The Ricochet Diaries: Part 1

I decided to write a new series of posts… one that shows the real struggle of the healing process after an abusive relationship, because, trust me, it isn’t pretty.

These posts are called The Ricochet Diaries, because my healing process is defined as me ricocheting back into the person I want to be: strong, courageous, and successful. I wanted to write these healing posts for a long time — for about three months, to be exact — but I’ve been on a really important journey of self-healing and self-destruction during that time period, and I’m glad I waited until now to finally start putting words on a page. The trigger for these posts on healing? My grandmother. And let me begin with this disclaimer about her. I love my grandmother even if she’s labeled as a bitch by my father. I truly believe she’s just “bossy” and the notion of a female running the show bothers my dad, but, yes, she does have her flaws. For example, she called me like she usually does to ramble about the weather, stocks, and the declining price for corn — all things farmers care about (and things I most definitely do not give one shit about). But then she point-blank decided to say, “You should really figure out why you were attracted to someone like Christopher in the first place.”I remember my world going black. The way her voice said it sounded more like You should figure out what’s wrong with you that you were attracted to someone like that. I couldn’t hear, see, or feel anything around me except the thoughts racing through my mind, which were all a blur of angry and self-conscious emotions.I ignored my grandmother for a solid month after that. I didn’t even see her on Mother’s Day, which was a big deal for me. But she really triggered something in me, and that question started to consume my life. Everyday, and nearly every hour I had her whispering in my ear why were you attracted to someone like that? What’s wrong with you? And, at first, I had some answers. My mom came clean to me about the abuse my dad had been doling out to her for decades. And that was hard to hear. I spent my whole entire childhood hating my mother because my dad did nothing but criticize her in front of me. And don’t get me wrong here. I love my dad, but I’m really struggling with my relationship with him right now. I grew up as the stereotypical daddy’s girl. I would much rather be hooking worms onto my fishing pole hanging out with Dad than shopping with Mom any day. But, like most issues, this one isn’t black and white for me. He’s still my dad and he’s devoted countless years of his life to loving me and my brother. Still, hearing he had put a knife to my mom’s throat made me really afraid of him. I have become awkward and quiet in front of my father and tend to quietly observe how he acts. And it’s finally sinking in. I can finally see my dad with “adult eyes” (as I like to say), where the whiskey bottles in the couch cushions are no longer hidden or the self-pity and negative attitude toward life pours out of him like water.

I grew up as the stereotypical daddy’s girl. I would much rather be hooking worms onto my fishing pole hanging out with Dad than shopping with Mom any day.

But I didn’t start taking my mom’s side right away either. Her and I never had a good relationship. Like I said, mostly because my dad said she was a piece of shit and when you’re nine years old and the parent you idolize tells you that your mom is a lazy bitch, you tend to believe the parent you already favor. I believed him until literally six months ago. My poor mother.Right after my mom came clean about my dad, I witnessed my dad’s violent behavior first-hand. It was the weekend after Mother’s Day and my dad had been on an hour-long phone call with his brother. My uncle was obviously upset we had all missed out on the dinner they had planned, but my dad decided to put him on speaker phone so my mom and I could hear him complain to my uncle why we didn’t go. My dad brought brought up memories of when he was seven years old, getting locked out of the house and remembering his mom beating him with fly swatters and other plastic contraptions they had in the late 60s. I mean, I know things from your childhood stay with you, but, damn, Dad. That was nearly 50 years ago, and I’ve heard the same stories from him for a decade now. Isn’t there a point in life where he gets over that? Anyway, I had enough of listening to his one-sided conversation, so I hid in my bedroom. But right after my uncle decided to hang up on my dad, guess who had the liquid courage to call up Grandma? You guessed it: dear old Dad. And, yes, this conversation was on speaker phone too. Our house has terrible acoustics so I heard it all. It was quite shaking hearing my dad curse out my grandmother like that. I lost it. I started bawling. I knew she wasn’t perfect (see the first half of this blog post if you don’t remember), but did it really matter now? Everything he was complaining about seemed so inconsequential.Anyway, I was looking for any and every excuse to leave the house. I texted every friend I could and finally had plans to bar hop with my two cousins. I fixed my hair and makeup (because I needed the confidence boost) and was ready to leave when my mom texted me from downstairs. “Are you okay?” it read. No, mom, I wasn’t, but I didn’t respond. We were literally in the same house and it pissed me off that she couldn’t come upstairs and have an actual conversation with me about everything I had just witnessed. That was another reason I had a strained relationship with my mother; she doesn’t communicate well, and, unfortunately, that trait rubbed off on me (but I’m working on it, okay?). So when I didn’t reply, Mom came upstairs, not to see how I was doing but to let me know that she invited my brother’s best friend from high school over to play cards with the family. So. Random. What was she doing? Did she really think our household was in any condition to have company over? That’s when I told her I was leaving. She begged me to stay. But I tried explaining to her that I couldn’t possibly stay here when I had just heard my father drunkenly bitch out not one but two members of our family. Hearing what he called my grandmother just made me lose all respect for him then. My dad heard the commotion and came up the stairs. I said firmly that I was leaving and gave him no explanation as to why. His response was to pick me up by my shirt collar and tell me “like hell you’re going anywhere.” My feet came off the ground — that’s how hard he grabbed me.Never in my life had my dad touched me like that. My eyes were so wide it took everything I had not to break. I did what I could to stay strong, even if it meant being a bitch. “You’re just like your mother,” I sneered as I ran crying out the door. He was drunk, so he wouldn’t remember any of this anyway. I just hoped that he wouldn’t take anything out on my mom who made it clear she was more afraid to leave the house than to stay (for fear of what he’d think waking up alone once he was sober). I had about zero drops of gas in my car, but I kept driving and driving until I had nowhere else to go.I thought I had finally figured out an answer to my grandmother's question. Turns out, it’s way deeper than I ever could have imagined.