Because You Are a Liar and a Cheat.

He was gone. Out of the house, and with hope out of our lives. But my mother knew all too well that he would be back, and when he came back he wanted the house.

For a few weeks my step-dad was gone, completely out of contact with anyone. He had told my mother he was leaving, packed some things, and left. They had been together for 15 years and just like that he was gone.

I went on to graduate high school, on time might I add, which was a huge achievement. He had been with me throughout my journey whether he liked it or not, and when this beyond important date finally came he was not present. He had vanished just like that. One minute we were bonding over life and the next he had moved on. Deemed us no longer worthy to be in his life, just like that, with a snap of his fingers.

When he came back he forced my mother into a corner, either get out of the house or pay him what he owned. His name was on the title, making him the half owner of the house even though my mother first purchased the house and paid it on her own for 3 years. My mother, still going through cancer treatments, decided she would just pay him off. What choice did she have? She wasn’t going to let him take everything and get away with it.

He was stubborn. Not for a million years did he think she would settle, and he came at her with everything saying that he owned more than he did. He argued over the money for months. My mother had to take out a loan in order to pay him back, and days before the closing fee was due he backed out. He said he refused to pay his part, so to get rid of him my mother paid his fee. All of this just to stay in our house, the only house I have ever known. Why did he do this, oh for the money of course. Part of this property he owned, and with that came money, even if it was a trivial amount.

Later he came and took the rest of his things. His brother helped him move the stuff out, the brother that was closer to my mother than my step-dad. They took meaningless things, but it was still the act of coming into our house and removing items that I have grown up with. It was like I was reliving what I did years before with my father. I was losing memories, even if they were held in material items.

My mother stood stoic on the front lawn as they removed piece after piece. I followed them around the house to make sure they weren’t taking things they weren’t supposed to. After the truck was loaded up they were gone.

That was the last time I ever saw him or spoke to him.

So why did he do all of this? Why did he rip a family apart? His reasoning was because he was finding himself, that this journey he was going through did not include us. He was adopted as an infant and grew up with these feeling of abandonment, then he had two children it turns out he didn’t want and in turn practically abandoned. These feelings are what he blamed for leaving. He added that he couldn’t handle our medical problems, that it was just too hard for him. So he left.

My mother did more for that man than he ever deserved. He never opened up to her except in the end when he was looking for a scapegoat. My mother raised his children, fought battle after battle for him to have better custody, told him what to say to have a real bond with his children, paid for everything and anything all on her own even though she too was sick and struggling. She did all of that for him, so that he could have a good relationship with them. Well it turns out they were both mistakes that he never wanted.

My mother’s last name revolves around Valentine’s day and she was born only 3 days after the holiday, so pretty much Valentine’s day was her day. In all 15 years he never once took her out or bought her a present. He viewed it as meaningless which meant he could care less. He viewed every holiday as meaningless. For Christmas my mother would go out and buy his children gifts so that they had something to open from their father. My mother did everything for him. In his weakest moments she was there to pick up the pieces. Well it turns out it was all for nothing.When the pressure was on him he couldn’t handle being a real man. He was a coward all along.

He was cheating. All along it was another woman. All the lies that came out of his mouth were to cover his own ass to make him feel better. Apparently saying that you’re leaving because you need to find yourself makes the guilt less than saying what is really going on. Apparently that makes it all okay.

The moment we knew was when he accidentally sent a check (which was so small that it didn’t make sense, years later we figured out it might have been him sending money for the closing fee?) with his address on it. An address we looked up, which was owned by a woman, a woman who went to the same yoga studio as him, a woman he had wrote about in his yoga journal. She was younger than him, had her own house, and was on this spiritual journey. Just like he “was”. She was living the lifestyle he wanted, and unknown to us they ended up together.

Both my mother and I drive by the house often since it is on a main road going to the local hub of the area. His ancient car sits in the driveway. The man that refused to buy anything found a new host to mooch off of. His charm is never ending and clearly she was as easily fooled as my mother.

liar

What he does is mooch off of people. He has this innate desire to save, save, save. For what? We will never know. At this point he would have close or over a million dollars. Yet he has nothing to his name. He has a car that is falling apart, no property to call his own, no relationship with his only family, and no interest in marriage or anything.. He essentially has nothing. But yet he must think he has everything. He gets to live in another house, pay nothing, live the lifestyle he wants, and pretty much get away with murder.

