"So you like little girls?” My tone was dripping with rage.

"What are you talking about Sparking?" My father asked coolly.

"You know what I'm talking about.  What is it like to only get it up for little girls?”  Before he could respond I continued, “Sherry told me you barely consummated your marriage with her!"  I screamed into the phone. 

Sherry was his now disenfranchised second wife. 

"That is none of your business!"  His voice was steeped in acridity.

"Oh, but it is my business you sick fuck.  You see, I remember now.  I remember what happened in the garden behind the first house.”

(Silence.)

“I was running around blowing bubbles and the next thing I know you have thrown me to the ground behind the rows of corn in our garden, heaved your gross, sweaty body on me, and we both know the rest.” 

I paused, waiting.  Nothing. 

“Did you think I would forget?”  I asked incredulously.

(Silence.)

“Then you kicked dirt on me!  Left me there half-naked after calling me a disgusting, smelly dog!” The exasperation was spilling from my mouth and the words came out before I had time to think about what I was saying.

"But you bet on me not remembering, or hell, maybe you thought I was just being quiet all these years.  Yeah mother-fucker, I've got your number.  Now you're going to have to deal with me."

I was locked comfortably away in the psych unit of a prestigious hospital after admitting myself the day before for fear I might do bodily harm to my father.  My name was not listed, I had asked for a private admit because I was afraid he might find me.  This small measure of security I mined for sake of gleaning any information I could from him.

This second call to my father was an attempt to eliminate the doubt which was creeping into the edges of my mind.  Hoping I could make him snap; if I could hear the rage I was now remembering through the phone, it might overshadow the lingering images I had of him doing normal, fatherly things.

My world was split into two views – one of my normal life, and one of the violent world now emerging from the shadows.

*****

Earlier that day, I went out to the morning meeting to have our "check in."  My fellow patients were affable enough.  There was a guy who had accidentally killed someone in a car accident and could not overcome his guilt making him perpetually suicidal; three patients who barely said hello (all men); a depressed, obese woman who was resigned to her wheelchair after years of abuse by adoptive parents; a male addict who had ended up in the ER due to a suicide attempt by overdose; another female addict (my roommate) who suffered a stroke due to her alcoholism and was now suicidal; an older woman who had to walk with a barf bag because her thyroid had given out making her very volatile; and a very angry looking young woman who just glared at us all. 

I felt completely out of my element but was very grateful to be there.

Toward the end of our check in, everyone's voices began sounding like they were underwater to me.  I slowly lost focus, and it felt like I passed out although I could still see blurry images.  I had this strange warmth coming over my body, like a tingling, yet I couldn't move again.  When the meeting was dismissed, the staff realized I was in trouble when I didn't move.

After being transported back to my bed, I laid there staring at the brick ledge which doubled as a window sill.  It was my birthday; I was now thirty-three years old.  The dark red bricks became a screen for viewing the first memory of my abuse.  I could see my father, in his standard outdoor work attire (no shirt, ratty jeans, and work boots), standing over me with an old wood-handled shovel.  Then, the scene became very violent and my whole body shook.  I was reliving the nightmare of being raped by my father as a three-year old.

*****

Bruce held my head as I cried.  He sent luminous volumes of pure, white, healing light throughout my body.  I let the sobs come and come and come some more.

"I don’t know whether I want to kill him or forgive him!"  My raised voice was muffled by my tears as I attempted to yell at the man who would become my guru in short order.  Four months after my psych trip, I found my body completely disabled and in need of his healing touch.

"Each is a thought that goes with this experience," was his placid reply.

I didn't know what to make of this.  Men certainly hadn't cared about my feelings before, not in this way.  The fact he had no judgment about what I was releasing was deeply encouraging.

*****

"Why don't we meet?"  He asked in a dead pan voice.

"What on Earth for?"  I was still screaming.

"I just got back from your therapist's office looking for you.  Let's get together and I'll try to get you some help," he replied with no connotation in his voice.

"Why would you be at my therapist's office at 9:30 in the evening?"  I was beginning to feel a lump gathering in my throat.

