Hold Your Tongue

Once upon a time, I left home, legally changed my name, finished college, left the state for graduate school, and got my master’s degree.

I left my father and his side of the family in the dark.

I served my mother a warning that I could do the same to her if she didn’t start acting like an adult. She’s still crazy, sometimes she acts like an adult, but most of the time she doesn’t. We’ve been able to find a kind of superficial truce. It took a long time for us to get there, but we’re tentatively all right.

My sister eventually also left my dad’s side of the family behind, although not quite as dramatically as I did. Neither she nor I nor our mother have had any contact with him or his side of the family for about 20 years.

My favourite aunt contacted my sister last week via Facebook, unsure if she had the right person. She was desperately trying to get in touch with us to let us know Dad has cancer.

My sister, given to emotional reactions, was understandably freaked. She forwarded the information to me. 

Now, a portion of the reason no one has had contact with that side of the family is because I was adamant that dad never find out my new name or location. My mother was afraid she would slip, so she let everyone slip away. My sister had other problems with dad that just piled on and so she let everyone slip away as well.

The email didn’t say much.

It gave my aunt’s phone number and stated that Dad has cancer and she was taking care of him. I let myself think for most of the day that maybe he wanted her to get in touch with us. To make amends. When I called, however, that was not the case. 

He has tongue cancer.

If you’ve ever seen the first season of Saving Grace, you will appreciate that I actually laughed out loud (after I got off the phone with my aunt). Apparently he’s already had surgery. I didn’t ask if they took the entire tongue or just a part. She said it was a very aggressive form of tongue cancer, and they’re doing radiation and chemotherapy now. 

I guess he didn’t ask for us. She thought we should know. She wanted to get in touch with us.

I told her I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet, and I was somewhat surprised that she seemed to completely understand. She knows nothing, really, of the circumstances that led to my leaving. I suspect she thinks it had something to do with my parents’ divorce.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I’m a little numb right now. I was, for some stupid reason, hoping against hope that he wanted to make amends. That perhaps he was working the program, off the booze, and ready to try to make up for the things he’d done. The horrible, sick things he’d done as his alcoholism and sexual addictions raged.

I’m in a very different place today than I was then. Back then, I was terrified of him. I thought he was going to kill me in order to keep me from telling his secrets. Later, I was afraid that some of his cronies would hunt me down and torture me.

The name change was partly to hide my trail, so to speak, but it was also to redefine myself as someone different from the kid who was abusedfor so many years.

On the drive home from work today, I realized that some part of me is still a little afraid that one of his cronies will hunt me down. Most of me is sure that this is simply ingrained paranoia and not a real possibility. But I still didn’t tell my aunt my new name or where I live.

Yesterday, I was gung ho about confronting my father and getting some closure. Today? I don’t know. You see, he didn’t ask to see me. Somehow knowing the contact was all on my aunt’s end and not his makes a big difference. And I realize I was holding out hope that he gave a shit about me. That he was sorry about what he’d done. That I would get some explanation - a narrative of some sort.

Now, I feel like things are back to the status quo. 

I don’t know if I’ll contact him or not. I don’t think I wanted to confront him as much as I just wanted him to care. I need to decide if it’s worth a confrontation and if I’m up for that confrontation knowing that, realistically, he probably doesn’t remember a damn thing. With as much as he drank, if he didn’t black out those nights, he’s probably killed enough brain cells to not be able to recall those dark memories anyway.

And does it matter? I’d finally mostly let go of having to know. Now, I can feel questions bubbling up again.

But do they really matter?

I am who I am. I’m pretty content with myself. I’ve left the past behind.

Is there any reason to dredge up the past now? Am I ready to deal with his denial? Am I ready to deal with his truths? Am I truly as balanced today as I think I am?

There are a lot of questions.

Maybe I’ll re-watch the first season of Saving Grace and see how I feel after that.