He left us. He abandoned us. A ran running away from his own turmoil with abandonment went and left his closest family. And he didn’t even care. He had a family that loved him and was working with him. Sure it needed some serious help but when something is worth it you never give up. And you never leave when he did with my mother still battling cancer and me struggling to get out of bed every day.

The day he removed his things was the last time we heard from him. He has never contacted my mother. Contacting me would be a joke, I wasn’t even on his radar to begin with. That was 4 years ago and I have no doubt for the rest of our lives we will never hear from him again.

And at the exact same time I don’t care. To me he is nothing more than a liar and a cheat.

War Zones and Failed Ceasefires

It was another night of screaming. Another night of hiding behind my bed trying not to make a sound. They were going at it again, my mother and my step-dad, and I couldn’t help but listen. I heard the argument get more heated than ever, then the crash of something, then the footsteps upstairs. I quivered, I knew it was my mother. She came in and told me to stay in my room, that he had called the police on her.

I waited in my room while the police came in and questioned everyone. Apparently my mother had “scratched” him when he threatening to call the police with the phone in hand. He had already dialed 911 and by the time my mother whacked it out of his hand they were on their way.

The house was quiet after the police left. I went downstairs to stay with my mother and make sure she wasn’t going to do anything she would regret. He sat in the lazy boy chair my mother bought him. As my mother told me what happened in the kitchen he decided to make some sly comments from the living room, making it obvious for my mother to hear. He was egging her on just like he always did, and my mother still hadn’t calmed down from the incident right before. I stood in the doorway to the kitchen with my arms stretched out to block my mother from coming through. He made comment after comment, fueling my mother’s fire. As she was screaming at the top of her lungs I blocked her, I at least contained it to the kitchen. He sat in his chair, never leaving, just spitting fire. I screamed at my mother he isn’t worth it. I kept yelling it over and over and over again. Eventually I led my mother upstairs to her room and made sure she wasn’t coming out.

Fights like this were now happening on a regular.

The next week they were fighting yet again and I came downstairs to be a mediator. This was my role now, no matter how sick I was. Being the mediator came with the danger of failing, which I did many nights. This time though I screamed at him to leave, go to the movies or something. All he heard was leave and with this he was in my face spitting anger of how this was his house. Yet again a father figure inches from my face exploding. My mother quickly put herself in front of me and finished the fight without me. As time passed I started fighting back. I would spit fire right back at him. I would shake and cry and keep going until he shut up. I was done with him walking over everyone just because he was taking a different path.

The fights were over many things. Mostly over me, or the financial situation. In his head my medical condition was a joke, that I was faking it. After all the years of him being a support. He literally carried me out of the house to be taken to the hospital. He saw how sick I was. He saw everything that had happened to me. He might have no been an active player in my life but he was there to see it all happen. The financial situation was grim with my mother on unemployment dealing with her cancer treatment and he well, he saved. He refused to spend any money. He paid half the mortgage and that was it. My mother’s half, even though she was fighting cancer, was still up to her to pay.

This man said he was finding himself. When he came up short he took it out on my mother. Soon they just stopped talking all together. The house was a war zone with only a minute ceasefire put into place.

As the months passed of the two of them not talking I actually surprisingly bonded with him. I had no one else to talk to so on nights when he was home we would talk. We talked about his life and his journey. At one point I even was happy for him because he deserved to be happy. I thought if he could find himself then he could mend the relationship with my mother and all would be well again. Plus with neither of them talking the house was quiet and the tension faded.

I was wrong.

A few weeks before my prom I was sitting on the sofa, my mother in a horrible mood, and I decided to make a sly comment. I remember saying, “god, what is up your butt today”. The most teenage thing to say of course. Little did I know that exact day was when he decided he was leaving for good.

When prom arrived I still had no idea what was going on. My mother had composed herself and put on a happy face. My aunt came down to see me off to prom and enjoy this once in a lifetime experience. During pictures was when I realized he wasn’t present. I remember asking where he was, I wanted to take a picture with him. He had gone inside and eventually left for “yoga”.

