A scene plays in my mind over and over when I was eight years old. Dad has unraveled. Desperate for a drink.
Before I escaped to the safety of my hiding place, before he tore his belt from the loops of his pants, before my sister told him that she wouldn’t eat the can of cold creamed corn Dad has served us for dinner, we had been waiting. Waiting for a warm meal. I didn’t understand how asking for something different could cause my father to explode.
As I sit in the blue vinyl booth in our kitchen, my sister in my mother’s chair, I can hear his silent scream; wretched, twisted, and in complete despair.
Even as the violence began in our house, my love for my father was torn in two. One part had died. The other? Alive. Compassionate. Empathetic. Hopeful. Always hopeful.
Can you remember the times you felt sorry for your family member even as they raised their hand to you or a sibling or . . . your parent? What feelings rushed through you? Disbelief? Confusion? Hurt? How did you sort through it?
When was it safe for you to talk to others and share your confusion?
DEC
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