more sense if I told you about the winding twisting roads that brought him into my life 21 years after his death, but it’s not time, you’ll have to follow along for awhile and try not to go to sleep while I make my way there. I thank you in advance. Now where was I; ah yes, the message. I went to bed that night the same way I had been for many nights before, in tears, lonely, confused and more lost and abandoned than I can remember feeling for a long time. I spoke out loud then, to him, to the dead man who shared my genes…
“I don’t know if you’re listening to me, but if you are will you please help me. I need you, I’m lost and I’m afraid and I have all this stuff inside that I need to get out before it chokes me, before it suffocates the very life force in my soul because I am barely hanging on these days, I feel like I’m losing the fight, Bill, and although I don’t think I am a quitter, quitting just seems so much easier than dealing with all this shit inside of me right now.” I paused, sniffling, tears running from my eyes to the pillow below, hell I was too weak to even really sob it was more just a steady stream of falling rain from my tired eyes. I waited to hear an answer of some sort, I guess I was waiting for some voice in the darkness to lead me out into the light, but nothing came and I eventually drifted off to sleep. The next morning I pulled myself out of bed, quietly puttering around my tiny house as I tried to wake up and gather enough mental strength to be hopeful for the day; I stood in the shower pleading silently with him and with God for guidance, for strength to make it through another day and just for the simple will to even want to. As I stood in front of the mirror going through the motions to get ready for work, I heard it.
“The only way out for you this time is through the exit, no shortcuts, no secret passage ways, just straight out through the exit.” My breath caught in my chest, tears welled up in my eyes and I started to understand. In the aforementioned conversation with my soul sister and bff, she said something profound to me that came loudly back just then, “write from your heart and stop trying to control what you’re writing because you know that’s the only way you can do it, that’s where your best work comes from is your heart, sunshine.” In those words came more understanding and clarity than you can imagine; it was about more than my writing at that point, it was about ME, about what was going on inside of me, about the changes I so desperately wanted in my life, and about my damned fear. FEAR.
I believe that fear is the number one underlying cause of depression in people, we fear what we don’t have, what we think we need, the bills we can’t pay, the kids that are out of control, the jobs that leave us feeling lifeless and hopeless, we fear ALL of it at some level within ourselves. That powerful F word wakes us up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat because we don’t know how we’re going to make ends meet ‘til the next paycheck or where we went wrong with our children who seem to be completely insane all of a sudden. The very real Fear of stepping on the toes of people you love, people who mean the world to you, so that you can heal and rightfully claim all that has been stolen from your very spirit, not because you want to hurt people, but because you want to heal those wounds that have been left open and oozing silently for far too long!
I’ve looked in the mirror and I have learned how to love and appreciate certain things about myself, but what I am learning now is that you know when real growth is happening when you can look in the mirror and really see YOU, not who you have been told you are by people in your life, well meaning or not.
Almost 41 years ago, on a November day I was born to a young mother, a mere child herself in so many ways, and to a man that was not my father, but was a name on paper for the sake of "saving face" in a time and generation when a bastard child was shameful and damaging to a family's reputation as far as the outside world was concerned. I dare not claim to know what that young girl was feeling, or how damaging to her own spirit that was, but I can imagine it was a very scary and lonely time for her, and for that I am so sorry at the thought of her pain and lack of security in the world around her; I only know what those choices did to me, and how they affected my well being over the years that would unfold as my life, and I am the one who has had to swallow the fact that I was robbed of a piece of me way before I ever had a shot at a say so about it. People take for granted that they know their parents, even if your parents sucked at their job, you knew them! Imagine if you will, NOT knowing one or both of them, not knowing who they were and how you are connected to them and vice versa. I don't believe that you can imagine that with any amount of realness unless you have been there yourself; and it is here that the collision happens.
In life, we have to accept and understand that we are all unique, that all of us have traveled different roads to perhaps meet here at this one particular crossroad; there are no traffic lights there, it's a free for all and each person has to take care in choosing when to move through the intersection so as not to collide with others; my Mother and I are standing there now, but instead of pausing and reaching out for understanding of the others position, we collided head on in a massive collision of hurt and betrayal, yet again.
I understood that this child, this pregnant child, did what she had to, what she was basically forced to do in 1970, maybe I didn't for awhile, but I did realize it over time and I forgave that which she had so little control over. I firmly believe that we can only go through life hiding behind other people's mistakes and blaming someone else for what we need to be responsible for, for so long before it's just sadly and grossly pathetic. At some point in life, we have to own our own bullshit, our mistakes, our pain, caused and suffered, and we have to step firmly into how our choices have affected us and all those in our path; and now and then, that means that we have to come face to face with some of that pain that we have caused and do the right thing and take that burden of hurt away from the one who didn't deserve it, and OWN IT as our own and then forgive ourselves and move on.