A week later my mother came to me and told me what was going on. He was moving out, he had already found a place to stay and refused to tell my mother where he was going. She told me she asked one night that it would be nice to see more of him, and that she missed him, his response was that he was leaving and ready to go.

The day I made that sly comment was the day he told her.

She argued with him while in complete shock. His mind was made up. He was already gone anyways. It was a losing battle.

He told her during the week, and by the weekend he took only a handful of things and was gone. He took the drawers and emptied them into boxes, really only taking some clothes and some electronics. Then he was gone.

But it wasn’t over, the worst was yet to come.

dying

Husk of a Man

When on the journey of finding oneself does ripping up others matter? Does the cost of your happiness mean more to you than all the others around you? Are you yourself doing what is actually right, or doing what you perceive as right?

I thought these things as he sat in front of me, no remorse in his face, no hint of pain in his eyes. He said he was leaving to find himself and he couldn’t find himself here. He said this is what he needed to do, and with that he walked out the door and walked out on a family that was left torn in half.

My mother met my step-dad when she was with my father very early on and they all became great friends. Eventually my godfather was introduced and the final gang was formed. Everyone got married and had kids, and still stayed together as a pack. They vacationed together and hung out together, and when it was finally time for my mother to leave my abusive father they stayed with her instead of him.

One after the other they all got divorced, and as fate saw it my mother ended up in a relationship with my step-dad. When my mother was able to she bought her first house and a few years later my step-dad moved in. I couldn’t be happier. He had two kids of his own my age and I grew up with them by my side. Of course he didn’t have custody so it was only on occasion I saw them, but during my summers off I bonded with them every moment I got. And I truly bonded to my step-dad since he was more of a father figure than my own dad. Together we formed this nontraditional family that just seemed to fit.

In the early years the two of them seemed so happy together. It seemed like it was meant to be, that my mother after all of this time could be in a happy healthy relationship. But it was far from what it turned out to be. Year after year my medical condition got worse, and with that brought problems. Then when I finally took my father to court it was the last straw. The home life turned for the worst and the fighting started to spiral out of control. My teenage years I spent in my room, away from the nights where punches were practically thrown. My mother with her temper and my step-dad with his below the belt punches. There was no stopping them. The screaming would go on for hours and even when it was over he would go back for more. Neither of them were happy, but my mother insisted he was the love of her life. He was meant to be with her, and she was meant to be with him.

Around the same time as my POTS diagnosis came the shocking news of my mother having breast cancer. I remember being in my room and they both come in, both with half smiles on their face. He leaned up against the wall and my mother sat next to me. She told me they had found a mass in her breast and it came back cancerous. I was in shock. How could this have happened to my mother? She explained that it was only stage 1 and that it did not spread, but it was one of the most aggressive forms of cancer and she needed further treatment. My mother being who she is opted for just the radiation therapy and biweekly injections of a substance that would shut down the proteins of those cells. They pushed for chemo but opinion after opinion said that she didn’t really need to get it since it was only stage 1 and did not spread. They did want to give her a port though, which she said no to because then she would have to tell people since you could see the port. Without the port though her veins would be ruined. She accepted this fate if it meant she could hide this diagnosis from the world. She was fighting for her life and the only people she told was my step-dad and me. No one else in the family was told for her own sake, since then everyone would want to help her. My mother is the strongest woman I know and she didn’t want to be pitied. Telling people would just make them look at her weak, as someone who is now fighting for her life. She wanted nothing to do with that.

After a botched tube was placed for her pinpoint radiation therapy she had to go back in for more surgery. Each time she would come home and my step-dad was in charge of helping her clean the open wound and helping support her. She was sliced and diced, and came home often with blood soaking through the bandages. She couldn’t come to me in her weakened state because in her eyes that was not right to show me, she had to be the caregiver, not the other way around. She never cried in front of me. She never broke down in front of me. The entire time I saw her as a fighter, which gave me strength to go on in my own fight.

On top of everything else my mother was going through she was forced to resign from work because of the recovery period. In her mind it was the right thing to do, since battling cancer and holding a job in corporate America isn’t exactly the easiest thing to do. Plus this gave her the time to watch after me since I was also extremely weak and vulnerable.

