There are few topics more warm and fuzzy than your parents going back to court, again. You would think at the ripe old age of 25 I would be past feeling the emotional drain that divorced parents typically draw – but clearly I am not. It has been more than 12 years since they separated officially, even longer if you read between the lines – and yet each year, each season really, brings a new battle to survive. The truly ironic thing about the whole thing is that with each passing drama I find myself on opposing sides of the argument. Not to say that I necessarily chose one parent’s defense to keep but as time passes my perspective continues to evolve. Taking the utter pain and ugliness out of the situation, it is sociologically fascinating.
This not being meant to draw out the brutal timeline of events, suffice it to say in the beginning I felt very strongly that my “father” was completely and solely in the wrong, he had an affair. He was the asshole. He was the terrible father. My mother was the victim. My sisters were the victim. I was the victim. Fast forward twelve years and my dad and I have arguably one of the better relationships in the family. Perhaps it was the fact that I was a 12 year old emotional basket case with fire balls spouting from my mouth? Whatever event or series of events are responsible for my dad and I being able to form a relationship are irrelevant now I suppose, because when the storm clouds rolled away a great deal of the pain and hurt went with them.
Simultaneously, though not in conjunction with each other, the relationship between my mother and I evolved as well. I can say with a fairly unwavering degree of certainty that I will always regard my mother as my sole provider. Regardless of the relationship I now have with my father; my mother has always been my sole caretaker for a number of reasons. And to be fair, I would argue that this is the case for many people – whether they had divorced parents or not – because women are simply more nurturing by nature. In the case of my mother, nurturing would be a grave understatement. For nearly thirty years now, she has lived and breathed her children in everything she’s done – right or wrong – it has always been about us. I am who I am today in many ways thanks to my mother, and I am eternally grateful for all she has sacrificed for me. But in as I grew into a young woman, forming my own ideals about the world at large and collecting my own battle wounds separate from my family – our perspectives seemed to divulge more and more. It is truly our difference of opinion which comes between us, nothing more.
And in recent years I have found myself in scrutiny of my 12 year old self. Had I been too hard on my father? Did I understand what had happened? Did I make too many judgments calls? LONG PAUSE. Then I stopped the incessant questioning and reminded myself that I was in fact a child and that very few certainties remain. How can I possibly be resentful towards my childhood self for being hateful to a man I chose to know only through the eyes of my mother? How could I be anything but grateful to a woman, who gave up her entire life for us, her children; who does everything and has made each decision for what she thought was in our best interest? And how do I resent a man who in the past decade plus has made remarkable strides to be the father we so wished him to be all those years? All of it continues to evolve. Each event ricocheting off another sending fragments of fact, emotion and circumstance in every which way – only to be joined by other broken pieces from previous and future battles; each conglomerate growing in size, gaining strength like an asteroid and eventually coming to a head. Quite graphic I know, but really the only way to attempt painting an accurate portrait of the on going emotional roller coaster that is my parents divorce and the toll it has taken on all of us.
Today a new asteroid made contact; my mother was taking my father back to court. I can’t really call them mom and dad in this situation because I would like to separate myself entirely from the event and somehow by making it formal, they are more contemporaries this way than my parents whom I should be able to love equally, freely and without debate. But the internal struggle begins almost immediately. They are both wrong and they are both right. Sparing too many intimate details, the subject matter is clearly money. Being that their children are grown and love being irrelevant here, the only survivor is money. He owed it, right or wrong. He didn’t pay it, she needed it. Neither of them really have it. So what is the answer? CLEARLY we cannot just put our swords away and call a truce, this battle will be fought to the death – until one or both parties is completely drained of all strength. Ultimately one of them is going to lose, and it will be tragic to watch. And yet regardless of how the terms are settled, my sisters and I will also bare the scars. Innocent bystanders if you will.
Only now have I allowed myself to feel the raw emotion of it all. I found myself racing to the car to this coffee shop, feeling as though my heart would explode with feeling. It seemed only fitting that the rain began to pour as I turned down my street, blaring the music in an attempt to drown out my thoughts. I wish I were optimistic enough to believe that one day the fighting will cease completely but the realist in me knows that will never happen. It will just continue to evolve, and all of us involved will be forced to make judgment calls to keep our sanity. We will continue collecting battle wounds along the way, further hardening our perspective.
Who is the victim now? Are there any victims or are we merely victims of our own conviction? What if we were able to wipe our hands of it all – to wipe the slate clean and start over, to right wrongs, to say “I’m sorrys” - such a simple theory but seemingly impossible. And so victims remain on both side of the spectrum because the available choices are less appealing than truce.
