My sister Karrie was 19 when Chelsea was born. She'd given birth to her first child, a son, at 17. I don't remember if Chelsea was planned or not, but she was an absolutely beautiful child. I know everyone says that about children, but Chelsea really was. She's striking to this day. I've never seen so many men literally get tongue-tied, stutter and nearly trip over themselves as I do when they see Chel. It's like watching a real-life sitcom.
Chelsea's parents married just before her brother was born--only due to the ultimatum my father issued. Ironic though, because that's where, for my family, the ripple effect started: my father.
I was going to begin with 'let me explain' but I guess that is part of the problem. I can't explain...and that's why I'm looking for answers--for solutions--for help. So I guess I will just start at my beginning...
As long as I can remember I was afraid of my father. Partly due to the fact that he was the belt-wielding or bare hand spanking type. "Wait till your father gets home!" certainly inspired fear in me. But that wasn't really all that bad. I didn't get in trouble a lot; actually I was a pretty good kid. The real fear came from some unspoken, unknown place that felt dark and foreboding.
My father had some pretty great qualities. He could fix or build just about anything. He always wanted to be an inventor of something. Ironically, he was overseeing the installation of his first successful invention the day he died of a heart attack at 49 years old. He never graduated from high school but was the office manager of an architectural firm and was an un-degreed architectural engineer that had to have a real architect sign off on his work. He started as a janitor at this firm and worked his way up. He made good money for that time, but we were never above basic middle class. My father was the most successful by far of his siblings. His younger brother and sister were most successful at being chain-smoking alcoholics with a heavy sprinkling of bipolar and other assorted depressive disorders. I suppose, looking back, that we escaped the lives my cousins led was something in itself to be grateful for. Still, we had our own demons to deal with.
I admired the intelligence my father had. He wasn't a genius, but I believe he had above average intelligence. He just didn't know how to use it well. To me, that's no surprise. His father, who had exceptional intelligence, walked out on his wife and three children when they were all very young, and until the children were into adulthood, never looked back. His step-father was probably almost as much of a mystery to him as he was later in life to me. Grunts seemed to be his primary form of communication to the grandkids; grunts and occasional beatings seemed to be the language he used with his step-children. My father's mother was a beauty when she was young, but I suspect the beauty also masked the mental illness lurking in her brain. The end result though was that my father had no role models, no one to teach him how to be a father or a husband. And while certainly that doesn't excuse anything, it does explain a lot. I do however know he didn't agree with that line of thinking. I got up the nerve to discuss this with him after I'd moved out of the house and he seemed baffled that I would think that. I was baffled that he wouldn't.
...to be continued...