By the summer of my junior year of high school I saw less and less of my step-dad. I was told he was working late. He would roll in around 10pm and would be gone before I woke up in the morning. I always heard him come in since my window faces the driveway.

And for about a year he was sleeping in the spare, apparently due to snoring (which let me tell you he did. I heard him through the walls). Then it was because my mother didn’t want someone else in bed with her during the cancer treatment. Then it was just normal, they just didn’t sleep together. There was never any affection. It was a cold house of him just being there. It was either he was there and they fought or he wasn’t there and my mother would make excuses. That was now the norm.

As my senior year rolled around and I was homebound yet again he came to us with exciting news. He had started yoga classes and joined the local YMCA. I was a little shocked honestly. This man was 6’3, easily almost 300 lbs, not exactly the yoga type. But that is what he wanted to do, and to keep him happy my mother supported him. As months went on his training took a more serious tone and he turned into this man that none of us knew. This man we knew was turning crooked. He had branched out of what either of us knew. The status quo was being challenged and he broke away from what was expected of him. But this left uncovered a dead man who wanted nothing more to reblossom.

huskHis life was yoga. There was nothing else. He decided he wanted to be trained to be a yoga master and yet again my mother supported him. He would come home with all of this weird information, come home saying that yoga can cure anything, come home saying that yoga would cure my mother of cancer and cure me of all my illnesses. He was crazed with the idea of being reborn. He wanted to cleanse his body of all evil spirits and be new again.

He juiced like crazy, far more than recommended. He would fast for weeks in order to cleanse his body. Overall this large Italian man was turning into a husk of nothing. The light in his eyes was gone yet the smile on his face remained. The wrinkles grew along his thinning face. He was turning into a man that no one had ever seen before.

The longer he went on this now spiritual journey the farther away he drifted from both my mother and me, but the full abandonment was not far away and not either of us saw it coming.

Caged Bird

“I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.” ― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

It hacagedppened yesterday, another flare up out of the blue. I woke up early to head out for my Praxis II exams, which was then followed by my teaching assessment class midterm. I wasn’t worried about how much testing I was going to have to go through, it was more of just wanting the day to be over with. Once the exams were complete I headed home, finally able to rest. I had a nice lunch and took a relaxing shower, then decided to lay my head down for a few before heading out to my education based math class for yet another exam. And that’s when it hit me.

I was laying there and I could feel it, the creeping pain spreading from my neck to the front of my head. It wrapped around my left eye and started to pulse. My back started to tingle and the shooting pain exploded to every inch of my body. I told myself it was just a headache and to not worry. I took some Tylenol and hoped for the best. It wasn’t helping, and my status was deteriorating at an even faster rate. My legs ached and were ice cold. I was having rapid hot/cold flashes. I was in pain from head to toe.

But I pushed through, what choice do you have when it’s an hour away from exam time and at a university that could care less about your medical condition. I was forced to get out of bed, get dressed, and drive myself to my exam regardless of my pain.

By the time I was at school my mind was completely absent. I looked around and it felt like I wasn’t even there. By the time I sat down in my chair for the exam it felt like I was in a dream, those moments when you are dreaming something so real it feels real. Except mine was the exact opposite. I was there, and this wasn’t a dream.

As the exams were passed out I realized I was screwed. It was a packet of 10 pages with questions we hardly even covered. I went through each page and picked out what I automatically knew. When I hit the simple addition problems I stared at the page blankly. The question was to write a real world example for -5 – -5. The answer was 0, but my brain could not think of anything that made sense. I flipped to the next page. Find the error: 10 – -14 = 4. I looked at the problem, stared at it for a good five minutes. The error was obvious and could be applied to the rest of the problem, but my brain just stopped. I looked at the numbers and they seemed so foreign. I went to write my answer and explanation but my hand didn’t want to hold the pencil. Attempt after attempt I failed, I couldn’t hold the pencil and write properly. My handwriting on the test was so poorly written, the spaces between large font letters and sentences made it seem like I was in grade school. But no, just a senior in college having a horrible episode.