It all sounds so easy, but if I know anything, it's that it seems to be one of the hardest things to do for us human beings. I was a child, an innocent in this game that people were playing with my life. I'm no longer a child, or innocent, or free from the harsh reality that I too have hurt people in my life over time, people that I truly do love in the very depths of my soul, but that I don't always like, and I have learned to be okay with that; but in my Fear I have allowed others to control and take from me so that I could spare them the pain that would surely be revealed if my truth were to ever be spoken. What does that mean? It means to me, that I have sacrificed my own well being and spirit for the sake of protecting and sheltering those around me who should have been and need to be, owners of this pain. It didn't then, nor does it now belong to me, but I have carried the burden of it; so now, out of Fear I will step, and into my truth I will firmly stand, because in order for me to heal, to move forward in my own life I have to go directly through the exit, no shortcuts, no sidesteps, just straight out through the door with guns blazing.
That isn't necessarily my choice; it is though, what I have been forced to do.
In 1983, as a confused teenage girl, I found out that the man on my birth certificate was not actually my biological father; questions flooded my mind day after day, wanting to know about THE man that gave me life, but the answers I received were one sided and biased. I knew that I resembled him in some of my physical features, but I knew nothing more of who he was as a man, except that he had made mistakes and been unkind to my mother. My grandparents had their discolored versions of who they thought he was, uncles with words like "loser" and "asshole", but not a good word was spoken to me. So, inevitably I grew up thinking that half of who I was, was tainted and awful, because how could I be anything else with a father whose genes ran through me as well? And there is where Shame entered my life and became a constant companion. I felt shame for being a constant reminder to my mother, whom I loved so much, of a time in her life that was not happy and so hurtful according to her accounts. I felt shame for wanting to know him anyway, for wanting him in my life and for wanting to give him a chance to tell me his side of the story, and why he went away. I felt bad, I felt worthless, I felt unlovable, because after all, if this man who lay with my mother and conceived me could walk away and never look back, why would anyone else ever stay? To say that I was set up for years of failure, insecurity and betrayal doesn't even begin to cover it.
~sometimes the only way out is through the exit~
Self sacrifice can be a beautiful quality in a person, it can also be the knife that stabs and kills a person, and it's done with their own hand without ever really knowing or understanding what they are doing. I have been doing that to myself for so long and it is only now that I am fully coming to grips with it, and seeing it clearly for what it is, but that is okay, because with awareness comes the ability to change, to heal and to forgive, not just myself, but everyone involved. In order for me to move forward, I have to release the past and in doing so I have to hand over what was never mine to hold on to and give it to the person/people that it belonged to all along. I can't make anyone accept it, I can't force anyone to be responsible now, but I can step out of the fear of hurting you, and sacrificing my own soul and leave it at your feet to do with what you choose. We are at a crossroads in life where choices have to be made, I offered an opportunity for a meeting of minds, a chance to help me understand You and the choices you have made and continue to make, and an open dialogue from me to help you comprehend the depth of emotion inside of me where it all exists, but instead you shut me down with angry defensiveness and secrecy. I don't have time for short cuts anymore, I don't want to leave creaky doors ajar, I want them closed so that the noise doesn't keep me awake at night. Mostly, I don't want to hurt anyone, but I am done justifying the hurt that I cause myself to protect others who need to stop hiding behind blame and disregard for the scars on my heart and mind.
I was denied a part of myself, and initially I accept that it was done all in the name of being "best for me," but what I have to ask is, how was it repeatedly justified over the course of my childhood when I asked questions and made it evident that I needed to know, needed the connection to this person? Was there never a point in time when it just became apparent that perhaps it was "time" to let me in to this part of my own being, and allow me to make some decisions for myself? Obviously there wasn't, because I was shut down time after time in my life when I asked, pleaded even, to know this person, to have him be accessible to me, to allow me to ask him the same questions I asked of my mother about WHY. I have to wonder, was everyone just blind to my pain; to the horrible emptiness in my spirit; to the discontent in my very being? All of those who claim to have loved me, yet you turned the other cheek and never gave a thought to what was happening in my mind and in my heart as I tried to comprehend it all and come to terms with not being loved or wanted by my own father.
The man that I know as my "Dad" told me the one story that I have held on to everyday since he gifted me with it, about my first and only meeting with my biological father. I have tried to travel back in my subconscious mind, to the vault where memories are stored looking for that moment in time, wanting desperately to bring it out into the light of my mind so that I can see it, experience it, but there is instead, just darkness.
