I struggle with recognizing that my father is genuinely confused as to why he is no longer a part of my life. He believes that I just can't accept that he loves me; that I am bitter; that I am hateful; that he is the victim--a target of my misdirected anger.
His perception, regarding the events of April 2010, is that I was on drugs; starving myself; plotting the death of hundreds of people (including myself for the grand finale); casting satanic rituals (as I prayed to God and talked to angels); suffering from paranoid hallucinations (brought on by events from nearly twenty years ago); wrongly accusing my ex-boyfriend of harassment (a stellar young man that I was emotionally tormenting by refusing to remain in a relationship with) and raising vicious animals that I intended to turn loose upon unsuspecting, innocent victims as I unleashed the furies of Hell upon those that "have done me wrong in life"--apparently I even wrote a letter stating that I was going to kill all of these people and had already physically harmed some of them, as well. I was in dire need of intervention; he was the man to do it. It's not funny. That is the essential summary of the 302 report he filled out in an attempt to have me committed--this is what the police officers that came to take me away were told.
More so, this is what my father genuinely believes happened. He believes that he stepped in and saved my life; that I had placed myself on a meth-strewn path of destruction and that he swooped in saving the day. It doesn't matter that no drugs were found on my person or in my system, that my BMI was in the normal range, that blood tests also indicated that I was not starving myself, that there never was a letter, that I hadn't made threats of harm against myself or anyone else, or that I was granted a three-year PFA (Protection From Abuse) against the ex-boyfriend that very same day (or that my father was there to support him). It doesn't even matter that while the police delivered me to the hospital, the hospital released me that very same day. It doesn't matter that I was subjected to blood tests, urine tests, my personal items were searched (uncovering a handkerchief, a wooden paddle, three cigarette butts, and a tampon) or that I passed all of the sanity tests given. No, none of these things prove my innocence. Why? Because my father is never wrong.
To this day, he believes that he saved my life and hundreds, if not thousands of other lives, by taking the steps that he did. I was just "so far gone" in my life of debauchery and evil that I don't remember any of it properly. I believe him, in that, this is his reality of the events. He is an unsung hero. Instead of being grateful and thanking him, I have cruelly cast him out of my life. I know this because I have since attempted to talk to him, I have attempted to make amends, but until I admit that the above reality--his reality--is the truth of the situation, I am just being hateful and bitter.
Oddly enough, when my brother brought his fiancée-to-be home to meet the family in September of 2012, a pattern was beginning to emerge.
My father, at that time, had targeted one of his closest friends (and a prominent member of the community) as being about to go on a homicidal/suicidal rampage. My brother bought this story, as well and tried to relay it to me. According to our father, his friend was going to kill his family and then himself--he was now isolating himself from my father and refusing to talk to him--further signs of the danger and horror soon to happen. When I suggested that maybe the fellow didn't appreciate our father's "intervention" and maybe THAT was the reason for avoiding him (much as I had attempted to do when I was being accused of being on drugs--when I knew full well that I didn't even smoke pot)--I received a lecture about how he (through the military) and my father (by being a law enforcer) received intensive trainings regarding the "warning signs" and our father's friend had them all. It was a heated debate for quite some time and ended with my brother stating that many people watch so much television that they begin to think that is how real life should be/is and they may create a reality surrounding them to match what they see on TV. He was willing to accept that MAYBE our father had developed a hero complex of sorts and watched too much television--but our father's friend was still potentially a loose cannon. As far as I know, he, his wife, and children are still alive and well.
When my brother came home in May, of this year, he discovered a bunch of mock video cameras that my father and his wife were planning to install around the perimeters of their house. An eleven p.m. curfew was in place and if my brother did not arrive back to their home before the curfew, he was locked out and could sleep in his vehicle or go elsewhere. The reason? Their drug-crazed neighbors, with their aggressive Pit Bulls and homicidal teenagers. Apparently, my stepmother tried to call and complain about some of the neighborhood Pit Bulls that had chains almost long enough for them to reach the road and potentially attack people. When nothing was done, she and my father assembled some type of cage around their porch so that they can still sit out there safely while being protected from the neighborhood Pit Bulls. Of course, the cage wouldn't protect them from their drug-crazed neighbors and their hoodlum teenagers that will be the next perpetrators of either a school shooting or some mass killing--hence the cameras and curfews.