When the test was over we had class, 2 more grueling hours of mathematics. By this time I could no longer speak, or sit up straight, or even really look up. I sat in my chair hunched over with my hoodie bunched up around my neck. I was an icicle. At some moments it felt like my breath was even cold. The class passed and I wiggled and waddled out of my seat, having to pause while my blood pressure caught up with the rest of my body. Walking back to my car I was so dizzy and I could hardly breathe. The massive change in temperature blasted me as I went from a lukewarm classroom to a freezing windy outside. As I managed into the car I just wanted to cry.

I was so out of it that even the emotional process of crying was too much for my brain to handle. So I drove home with this heavy feeling in my chest. I felt like a failure, a down right absolute failure. I cursed all of this medical garbage I was dealt and thought of all my other classmates who could care less that I looked like I was dying in my seat. I thought of how wonderful it must be to not be sick all the time, how amazing life must be when your wings haven’t been clipped.

At moments like these I wonder what my life would have been like it I never would have gotten sick. How much different would things have turned out? If I was given the ability to fly from day one would I be someone completely different? If I was given the ability to fly forever would I be like everyone else around me?

Dark Depths and the Woman in White

My entire life I lived with symptoms, symptoms that seemingly didn’t fit together. All the doctors looked only at what they were trained for, sticking with what they knew best. But when more than a decade goes by and you are still struggling to live a normal life isn’t it time to wake up and realize that there might be a bigger picture.

After completing high school and entering into the world of college everything seemed to be going pretty steady. My symptoms were manageable enough to attend class, but after my classes ended I would travel home weary and tired. The brain fog consumed my thoughts. I slept when I could and never went out at night. My life consisted of going to and from the university just for educational purposes, the social life was still at a standstill.

Having been diagnosed with POTS my life consisted of maintaining the symptoms and hoping flare ups would be left at bay. My life was also very limited after seeing the cranial osteopath, I was told what I can and cannot do. The list of activities I couldn’t do grew practically every trip. It was hard to have fun when you knew that anything out of the ordinary could mess you up. Even sitting in a different chair could jam my tailbone, or lying on a pillow too high which would push my skull forward. I had to calculate my life down to a tee. Anything else would result in a flare up which would cause me to miss class, and even the disabilities office refused to work with me on my absences. I had to push myself through or face the thought of being forced on medical leave from the university and be pressed further behind on my degree progress.

Year after year went by and I could control most of my flare ups, I was far from perfect but it was still better than being bedridden. I was succeeding in school maintaining a high GPA even with my numerous absences and brain not being there half the time. In my junior year my cardiologist called me and told me he could no longer see me because his practice was refusing to see POTS patients. This happened once before when I was a minor still and the practice said no minors. He referred me to another doctor in the practice who would solely fill my prescriptions. When I finally had an appointment I was told he would only fill some of what I needed. The main problem was the sleep medication I was on, which he refused to refill. My entire life I have had sleep issues and after seeing the old cardiologist for a while he put me on Trazadone and after the Trazadone didn’t work he prescribed Ambien. The thing with Ambien is that doctors really don’t want you taking it every day for long periods of time. By this point I had been on the Ambien almost 3 years, prescribed to take up to 20mg a night every night. The next doctor refused to fill it, and I was left with my lingering supply to hopefully make it to the next doctor. Ambien has a nasty withdrawal and to flat out not prescribe it to someone who has been on it for years is wrong, especially when you know it does have a withdrawal process. And the real kicker was that not sleeping was a huge trigger for my flare ups.

I decided it was time to leave that practice all together since the doctor that would see me was not filling half of my medications and not caring about weaning me off of anything. Luckily I was able to make an appointment at a top heart center in the area and see a doctor who specifically treated POTS patients. The appointment was months away but I could wait, my hope was that she would recommend something else to help me feel like a human again. My life was so controlled by my diagnosis and I couldn’t break free no matter what I tried. I was starting to think I was a lost cause.

When the day of the appointment rolled around my mother came with because this was an incredibly important event to attend. The massive heart center must have spanned over 3 football fields with an extremely modern design. I was hopeful just walking through the door. I needed desperately a fresh take on my POTS diagnosis. When we were ushered into the backroom the doctor enters wearing the typical white doctors garb. She was beyond intense for having the thinnest frailest body imaginable. She talked fast and at some points I couldn’t even understand her. She asked me to tell my story, which I did.