I hang somewhere in the middle? Unable to wipe my hands of my parent’s drama, feeling obviously tied to both parties. I suppose I could walk away but the circle of pain’s magnetism is too great- so I will continue to orbit. I swear it will be an absolute miracle if I end up a financially stable woman in a loving relationship some day.
This not being meant to draw out the brutal timeline of events, suffice it to say in the beginning I felt very strongly that my “father” was completely and solely in the wrong, he had an affair. He was the asshole. He was the terrible father. My mother was the victim. My sisters were the victim. I was the victim. Fast forward twelve years and my dad and I have arguably one of the better relationships in the family. Perhaps it was the fact that I was a 12 year old emotional basket case with fire balls spouting from my mouth? Whatever event or series of events are responsible for my dad and I being able to form a relationship are irrelevant now I suppose, because when the storm clouds rolled away a great deal of the pain and hurt went with them.
Simultaneously, though not in conjunction with each other, the relationship between my mother and I evolved as well. I can say with a fairly unwavering degree of certainty that I will always regard my mother as my sole provider. Regardless of the relationship I now have with my father; my mother has always been my sole caretaker for a number of reasons. And to be fair, I would argue that this is the case for many people – whether they had divorced parents or not – because women are simply more nurturing by nature. In the case of my mother, nurturing would be a grave understatement. For nearly thirty years now, she has lived and breathed her children in everything she’s done – right or wrong – it has always been about us. I am who I am today in many ways thanks to my mother, and I am eternally grateful for all she has sacrificed for me. But in as I grew into a young woman, forming my own ideals about the world at large and collecting my own battle wounds separate from my family – our perspectives seemed to divulge more and more. It is truly our difference of opinion which comes between us, nothing more.
And in recent years I have found myself in scrutiny of my 12 year old self. Had I been too hard on my father? Did I understand what had happened? Did I make too many judgments calls? LONG PAUSE. Then I stopped the incessant questioning and reminded myself that I was in fact a child and that very few certainties remain. How can I possibly be resentful towards my childhood self for being hateful to a man I chose to know only through the eyes of my mother? How could I be anything but grateful to a woman, who gave up her entire life for us, her children; who does everything and has made each decision for what she thought was in our best interest? And how do I resent a man who in the past decade plus has made remarkable strides to be the father we so wished him to be all those years? All of it continues to evolve. Each event ricocheting off another sending fragments of fact, emotion and circumstance in every which way – only to be joined by other broken pieces from previous and future battles; each conglomerate growing in size, gaining strength like an asteroid and eventually coming to a head. Quite graphic I know, but really the only way to attempt painting an accurate portrait of the on going emotional roller coaster that is my parents divorce and the toll it has taken on all of us.
Today a new asteroid made contact; my mother was taking my father back to court. I can’t really call them mom and dad in this situation because I would like to separate myself entirely from the event and somehow by making it formal, they are more contemporaries this way than my parents whom I should be able to love equally, freely and without debate. But the internal struggle begins almost immediately. They are both wrong and they are both right. Sparing too many intimate details, the subject matter is clearly money. Being that their children are grown and love being irrelevant here, the only survivor is money. He owed it, right or wrong. He didn’t pay it, she needed it. Neither of them really have it. So what is the answer? CLEARLY we cannot just put our swords away and call a truce, this battle will be fought to the death – until one or both parties is completely drained of all strength. Ultimately one of them is going to lose, and it will be tragic to watch. And yet regardless of how the terms are settled, my sisters and I will also bare the scars. Innocent bystanders if you will.
Only now have I allowed myself to feel the raw emotion of it all. I found myself racing to the car to this coffee shop, feeling as though my heart would explode with feeling. It seemed only fitting that the rain began to pour as I turned down my street, blaring the music in an attempt to drown out my thoughts. I wish I were optimistic enough to believe that one day the fighting will cease completely but the realist in me knows that will never happen. It will just continue to evolve, and all of us involved will be forced to make judgment calls to keep our sanity. We will continue collecting battle wounds along the way, further hardening our perspective.
Who is the victim now? Are there any victims or are we merely victims of our own conviction? What if we were able to wipe our hands of it all – to wipe the slate clean and start over, to right wrongs, to say “I’m sorrys” - such a simple theory but seemingly impossible. And so victims remain on both side of the spectrum because the available choices are less appealing than truce.
I hang somewhere in the middle? Unable to wipe my hands of my parent’s drama, feeling obviously tied to both parties. I suppose I could walk away but the circle of pain’s magnetism is too great- so I will continue to orbit. I swear it will be an absolute miracle if I end up a financially stable woman in a loving relationship some day.