April 2010--me.
September 2012--one of my father's closest (and only) friends.
2013--their neighbors.
A pattern? I think even my brother is beginning to see it.
And this is where I begin to have issues. As I see it, my father has some delusional, mental health issues. He retired from law enforcement in April of 2012--something he lived, breathed, and extensively devoted his life to for thirty odd years. I won't argue with my brother that they (my father and his wife--whom is an avid "watch-the world-hidden-behind-the-curtain" type and a story for another day) watch too much television and are convinced that their reality should be so dramatic and colorful. The people in their lives could in no way just be normal people attempting to live their lives but are instead crazed, depraved, bloodthirsty killers, who are plagued by insanity and prey on family and neighbors alike (perhaps after consuming water shipped in from Ogden Marsh).
This is their reality. For my father, I see it as a combination between law enforcer mentality ("all people are criminals, most just haven't been caught yet"), a now unfulfilled hero complex (he is no longer protecting the world from evil on a daily basis) and sheer boredom (extreme workaholic to retiree--I never thought I would see the day). His wife? Hells, I remember the early days when my brother still lived at home and wasn't allowed to talk to me because I had programmed him to destroy her. One time, it was due to him leaving a soda can on the coffee table--but he did this because of some telepathic hold that I had over him, commanding him to place the soda can there--all part of my evil plot to ruin her life and thanks to my evil, super powers. That was in the late 1990's. For years, my father would get on me about these plots and how I needed to accept her and their marriage. Yeah, okay... But again, another day.
I remember when House of Pain's "Jump Around" was released in 1992 and my father insisted that it had subliminal messages that told people to go out and kill each other. At the time, I thought it was his overly dramatic way of mentioning that he didn't care for the song, found it annoying and wanted me to change the channel. Looking back, it is possible that he really believed people killed each other because of the song. All it took was adding his wife's flavor of crazy to his--BOOM!!! Fear of everyone and everything.
I don't want to get into a debate over the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman incident--but do I see my father being a George Zimmerman? Does he have a full arsenal at his disposal? You better believe it. Does he believe that everyone is a criminal, ready to go on a killing spree and he needs to be the hero? You better believe it. Would he shoot one of his homicidal neighbors if he caught them on his property? You better believe it. The tragedy? That he didn't purchase authentic video cameras to capture any such events so that they can be used as court evidence. He's the ticking time-bomb; not the world around him.
I love my father. I even still love his wife, despite all of the asinine insinuations and direct accusations against me over the years. It is easier to forgive someone when recognizing that they are mentally ill and that they aren't simply trying to ruin your life with slander, but that they are living in a reality that doesn't permit them to see the world in the same way that others do. But does this permit them a ticket back into my life? I think not.
I spent forty years attempting to gain my father's approval. Bachelor's Degree, nothing. Graduate School, nothing. Third in command at my agency, an awesome salary, my own home, independence, self-sufficiency? Clearly, a meth addict and preparing for a murderous rampage.
No, I can accept his reality. I can accept that he believes every word of his version as truth. I can accept that he cannot see how his version changes multiple times because the world's reality didn't jive with his portrayal of the situation. I can accept all of that. I can forgive him. I told him as much the day that he came to my house accusing me of being on meth.
Shall I spend the next forty years of my life attempting to gain his love and approval? Shall I spend it trying to show him that I am not the demon he has always seen me to be? Shall I risk again arousing his "protect and save" efforts through police, handcuffs, and threats that if I don't abide him that I will be sorry? As I told him then, "Until you SEE me, until you HEAR me, you cannot be a part of my life." I tried. I have tried forwards, backwards, sideways and doubled-over for the majority of my life. I have tried. Over. And over. And over.
I struggle with recognizing that my father is genuinely confused as to why he is no longer a part of my life. I understand that he believes that I simply cannot accept that he loves me; that I am bitter; that I am hateful; that he is the victim--a target of my misdirected anger. But I also accept that he sees the world through very different eyes than mine. I accept that having him in my life is toxic, on all levels. I accept that while forgiving him, allowing him back into my life opens the door to mental and emotional abuse that I am no longer willing to tolerate; all with hopes that, some day, his love may come with it.
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