“You don’t have POTS”

Excuse me? Wait what? What did she just say? I looked at my mother, as she looked back at me almost in a rage. What do you mean I don’t have POTS? She asked me to take away the POTS diagnosis and describe my symptoms.

“Because of my POTS…” She stops me and says no, take out POTS, and just describe the symptoms.

“I can’t exercise without my POTS symptoms…”

“Without the POTS…” she exclaimed.

I continue. Explaining my situation was very difficult without adding in the POTS symptoms. I was associating everything with that word. My brain fog, the blood pressure changes, the intolerance to hot and cold, the inability to exercise, the aches and pains I have all over, the chronic fatigue, all of my stomach problems, the cold sweats I would get, even my sleep issues. Everything I could think of I associated with the POTS diagnosis. Well after all I’ve been told this over and over again for years by my former doctor. Everything I had was POTS. All the symptoms were POTS. I couldn’t do this because of POTS. I couldn’t do that because of POTS. It was hard explaining it any other way.

But it was a misdiagnosis. Everything I was told was not true. After living with this diagnosis for 6 years I was told I do not have POTS. I was skeptical. So was my mother. In fact she started back talking the doctor who immediately talked over her. My mother is no wimpy woman and would never let me be pushed around by a doctor. She voiced her opinion while I sit there stunned, now rethinking practically my entire life.

The doctor told us that POTS is a regularly misdiagnosed syndrome since there is no official test to prove you have it. It is simply diagnosed by looking at your symptoms and labeling you with something so they can begin treatment. She also added that most people who truly have POTS are elderly people who can’t get up since they immediately pass out. Things like this did anger me since I knew it wasn’t true. I know in my case it might not have been POTS but by doing research it is most common in adolescents. Not once had I heard it be diagnosed to elderly patients only. She also questioned if my stomach problems actually existed which also frustrated me till no end. This woman sat there and decided to pick me apart piece by piece and tell me it was all a lie. I was questioning POTS but I was not questioning my stomach issues or migraines. Let’s just say this woman was a straight up bitch in white that had no problem exploding your brain with completely new information then stomping on you by insulting the support at home. To end the appointment she told my mother to be more accepting of this news and for me to keep a journal every day, then I would see her in 6 months. To see the look on darkmy mother’s face must have been priceless. But I signaled my mother to not say anything so we could get out of there and have a real discussion with just the two of us.

As we were walking out the door she also added that she would refer me to a rheumatologist because she thinks I might have nerve damage that might be causing some of the symptoms. We finish up the scheduling and head back to the car where I immediately start having a meltdown.

And there I was, back in the dark yet again.

The Wound That Never Heals

This is a continuation of my journey with my father, read part one, part two, part three, or part four.
There are always consequences to your actions, even if you are just a child. I didn’t know what was going to happen next in regards to my father, in my brain I guessed taking the initial action would be enough. I would never ever have to face him again, I wouldn’t have to fear what was coming next. But I was young, and I was oh so naive.

The first round of court was focused on making my father out to be neglecting. Our first lawyer said the abuse claim wouldn’t hold up in court since there was no actual “abuse”. That was like a slap in the face, even our lawyer didn’t believe I was in danger. I was told what to say and how to say it, nothing which was actually true. Because I was a minor most of the talking was on my mother’s end since she held custody. But what doomed me was the fact I verbally agreed to do week on week off with my parents and both of them signed. Although it was not court officiated it was used against me that first round. We couldn’t even take the case past the lower judge since my lawyer royally screwed us over. So at the end of this I was forced to see my father as I was before and if I didn’t they would hold my mother in contempt of court.

But to my surprise my father didn’t want me. He of course didn’t say it in front of a judge because if he said that then the all mighty dollar would come back into play. By stating he didn’t want me he would be forced to pay child support. I couldn’t stand to be around him. And worst of all he was trying to make it seem like nothing happened, that I was overreacting to the entire situation. I would be lectured over and over. The family outing tripled. The car rides were excruciating. I had nowhere to hide. I was trapped and that was that. If I didn’t do everything he wanted I was psychologically messed with. The family friend would make comments about me to my face, then trade off to my father who would mock anything I do. The two openly discussed how horrible my mother was and that I was just like her. It was never ending. Then on top of that my father was pushing me further and further into the school nightmare. He would watch every homework assignment I had to complete. If I didn’t complete it to his likings well I better do it again, and again, and again. There was no asking for help. I did it right the first time or I was a failure. This was drilled into me until I broke down inside and knew I was a failure who would never be smart enough.

