Sometimes taking two steps backwards is necessary to take the first step forward.
My mind’s been preoccupied with thoughts of the past. Part of it, is due to my slowly re-emerging from another low, and the other is a combination of both Father’s Day and the one year anniversary of my father’s death right around the corner. As obviously seen with my last post, there is a lot of emotion that arises whenever I reopen the section of my mind labeled “do not touch.” And the only explanation I can really come up with is that I was and will always essentially be my mother’s daughter.
My father and mother never made it to the altar, from my understanding (and my mother’s mouth). I was the ultimate deal breaker. The moment I was forced out of the birth canal, and after an unintentional verbal bashing (my mother took one look at the mass head of hair I had and decided I was ugly, the nurse recoiled and said I’d grow up to be a beauty), my mother thought it best to part ways then and there. Of course, whether it was because of kindness or the fact that my father had some rights being the sperm donor and all, they shared custody. Meaning, my mother pretty much had me full-time where as my father had me on Fridays and the weekends, and sometimes the holidays (but these were always shared or given to me as an option). My statement earlier of being my mother’s daughter would not become apparent or quite as literal, until I got older, but even as I look back—especially now—the divide was drawn long before the ties had weathered out and fallen apart between they and I.
I was your typical 90’s kid in every way. Light-up sneakers and neon rain boots worn even when rain was nowhere near, Sailor Moon in the mornings before school as my mother helped me into my uniform (consisting of a white short-sleeved blouse with a rounded collar, a blue plaid jumper, and mandatory navy shorts—we wouldn’t want any traumatizing flashings now would we?) while simultaneously yelling upstairs to my brother who was still in bed. Jungle Fun or Chuckie Cheese’s on Fridays with the cousins, accompanying dad on Saturdays to the Swap Meet to set up tent, Church on Sundays, and birthday parties, skinned knees, Pokémon cards, where babies come from, first puppy, and childhood crushes; everything you could possible imagine or remember in between. My mother and father always did their best; worked hard to make sure I was fed and dressed, with a roof over my head, and everything I could possibly dream of. But like any other parent, they were also human, prone to mistakes that would not only affect them, but the children within their midst. They tried, but there are only so many times you can put a Band-Aid on the pain before it no longer becomes effective.
Even as tots, my paternal relatives were quick to pick favorites. And when it was apparent that I was not included, it stirred a bitterness inside of me that I couldn’t quite comprehend at such a young age, but acted upon almost instantly in moments of anger or irritation. For instance, there is one memory I have of my cousin and I where we are jumping off our grandmother’s patio wall against her orders, and while my cousin is getting ready to jump off, he says something that sets me off and I end up pushing him over the ledge. Thankfully, he was not seriously injured, he managed with bruised knees because of the grass, however, I was not so lucky, and as punishment was shut in the second living room (yes, lock and key) of the house, yelled at by my aunt when she arrived to pick up her son, and only let out when my father picked me up to take me to my mother’s. My father never said anything, neither berated nor consulted me, just drove me home then went to his. This was a theme of my father’s that would continue until his death, a treasonous silence that would also break our bonds as parent and child.
Things only worsened as I got older, so much to the point where I began to loathe whenever I was brought to my grandmother’s to celebrate a holiday or birthday, or even just to spend a few hours so my father could finish up his work day. The favoritism also became even more unbearable as my aunt gave birth to a second son, which oddly enough, I have never felt ill feelings towards. Perhaps because I was the one who ended up raising him for a majority of his childhood, his mother too busy with business trips or parties with friends, where the wine was endless and her family oblivious. But also, because I saw that he too was engulfed by the shadow of his older brother and acting out, was his only outlet.
By the time I had moved in with my grandmother for my sophomore year of high school, life had roughened me up somewhat. My mother had remarried a violent man who had managed to turn our lives upside down, forcing my brother and I to move out, and cornering my mother so that she could no longer spend time with her friends or family, or even her children. The church we all attended was no help either, urging my mother to stay in her marriage because it was sinful to divorce and slowly turning their backs towards us as we were deemed unfit believers. But somehow we still managed. I moved in with my father as my brother moved in with our maternal grandmother, and he and I learned how to survive on our own. But whereas my brother did well for himself, jumping back from financial woes and eventually joining the Air Force where he graduated with highest honors and was able to experience the world outside Hawaii, I withdrew into myself. My grades plummeted drastically, my social life died, and I was burdened by an overwhelming sadness that I couldn’t shake off. By the time I tried to kill myself and retrace my footsteps, it was too late. So the only option I was left with was to move in with my grandmother so I could attend Kalani High School as a sophomore and try to right the wrongs that had occurred. But even as my mother drove me to my paternal grandmother’s house, I remember telling her that something would happen that would really change things forever. Somehow, I already knew, it wasn’t going to work out as planned.
