1995: The Year That Wasn’t

It always seems the story of my relationship with Glen ends up being overshadowed by the horrific brawl I had with my parents over him. In reality, by the time that happened we were already counting down the days until our inevitable separation. It had very little effect on us. I should probably be too ashamed to admit that it had very little lasting impact on me, but I’m not. I don’t think the same can be said of my parents.

I would venture to say it was more traumatic for them than for me, but I can’t be sure because no one in my family has ever spoken of that day and the year of separation that followed. It’s like 1995 never happened. There’s a void in our family history that stretches from around Valentine’s Day until Christmas of that year, and includes my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary party, my younger brother’s high school graduation, my 21st birthday, and the announcement of the impending birth of my nephew, the first grandchild. I viewed it all from a distance, sustained if not comforted by my simmering resentment. I was propelled by my outrage, drawing on the strength of emotional aftershocks as I navigated the intricate legal processes involved in really making my family pay for violating my precious boundaries.

While I don’t view the ordeal as particularly awful, it certainly wasn’t easy. I clearly recall the cold linoleum of my kitchen floor as I sat with my back against the cupboard looking up at the state trooper handing me a card for victim’s services. He believed I was being abused, arbitrarily smacked around by evil, possibly crazy parents. I knew the truth and I felt just a little bit responsible. I should have seen it coming. I had been taught better than that, and although I often disagreed on some level with the conservative, legalistic, Bible-belt morality I was brought up with, I had never let on. I was and am so terribly accomplished at toeing the party line that I forget sometimes I’m allowed to disagree outside my head. My silence is usually mistaken for agreement, as it was then. No wonder they went nuts.

I did try to tell them. The very first night in my new apartment, my dad sat at my table watching me slice homemade lasagna they brought me. He said, “Now I’m going to lay down some ground rules. First, no boys up here…” I didn’t hear another word as my thoughts spun to indignation. They weren’t taking this seriously. Did they think this was some fleeting experiment in asserting my independence? I said something along the lines of, “I appreciate your input, but you guys need to understand that this is my home now. You’re going to have to rely on the training you’ve already provided me and hope it will guide me to make the right decisions.” I thought I was clear yet respectful, but I’m not sure they heard a word I said. I probably should have just told them what I was thinking, that the rule had always been, “Whoever pays the bills makes the rules” and unless they wanted to pay my rent and utilities, all decisions and consequences were now mine. I had no way of knowing how completely unprepared they were to handle that concept.

After the incident that January day, things continued to get uglier. My mother got in the habit of writing guilt-inducing notes inside cards emblazoned with scriptures about love and duty and family. She sent the pastors of the local church to ‘deal’ with me, which they tried valiantly to do in the face of my almost palpable disgust. When I did finally speak to one of them, he delivered a card from my dad. It was a simple card with a cartoon bear on the front and an apology inside. He wrote that he was sorry he hadn’t treated me like a young woman and that it wouldn’t happen again. Attached to the card was a gold brooch in the shape of a flower with a pearl center, a grown-up sister to the beloved Smurfette pin he’d surprised me with when I was eight. He was reaching out, but I was not ready to forgive.

A month later my mother called to tell me my father was deeply depressed. She laid the guilt on thick with a story about how he’d gone to buy a hunting rifle and been denied the right because he now had a record. She said he was mortified and devastated. I was unmoved, probably due more to her obvious attempt at manipulation than his perfectly understandable embarrassment. I didn’t hear from her again for some time.

Around the end of that November, my bitterness began to recede. I felt the lesson I needed to drive home to them had been well absorbed and it was time to move on. I am aware that never once did I take into consideration their feelings, but I had so little experience at tolerating the intrusions of others. I’d been very definitely on my own terms since birth, or so my mother said, and was not adept at accommodation or understanding. Even now I find it difficult to remain calm and reasonable when people clumsily attempt to impose on me.

My lawyer initially cautioned me against lifting the PFA before its expiration, explaining a second injunction would be much harder to approve. I told her I would never need her services for anything like this again. She regarded me silently and nodded before signing the papers. In her official notification letter to me, she wrote that she supported my decision and that she thought my father and I had a special relationship. She was right, we did. I’ve always been a Daddy’s girl, in the sense that I hero-worshipped him and followed him everywhere. We’re enough alike that we usually agree, but when we don’t, fireworks always ensue. He once tried to teach me to drive but lost patience with me so often I finally just left home for three days. When my mother phoned to attempt to broker peace between us, he took the phone and told me to get home or my shit was going to be in the driveway by morning. But these instances were rare. We usually saw eye-to-eye on everything, and I always knew how proud he was of me. He bragged to his friends about each new accomplishment or award, and in fact, the only reason I ever thought I was special was because I would often overhear him saying so. He has always been my biggest fan, probably due in no small part to how alike we are. That’s how I knew when the time had come to end our standoff.

I forwarded him the official notification and included a short note. I told him we both knew what we did wrong and I didn’t see any point in rehashing it. In the spirit of tradition, I took his non-answer as agreement. When I visited my parents’ house on Christmas for the first time in over ten months, he approached me tentatively before putting his arms around me and whispering, “Merry Christmas, honey.” I choked out a similar sentiment, hugged him back, and that was it. No one noticed, no one said anything, and no one’s referred to it since.

As shocking as it might sound, I’m not sure I regret any of it. I’m convinced I would not be able to relate to my parents as an adult today had I not hammered out that line in the sand back then. Their actions gave me an excuse to force them to respect my boundaries with the support of a restraining order and the big, bad arm of the law. Perhaps not an ideal method of establishing credible adulthood, but I’m not sure any kinder way would have worked as thoroughly. We are closer today partly because – and I’m guessing here – they don’t want to piss me off and suffer my

emotional guerilla tactics all over again. Or maybe that year was the wake-up call they needed and the credit for our now-healthy relationship is theirs. I don’t know, and since no one ever speaks of it, I probably never will. I think we all prefer it that way.