We Get To Go To Paris

Content Warning: Mention of drug abuse and domestic violence.

I grew up in a home where Jesus and love were weaponized, doors were slammed, and my deepest insecurities were thrown in my face constantly. Alcoholism and drug addiction stole my mother from me over ten years ago, but I never expected the transfer of abuse when I got old enough to escape.

When I was five years old, my mom would lock me in the closets for twelve hour increments without light, water, food, or any sense of comfort. By the time I was eight, my mom would put her hands on me, until I overcame her in strength when I was eleven. I’d leave my dad voicemails saying that I thought she’d kill me, and he’d rush home from work to me barricading my bedroom with my furniture. Once I could get her off of me, the abuse became psychological. When asked to describe it, usually I leave it up to one’s imagination. Any cruel phrase, insecurity, combination of profanities, or remark you could think of, my mother most likely used against me while defending it in the name of the lord. I was degraded in every facet and didn’t know how to accept love until I got away. I consider myself relatively well-adjusted after my primary parent abused me for the majority of my childhood, and after years of therapy and cps cases, I’ve learned that it isn’t my fault and I can create emotionally healthy relationships without the remains of my childhood polluting them.

On December 21st, I got the call that my father, who lived in practically a vegetative state for a year, was found unresponsive on the floor of my childhood home. I was a thousand miles away and my mother was calm as can be on the phone. I was overcome with emotion that my biggest fear had come true. I’d fought to have power of attorney for my dad for years because I didn’t trust her, and I was filled with guilt knowing that I could’ve saved him. He couldn’t walk, talk, or remember anything for months and part of me was relieved that he wouldn’t be in pain anymore.

After twelve hours in the ICU, a week hospitalized, and two weeks in a facility, I was called into a meeting and able to see my dad for the first time. He could talk and was in a wheelchair, and I expected it to be the typical improvement before a massive decline, although I didn’t know what else he could lose. My dad was practically dead for a year, it was only a matter of time.

Imagine my surprise when I was told that his medication had been mismanaged, and he had been left on the floor for three whole days before emergency services were called.

Imagine my surprise, again, when my dad told me that he didn’t fall, but my mother threw a clock at his head and left him there.

Furthermore, imagine my horror when my dad revealed that my mom bought an urn and would point to it and say that she’d put him in it soon enough.

Every time I’ve walked downstairs for the last week, I’ve been overcome with emotion seeing my dad thrive. After emergency intervention, my dad regained his strength and ability that he’s lost from the last four years of medical, financial, emotional, and physical abuse at the hands of my mother.

I’ve spent four years in grief, and one week living the best miracle I never would’ve expected. I get to reintroduce myself to my dad, and get to know him all over again. His intellect came back, and he fluently speaks several languages. His singing voice came back, and he was able to sing me to sleep like he did for the first decade of my life. His ability to play the guitar came back, and my soul felt calm for the first time in four years. I get to ask him how he is, and he can tell me that he only has a tremor in his leg. I’ve spent the last week catching him up on the few years he’s missed, and it’s as if nothing ever happened.

This is the greatest gift I could ever ask for. Someone gets to walk me down the aisle, we can get more matching tattoos, play guitar together, and I get upwards of two more decades with my best friend. All I’ve ever wanted is right in front of me, and I can’t give any energy to the person who almost took it all away from me due to a combination of mental illness, greed, and selfishness. My dad gets to see me grow up. I can call him and hear his advice. I’ve spent four years mourning that, and it doesn’t feel real that I can walk downstairs and have it. We can go on drives, at this rate he could do a backflip by next week. My heart is overflowing with joy.

Everyone close to me has noted the light in my eyes, the radiance in my skin, and the tense and irate disposition fleeing with his illness. Words fail at a time like this. I’m grateful. I can’t fixate on my anger towards my mother when my most outrageous dream came true in front of me. We always wanted to go to Paris, the city of love, because he’d always love me the most. I saved up the money when I was sixteen, and his memory failed him when I asked him to go with me. It broke my heart, and I never felt like I’d recover from losing my dad in that substantial of a capacity.

His first words to me when I saw him were, “We get to go to Paris. Just us two.”

The cycle of violence ends with the gentle touch of my dad’s hand. Although she is half of me, I have no connection to her whatsoever until I look in the mirror. I see her staring back at me, but I see my dad’s curly hair and smile and am flooded with the innate piece of wisdom he instilled: “Some people are only in your life to teach you how not to be.”

We get to go to Paris, and somehow nothing else matters.

To my dad, you are the strongest man I have ever had the honor to meet. Losing you destroyed me, and regaining you hasn’t only allowed me to get to know you, but to get to know myself as well. Every ounce of my personality that is worthy of acclaim can be accredited to you. I truly didn’t realize how much of myself died with you. You are the other half of my soul, everything I do is for you.

Domestic violence resources are available below.

https://www.thehotline.org