Living at my paternal grandmother’s house was awkward to say the least, mainly because my other brother’s (from my father’s side) boyfriend also lived at the house. And with my cousins also at the house on a daily basis, it was very loud and very crowded with no respect for personal space. This, factored in with the fact that school was an everyday humiliation and my depression didn’t seem to be letting down any time soon, made for disastrous results. Somehow, I started getting paranoid that my ex-step dad would show up and cause me harm (this was mainly due to the fact that he lived so close to my paternal grandmother’s), and my grandmother ended up blabbing to a school teacher that I had been abused, my cousin (the oldest one) constantly asking whether I was abused or not and basically butting into a situation that did not involve him. Everything literally became asphyxiating to me, and while battling with my paternal family and trying to keep myself from going under, I just up and left. I stayed at my father’s instead of going back as I usually did for school (the arrangement was that my paternal brother and I would switch places, he would stay at our father’s on the weekdays while I stayed at our grandmother’s for school and would switch on the weekends), and during this time I was hounded by calls, emails, and messages from my cousin who would ask where I was, why I wasn’t answering, all of this petty nonsense that I didn’t even bother responding to, because I didn’t feel it was necessary and neither did I want to stoop to his level of stupidity and mock sincerity. Not to mention that one email that I still have in my old laptop where he basically blasphemed my father and mother, called me a selfish twat, and basically wrote that the reason why he was suffering was because of me. Did no one understand the concept that I was going through depression and that doing the things that they did was causing me to go above and beyond the norm to want to cause harm in a much more permanent way? In any case, it was decided that I would move back to my father’s, and attend school from there.
The night I moved out, I asked my father to be at my grandmother’s so that should I run into them, there wouldn’t be an argument. But I wanted solely my mother to help me. As I walked into my room for the first time in weeks, I was shocked to see that my room had been turned into storage, my things literally thrown around the room and some of my things even damaged. It basically looked like someone ransacked my room. After the initial shock, I packed up my things, but not before realizing my cousin had done permanent damage to my personal library, writing materials, and other things that were placed on my desk. I was seething by the time I’d finished packing, and my mother and I drove to our childhood home in Aiea to try and calm me down. I never saw my paternal family again, until that is, my father was in serious condition from an allergic reaction to medication that left him burned from the inside out.
It initially started with my paternal brother calling me about my father’s condition, one I hadn’t known of until he’d called. I had noticed that he’d been coming home a lot earlier than usual and even asked if he was all right, but he’d waved me away and said he’d gone to the doctor and was fine. About a month into it, the effects started becoming more serious. My father was swelling all over, he was bleeding and puss just oozed out of his pores, and his skin was falling off. His condition was similar to the first time he’d had a stroke in which he’d also had an allergic reaction, and I realized that something wasn’t right. Eventually my brother and I had to coax my father into going to the hospital but my father and brother were at odds and so I had to mediate. We were able to bring him to the ER where they had to transport him to Straub Clinic and Hospital because Queens did not have a burn unit. And so after having him transported and situated, we all went home.
I stayed with my mother during this time because I couldn’t stay at the apartment my father and I shared alone. And I visited my father every day for about an hour or two, only missing on day since I was both physically and mentally drained. During this time, I knew it was inevitable that I’d run into family members, especially because of how serious the situation was. But it doesn’t mean I was any less perturbed, especially because I knew I had to be smarter this time around, since the last time I’d seen them I’d practically run with my tail between my legs.
The first of the family members I’d run into was my uncle (my cousins’ father) and my paternal grandmother, both of whom initially did not recognize me until I’d waved and familiarity brightened their light bulbs. You could see my grandmother’s face turn sour, but still kept a cracked smile on her face so as not to seem rude. I let them visit my father first and my uncle and I talked a bit during my grandmother’s visit, they offered me a ride as they were leaving which I politely declined as I wanted to spend some more time with my father. My uncle teased that I was having a hot date pick me up and didn’t want them to see. After they left, I sat with my father who was in and out of consciousness at the time. Speaking from time to with the nurse Terry, who was a really kind and humorous man to which my father was lucky to have looking over him. The next was my aunt (my father’s sister, not the cousins’ mother) who greeted me seemingly happily and asked me questions and even bragged to our other relatives who managed to visit my father when he’d been taken to the ICU. The last but not least, was my other aunt (this, the cousins’ mother) who I couldn’t ignore even if I wanted to, insincerity dripping from her like a foul perfume. She prompted a hug then resumed ignoring me for the rest of the time while talking about my oldest cousin and all of his achievements. One which involved his trip to Korea which was unexpected and a complete surprise since he has no relations there (probably because while he was using his five finger discount, he managed to run off with my Korean folk and fairy tales book that is no longer in print). Nevertheless, after my father died, the foundation holding us all crumbled. The funeral was poorly put together, the guests there for the free food rather than in remembrance of my father, one man who apparently had been a business partner of my father’s even had the nerve to stare at my breasts. Everyone left before they buried my father, apparently we weren’t allowed to watch, but I had my mother stay with me as they poured the first of the dirt back into the mound atop my father’s coffin, then left with her, not bothering with the reception or anything else that day.
After everything that’s been said and done, I do not blame them. Even if there was blame to be placed, it would fall upon my father’s shoulders rather than that of his family, because there are no winners in this losing game. But that doesn’t mean I have forgiven or forgotten, nor will I do so any time soon. These are the scars of my childhood, events that have shaped who I am as a person today and will continue shaping me while I make decisions in the near future. I don’t know whether or not I will ever be able to make amends with my father’s family, I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again, though Hawaii is small enough, I’m sure this will happen eventually. Regardless, I’m going to do what I have to do, and by the end of it, I want to be able to look back and say, that despite everything that’s happened to me, I don’t regret a single thing. That I did what I could, made the best out of the worst, and that flowers do grow from piles of shit.
