The High Road

Fuck that. I've been taking the high road all week, and it's downright dissatisfying. Ok, maybe it gives me a little feeling of smug righteous indignation, but my inner bitch is having a hard time not letting loose on someone.

On Saturday, my biological father died. He had a stroke 13 years ago, was convalesced to the point of not being awake for more than an hour a day (according to my stepmonster, who was in charge of him) and was 72. It wasn't a shock that he WOULD pass, but no matter how prepared you think you might be, it still creeps up on you. I got the call from my older brother, technically my half brother from our dad's first marriage, but as far as I am concerned, he is just my big brother. Our dad, Luis, died at home under his nurse's care. His current family was all in New York, where 2 of them live, on vacation. They had been called, and asked my brother to go to the house to wait with the body. My brother was upset, as he and our dad were pretty close, and as the news sunk in, I was unsettled. Having already lost 2 parent figures (my father in law and my aunt), I felt like I overall more experienced in this, and despite not having seen our dad in over a year, I asked my brother if he'd like me to come over to the house and sit with him while he waited. He said it would be fine, so I dropped everything I was doing and headed over. I was sad, but I had emotionally cut myself off from him a long time ago to avoid being continuously hurt by him, so it wasn't as traumatic for me. I was sad, of course, but was confused by all the emotions I was having...and the word of the week became "complicated".

After he was picked up, I headed over to my mom's house. I was now a far bigger mess than I thought I would be in this situation, and I wanted the comfort of my mommy. Having been the woman who he left for this new family, you'd think she'd be bitter, but the only thing she was angry about was that he died alone. The last few years, she'd been increasingly frustrated with the reports from me on his care, and loving soul that she is, even grappled with figuring out a way that she could help, knowing full well that would be impossible under the care of the witch. Even I wasn't allowed to visit, unless I made an appointment, and even then, only under her watchful eye, so there was no way my mother, the woman whose house she wrecked, would be welcome. Visiting that house was like going to Azkaban. My stepmonster is like a dementor in the disguise of an upper middle class housewife, sitting there, ready to suck your soul out of your face. When I'd leave the house, I'd need recovery time...but despite this, I went, and I didn't even question a moment to go there to support my brother. The rest of the week was a blur of phone calls, ups and downs, lots of crying, and rehearsals for the 2 shows I have next week.

On Tuesday night, I got the mass email from the little brother who usually doesn't talk to me, inviting me to the memorial service on Thursday...the day of my last tech/dress for a show I'm workshopping on Sunday, the day that was already set to be my busiest day of the week. I called the appropriate people and rearranged things so that I would not miss what I couldn't miss, and it was set...but I was worried. Would one of them say something to me? Would one of them try to make me feel guilty for not being there more, for "abandoning them" as soon as I was old enough to say ENOUGH to the abuse and stop pretending to be part of that family? If they did, how would I handle it? What should I say? The reality is that I've grieved the loss of that man since the day my little brother was born. The day I was celebrating my 7th birthday when he came to tell me my stepmonster had had my baby brother...but I was more interested in my new rabbit fur coat. Seems I had my priorities straight, because as I went with them to the hospital, and CARRIED HIM HOME in the car on the way home, we went upstairs to the apartment and my bed and dresser were gone, a crib was in it's place, and my room was blue, and I was told I'd be sleeping on the couch from now on. I was given a cardboard box of drawers in the closet to hold my clothes, and was supposed to be happy about the turn of events. From that day forward I had already lost my dad. The next 2 babies didn't help, and by the time my sister was born, I was 14 and done with them. I couldn't sever the umbilical chord, so many years of messy interactions followed, but the reality is that I eventually had to stop caring. I had to stop caring that their house was filled to the point of ridiculousness of pictures of all of them, and I was not included. Had to stop caring that my biodad thought himself to be the picture of the patriarch, but was NEVER there for me when I needed him. That he coached their little league teams and went to their events but didn't come see me in my plays. Then when he had his stroke, woke up, and the first person he asked for was my mom...and the second person was me...I went anyway. He would only speak in Spanish, and I spent time the first few years of his recovery occasionally taking him to physical therapy and other appointments, but it wasn't easy on my schedule...or on my soul, so I eventually stopped. He was alive, but I couldn't think of him as a father. I have a father. My mother met a wonderful man when I was 8, who was always there for me and loved me, and who bent over backwards when I was 15 and their first son was born to make sure I knew he still loved me just as much as he always had. When I was 20, I took his name and he adopted me as his legal daughter...and you'd think that I'd have washed my hands with biodad, but I didn't. I still made an effort, albeit a weak one, to go visit occasionally, but I knew it hadn't been thought of as enough, so I didn't know what I should do if someone were to start yelling.

Everyone told me I was crazy. No way would they do that, cause it's a MEMORIAL service. Everyone plays nice...maybe now would be a time where we could all come together and the 7 of us (3 from his first marriage, me, 3 from his 3rd) could be more like a family, without the divisiveness that he seemed to bring. I shouldn't worry. It would be fine. Then my phone rang on Wednesday night around 10 and it was the number of the one of my younger sibs who I actually had somewhat of a relationship with. The diatribe went something like this:

"What makes you think you have the right to come into our house and be here when we weren't here? How DARE you come into our sanctuary, the place we created for our father to take care of him the last 13 years, while you went and played house and acted like nothing was wrong? You've never even thanked me for taking care of him. You're a coward, you're the scum of the earth. Fuck you. You had better not show your face tomorrow, you are NOT welcome." Ok, so I was shocked, but my very first thought was "SEE!!! I knew this was going to happen." I stayed remarkably calm, wasn't angry at all. Later I likened it to having a crazy person screaming at you "you're an alien! You have green hair!!". If it makes no sense and it totally untrue, it's kind of hard to get offended. I calmly talked to him, saying "I can tell you're angry, but I only went to be there for Dave, I meant no disrespect", but the nasty venom continued to spew. Eventually he hung up on me and when he called back I didn't answer. The next hour or so I spent talking to my older sibs, and making sure I wasn't crazy. They all confirmed that of course I had the right to come Thursday...which truthfully, I would have preferred to avoid.

I had rehearsal all day Thursday, up until I had to leave to go to the memorial, and I stuffed all my emotions inside to get through rehearsal, but as soon as I was released, I burst out into tears. I was just so worried. Turns out, I didn't need to be. I avoided my younger sibs and my stepmother, and they ignored me in turn. I clutched Michael, used my kids as distractions, held the hands of my older siblings, and calmly listened while people spoke of this amazing, ideal father, and I mainly felt happy for my younger siblings that that was their experience. I cried, but not painfully so, and I only had to walk away from listening to the words once. I found appropriate things to say to the strangers who kept coming up and talking to me about how they knew me when I was a little girl, about how much they loved my dad, about how much he helped them and how he was so good to my stepmother and their kids. I spent the last of the time in solitary reverie, sitting in the spot where he had taught me to love the ocean, where I'd learned to surf, where I'd spent hours of my childhood with him, and feeling peaceful. I felt the love of my family, felt the love of my friends who posted on Facebook all day, not even knowing why, as it was all just too complicated to explain the myraid of emotions I was feeling all week, but who knew I needed support and who were so willing to send it to me...and I was proud of myself and the choices I've made, and the person I've become, in spite of what was done to me.

Then I came home and found that the same little brother who called and berated me had unfriended me on Facebook, but instead of feeling angry at him, I feel sorry for him. He has so much hate in his heart, and it is so misdirected. So I guess, as much as my inner bitch would feel so satisfied lashing out at him, I'm gonna stay on this here high road.