When I went to my mother for a second time I asked her if we could pursue the custody issue again but this time with a different lawyer. This time we won, we pursued the abuse issue and the courts dissolved the matter of me going there every week. My mother and him discussed on the phone how I would come over on weekends like before, and no fight was to be had. Those weekends were painful. Those weekends I shut off, I couldn’t stand to be in that house. I eventually stopped going because my father’s rage was clearly building again, and if he exploded in front of me again I just don’t know what he would have done. When my mother went to the court to have child support put back into place my father lost it. He was threatening my mother in front of two lawyers and a judge. Even his lawyer screamed at him to shut up but with no success. The last time I saw my father was that last day in court. He sat next to us waiting to be seen and tried to talk to me like it was any other day. He was unapologetic. He still thought I was making everything up. He truly believed my mother was the one doing all of this and that I was just following her lead. He had no idea what he had done and what he was doing.

I haven’t actually had any contact with my father since then, he had contacted me on three occasions and that was when he was about to go to jail for not paying child support. Every single time the bill was due he wouldn’t pay and when I turned 18 he just stopped paying all together even though in his marriage contract he signed to pay support until I was 23 no questions asked. He is currently 9k in arrears. For years after the last battle he would claim he was disabled and completely broke so that the court would pity him. He would show up with no shoes on and a walker, saying that his health is so horrible and he hasn’t been able to afford shoes in 20 years. He would fake a variety of ailments all to get his cost lowered. He would show up on purpose without any paperwork that the court ordered. The same man with a record collection worth over 100k. The same man with two cars. The same man that collects artwork from around the country. The same man that travels around the country for leisure. By the end of it all he was paying less than $200 a month for me. And even that was so much for him. For his own child with medical problems I was worth $200, and even then not even worth that much because he didn’t pay that money. The realization came to me years down the line that my father put on a charade just to get out of paying child support, but the game he was playing was my life and to him I was just a puppet.

He was vindictive. A year after contact was shut off he went into my college fund and withdrew 10k, the entire amount he had saved for me while I was living at his house. Because of the plan we had that 10k would be so taxed that you were lucky if you got back 1k. It was a slap in the face. Even without him in my life he would torment me. He called me on two occasions before court appearances saying he was on his “way out” and that we should “hug one last time”. His reason behind his so called death, a minor blood clot in his leg that was so minute not even the doctors would write him a note for the courts. He called again saying practically the same thing, just a different excuse.

And when I cut off my father I also cut off that entire side of the family. They knew how my father was, they saw what he would do and how he behaved. But I lost them too. A grandmother, an aunt, two uncle, and two cousins never to be heard from again. They could have reached out to me, and honestly I could have reached out to them but we didn’t.

The life with him as my father left me scarred, left me emotionally broken and in therapy for years but I regret none of it. What I did that day was something I needed to do on my own. It was the first time in my life I made a decision by myself for my own wellbeing. There are still days where I look back and question everything that happened, questioned if I did the right thing. But every time, even if it takes weeks to come to this conclusion, I realize that I did do the right thing. Someone who takes you for granted and abuses your trust, mental wellbeing, physical wellbeing and uses you as an object has no business being in your life. When I tell people my story I always get the “daddy issues” label and it boggles my mind. I think at the end of the day people need to dig deeper into who is in their lives and even if it their own flesh and blood realize that it is not okay to be abused.

It takes real courage and strength to exile an entire side of the family. It will haunt you forever. The emotions that come with doing this will cause all sorts of conflictions in your thoughts. My mind always creates scenarios where my father is a decent human being, where he isn’t the man that shaped who I was for the longest time. I have created my own defense mechanism where I just block out the painful barrenmemories. When I go to search for them they are no longer there. My mind becomes a wasteland and with that comes peace. I try my hardest to rid my mind completely of him, but what he did left battle scars that will never heal.