"Because I am concerned about you.  Tell me where you are and I'll come get you."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

(Silence.)

Suddenly, the tide was turning in our conversation.  The thought he was out looking for sent adrenaline shooting through me.  Why hadn't he called the police if he was worried?  Why would he be at my therapist's office?  In the evening?

Fear began making its giant spider web from my heart outward.  For a moment, I was frozen with terror, afraid he could somehow find me through my cellular phone.

Gathering my wits about me, I replied, "I'll tell you what.  Tell me one thing you did wrong when I was growing up and I'll meet you.  Just one thing."

"I already answered that when we met at the Landing."

"Really?  That was two years ago and no, you didn't admit to doing anything wrong.  You simply said you saw where I was coming from.  There is a big difference."

 "Well, I've already said what I had to say then."  Again, with the cool reply.

"Why haven't you called the police?  I threatened your life?  If you’re so worried about me, and think I'm on drugs, especially after threatening your life, why didn't you contact the police?"

"Because it will be on your conscience if you do it."  

"Interesting.  So, you didn't call the police yet you are out looking for me at my therapist's office?"  There was no reply.  "Again, if you want me to meet you, tell me one thing you did wrong while I was growing up and I'll meet you anywhere - you name the time and the place."

"Just tell me where you are and I'll come get you now."  This is all he could say.  He simply could not cop to doing anything wrong.  This is the first mark of a sociopath.

My mind raced.  How could this be, how could I have forgotten all of this?

I hung up.

*****

Staring at the gleaming white floor holding my phone, I tried to put this conversation into the context of what was unfolding in my memory.  

Who was this man?

My father and I had been incredibly close until two years prior.  Soon after my daughter was born, I began feeling strange.  At first, it was only with her; I was afraid I didn't know how to bond appropriately.  That didn't seem surprising having grown up in an alcoholic home with a mother in and out of treatment.  Yet, the feeling kept getting more severe; I often felt out-of-place which was strange for my confident nature.

Two years prior to having the conversation on the phone with someone I knew as my father just the morning before, I began feeling uncomfortable with my relationship with him. 

The counselor suggested I bring this up to him and ask why he had chosen another alcoholic to marry and why his best friend was a convicted pedophile, the two things which had hurt me most in this world?  There had been molestation I endured at a neighbor's house which everyone was aware of.  It was swept under the carpet because my mother was drunk when she left me there and he did nothing.  This was part of what I had tried to address with him at the Landing. 

His reply?  "I don't know why you are trying to play games with me, just like your mother.”  Then he got up and stormed out of my apartment screaming invectives at me.

In hindsight, I'm lucky that's all he did.

*****

Bruce began encouraging me to sit with my feelings – especially my rage. 

"You see, ninety-five percent of people are walking around this planet afraid to feel what they determine are 'bad' feelings."  He said this to me with a great deal of calm. 

He noticed my puzzled look.

"Basically, all the religions say the same thing, its people who have confused the message.  For example, take Jesus; he was the last to ascend from this plane.  He tried to teach the value of loving the whole human condition, not just the parts we like.”

I looked even more puzzled.

"Killing your father is a thought which goes along with this experience.  Anger, rage, grief, embarrassment, those are the feelings which go along with it.  Whatever you try to suppress, it will come out in your body.  You are in shock now because of all you have held onto to survive.  Basically, you have a backlog."

"I have a backlog?"   At this, we both burst out into a roar of laughter.  It felt so good; I hadn't laughed in weeks.  "You fucking think?"

"I do.  I fucking think.  More importantly, I feel, and I love myself through all of it.” 

I looked up at his pleasant grin; a guru who swore.  Was I in heaven?

*****

The phone call was the last time I ever spoke to my father.

This is the third installment of an ongoing series.  The pieces will be written to stand alone and offer more to the reader if the entire series is read.  *I write under an avatar and all names have been changed to protect the innocent.  This is a true story, the story of my life.  Any changes made to it are minimal, based solely on my inability to remember the exact details.

Copyright © 2010 by Sparking.  All rights reserved.

Part I can be found here.

Part II can be found here.

Part IV can be found here.