Mount Vesuvius

I was 14.

My brother was 10.

We went to church that morning, and right after, my mom dropped me off at the mall for work.

I can’t imagine the gymnastics my mom had to perform when she got home to hide the new information from my little brother.

I always thought she was weak for staying with my dad. Our lives were utter chaos most days because of him.

If there was peace, it was short lived.

When I got home from work, one of the elders was at our house, waiting.

Was I in trouble for skipping school again, and now the church was involved? (14 year olds are notoriously self-absorbed)

My mom and the elder sat down at our kitchen table.

My brother sat on the yellow metal bar stool. I stood at the counter near him.

The air was thick with tension.

And the house reeked of body odor…and was that alcohol? It smelled like a homeless person had been there. I stealthily sniffed my brother.

He was 10, after all.

“Your father has passed away,” the elder said.

The room spun.

“You’re lying!” I yelled.

My brother ran out the front door. He would be gone for hours, while I stayed at home, yelling at my mom and the elder for lying to me.

My father had come to the house while we were gone, to change clothes. He hadn’t lived at the house since early August, when I had moved back home.

DFACS had told my mom that either he had to go, or I did. So I lived between my grandmom and aunt for 7 months. I saw my mom and brother at church, and that was it.

My father had used while he was at the house, and walked down the street to catch the bus. He made it 8 houses, and collapsed in the front yard of my brother’s best friend.

36 years ago, my father died. I was sad on that day. I was empty the next few months, thinking he would reappear at any moment. It was just a dream, had to be. My father had survived combat in Korea. Watched his platoon mate get his head blown off. Saw his mother murdered in front of him. It was ridiculous to think he wasn’t alive.

I made up stories in high school that he was working for the government and they had faked his death. I imagined that when I was 18, or 21, he would reappear. Part of me was excited, part of me was scared that he would take his revenge out on me for telling.

18…19…20…21…25…30…the birth of my kids…

He never came back.

Abuse and trauma make you disassociate. They make you create stories to compartmentalize things.

I’m really good at putting things in a box, and labeling it something else.

That’s not a bomb in the box. That’s a birthday cake. Just don’t open it and everything will be fine.

When I wrote my book, it was mentioned that I wrote it from a POV with very little emotion. I had to. If I allow those emotions to surface, they’ll explode like Vesuvius.

I’ve been in therapy since I was 14.

I still don’t talk about my father.

Maybe if I did, I could quit therapy once and for all.

Or maybe if I did, it would be Pompeii all over again.

Hey dad…

It is what it is.