In 1990, pregnant with my first child, sitting at home watching the Phil Donahue show of parent/child reunions, I made a choice to search for this man. I made calls, I talked with strangers and with the help of a few along the way, I got as close as his sister, only to be told that he had passed away a month before. For a brief period of time we stayed connected, although I was given little insight into who he was at his core as a man, I was given snapshots and tiny glimpses into some aspects of his life, and for those I was thankful. It was then, 20 years into my life, that I first heard about his aspiration of wanting to go off to Australia and whisk my mother away with him on an adventure. I recall so clearly standing in the yard with her as she recounted that tale to me with such a smile on her face, and I loved her for sharing it with me; and then the nagging of unanswered questions hit me again like a powerful wave, but I was so afraid to ask for more, so I waited for her to open the door and just offer me entrance, but it never came, so I swallowed it again and let it go because I did not want to open her wounds, wounds that I had believed he caused her. So once again, I hurt myself and made excuses for her, and for him so that I could try to find peace somehow; peace that never came.
We learn a lot of different ways of filling voids in our lives, with drugs, food, sex and any multitude of other destructive ways and props, hoping that something will take away the empty space that haunts us day after day emotionally, spiritually and psychologically. We find false fulfillment for a moment, but then reality comes crashing back down and the hole is still there, sometimes deeper and more infected than it was before, because it's never really been treated, it's just been bandaged over. My feelings of unworthiness in life trailed me like my own shadow, never leaving, only fading slightly with the changing angles of the sun in my days, but always present and waiting to come back out and follow me boldly as I made my way through life.
~sometimes the only way out is through the exit~
Another 21 years has passed and illness prompted me to once again reach out of my safety zone and search for the people, or person who could give me insight into who this man was that is half of who I am, this man who passed on his genes to me. Initially it was merely for medical background, for some clarity about his illness (es) and how they might be or could, affect me. What came out of it was so much more than that, and through this experience the EXIT sign was boldly lit up and the door was swung wide open for me; the question then was, will I go through it, or will I stand in the doorway stuck and unmoving?
Sitting in my mother's home that morning I mentioned it to her that I wanted to seek out his wife and possibly the two daughters that he left behind, to gain some knowledge for my medical background. Without missing a beat she went right to her computer and began searching for people with the same last name and we wrote them down on a piece of paper; all six of them.
Fear once again pulled at me; what if I found one or all of them, what if my intrusion all these years later opened up wounds and caused pain to people that didn't deserve it? What if... what if. I let that day pass into night and I never attempted to make the calls, although I stared at the names on the paper for a time, praying about what and how. The next morning on my way to work I began dialing the numbers one by one. I didn't go from top to bottom for some reason, I picked a name to start with that just jumped out and said "start here!", and I got an answering machine so I hung up. I mean, honestly, how do you leave a message for someone in a situation like this? I decided then to go to the top of the list and work my way down, number after number was a recording, "the number you have dialed is no longer in service, if you feel you have reached this message in error..."bla bla bla. I had called them all, and only one other one was not a disconnected number but an elderly woman who wished me well but said that had no knowledge of the person I was looking for, so I went back to the first number I called and decided to try it again, determined that I would somehow find the right words to get this person to call me back so I could explain myself just in case they knew anything and could be of help to me, I just couldn't give up until I knew for sure one way or another. One ring, two rings, third ring and then the sound of the answering machine message began, but was suddenly interrupted... My heart was racing as I heard the woman’s voice say "hello" on the other end, I was tripping over my words trying to say the right things, trying to explain but feeling so unsure of how to do it or where to begin. So I just did the only thing I knew to do and introduced myself. “I know how odd this call is and I realize that you don't know who I am, but I am looking for someone named Bill and I also know he is deceased but...." I heard her breath catch in her throat when I said his name, and it hit me like a ton of lead, that I had found someone important. Not once did she try to turn me away, but instead spiritually reached out her hand to me and offered me in to her space, to her memories, to a man and the life they shared together, and in doing so, has begun this journey of awareness with me. She has shared with me who he was to her, to the people around him, how he affected others lives with his charm and his magnetic aura, and to the gifts he gave her just by being who he was and being a part of her life. Twenty one years later she still refers to him as her best friend, and Love, and together I know that we will embark on an incredible journey together as she paints the picture of who my father was, and the mark he left on the world around him; which brings me back to that crossroad.
I, of course, called my mom after work that day and gushed all the exciting news that I had at that point, and she wished me well and said she couldn't wait to hear more, but again, there was no offering of any of her own memories or any of the good that he may have left in her life and on her spirit, so I just accepted once more that he had really just hurt her so much that she really didn't have anything to give me in that way. I wasn't angry at her, it never crossed my mind right then to be angry, I just felt bad in some way for her.
I made those phone calls that day and put my heart on the line, I am the one who took the risks and exposed a very raw unhealed part of my being to a stranger in hopes that I would find solace, understanding and a sense of completion finally. After that first conversation with his wife, I was joyfully overwhelmed and wrote well into the night about all that I was feeling and shared it with the handful of close and trusted people in my life, my mother being one of them. So many things made sense in my world all of a sudden, so many aspects of my own personality parallel to his, and in those things I found connection, comfort and beautiful peace.
Then came an email from my mom in response to what I had written, gushing with warm memories of him and who he was to her so long ago, and how he was still so ingrained in her heart. It was like a dam had burst open in me emotionally, but it was not good emotion, it was rage and resentment that was hot as fire and daring to consume all in its way; red hot, raw rage like I had not felt towards this woman in years. I didn't speak to her about it, I didn't even respond to the email, I reached out to my safety nets and unloaded the tears and the anger, so that I didn't have to release it on her, where it really did belong. Where was all this information all my life? Did her memory just fail her for 40 years of my existence where any good of him was concerned; or was it just easier to allow me to believe he was mean and cold so that she could feel justified in keeping him and I apart? I was mad as hell! How many times over the years had I needed to hear something from her, something positive, something that would make me feel like this man was not horrible, but perhaps just a mere imperfect human being who, like herself, was just young and misguided, but instead I got a 5 minute story about his desire to travel and then years more of silence until someone else came forth telling of a man that was beautiful and loved and cherished by many, and miraculously then there was all this warm fuzzy recollection of him and the part he played in her life! Which, please don't get me wrong, was wonderful to read from her, but then begs even further, if he was all of this to you WHY IN THE HELL WOULD YOU KEEP ME AWAY FROM HIM, DENY ME THE ABILITY TO KNOW HIM AND BE TOUCHED BY HIS PRESENCE?
Why would you not want his daughter to know that about him as well, why, why why?!
~sometimes the only way out is through the exit~
I swallowed again, and never spoke of it to her, never revealed the anguish, anger, resentment that I was feeling, because I did not want to hurt her, my Mom, this woman who is so important and cherished in my life; self sacrifice. It was easier to hurt myself and keep it down than it was to make her own the burden of it. Well, I thought that was easier, but as often happens, what I think I have a handle on, is more so that which has a handle on me. My emotions raced day after day, sleep was eluding me again, my desire to move, to breathe, all of it was being challenged, I felt like I was spinning like a top with all that was playing out in my life emotionally, spiritually and physically, and this was just the icing on the cake, so to speak.
Then I became aware that she had gone behind my back and contacted this woman; without one time asking me how I felt about her being involved in that way, without any regard for the fact that maybe she just didn't have the right at this point to be that involved in it, without once thinking that I deserved to be asked how I felt about it, because once again, my voice and my feelings were disregarded in order to serve her own.
I have my theories about why it happened, and why she did it, but even after I calmed down enough to ask her, in an attempt to open the dialogue between us so that we could meet in the middle and try to hear each other out and understand where we both stood, she lashed out in angry defense and refused a civil conversation. So we collided head on. She recoiled and refused to offer any kind of compromise, and I surged forward with a heart full of venom whose only vision was to give back at least some of the pain she had spoon fed me for 40 years where this issue was concerned. Rage like that doesn't seek prisoners, it seeks destruction.
I am not happy, nor am I proud of the way it all came out, but I will not back down from my position. This is mine to have now, and if I choose to share this with anyone else, that is MY prerogative, MY right and my choice to make. I was robbed of this man in my life, I was denied of all that we could have shared and the ways that I could have grown by having him in my world, but I have him now, I have someone who shares him with me through her eyes, someone who has shared him with me through his written words left behind; and I've learned that in some of the very core aspects of my own personality he is very present and has never truly left me; but I don't have to let anyone else in to that journey. For every action there is an equal reaction, repercussions and consequences that we pay for the choices we make. I have to live with the fact that I cannot physically speak to my father, I cannot hug him, laugh with him, ask his advice about my writing or sit by the ocean with him talking about life and my dreams, at least not in the everyday "normal" way; but I believe and feel that he is very present today, and perhaps in so many ways has been for 40 years, and I do not have to let anyone else in, I do not have to share this anymore than I want to, and no one has the right to intrude or place themselves into it without first asking me how I feel about it. No one ever asked me then, but you damn well will ask me now.
*Authors note:
I wrote this two years ago,but I wanted to re-post it now because I know millions of people seek these reunions with parents, siblings etc whom they have never met. It affects us in more ways than we realize it does. And thankfully as this is posted, my mother and I have risen above this as well and came out on the other side still intact.
I didn’t write this to wound anyone. I wrote it because I have a right to my voice, and to what I feel and writing is my therapy. I wrote it because I feel like he sent me that message and was trying to tell me to stand up and take my place in my own life; I feel like I’m speaking not just for me, but for him, for Us, my father and I.
©2013.NOVEMBERGOLD.All Rights Reserved.
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