Post 100 - His Identity

I've been reflecting lately on the way I deal with my step-dad in my mind and my memories. As I mentioned before, for the most part, he isn't really all that present, which I realize seems illogical. 

I don't even know what to call him. I grew up calling him "Dad" because I thought that was who he was. But he doesn't deserve that title. When talking to Aaron, I usually just use pronouns, and he generally knows who I'm talking about from the context. In my blog, I refer to him as my step-dad. Today, I referred to him as my "a**hole dad" to someone who I've never really talked to about him much. In reality, he was my adoptive father. His name is Tim. He's a prisoner and a sex offender.

But, once upon a time, he was a child. He was James and Mary Moore's little boy. He was the brother to 6 boys and 3 girls. In theory, he was as innocent as any other young boy. I don't know all that much about his upbringing. I know they were poor. With 10 kids, it's no wonder! I know the boys all shared a bedroom. But I don't know when things changed. As an adult, he didn't seem to have a close relationship with his siblings. There seemed to be some kind of tension between him and them that I didn't understand. It seemed like something had happened a long time ago to cause a rift, but I was never sure what that was.

It's just so difficult for me to think of him as anything besides pure evil. I'm sure there are happy anecdotes from my childhood in which he is involved. But I don't want any part of them. My mind is closed off to it. I feel like any warm feelings towards him would make be vulnerable to him. And I feel like I can't afford to be weak where he is concerned. If I had shown any kindness to him in the past, he would have taken it as an invitation, a seduction. 

A flawless performance...this time.

It was a strange dance I had to perform. I had to be the obedient loving daughter, while at the same time, protecting myself the best I knew how.  Like a prima ballerina, each step was calculated and needed to be flawless; the stakes were high. He would sometimes ask me, "Do you hate me?" My practiced response was always the same: "No, but I hate what you do." Whenever this conversation happened it was after the abuse, after his lust was sated. I knew I could get away with at least that much. The ballerina would get a standing ovation for her performance...this time. However, if I told him I hated him, it would have certainly come up later. If he was drunk, he would either cry pitifully or be very angry, clenching his teeth together while ranting incoherently.

And I've gotten off my main point. I have a hard time even writing about him directly like this, because it is that difficult to let my mind really explore the topic. It leaves me feeling vulnerable and angsty. I need to cry. I can feel it just below the surface, the tears threatening/needing to spill with the right provocation. My husband has a thick scar on his chest, from a surgery he had as a little boy. When I touch it, he says it is numb, but he can feel the pressure of it being touched underneath. He can feel my fingers on the skin around it. As far as my step-dad is concerned, he is a scar that is still numb. I fear I'm going to need to cut it open to allow it to heal properly.

I don't usually do well when I'm writing about something I haven't really processed. It tends to be all over the place and not have any real answers. So I guess I'm for now. I'll leave you with a song that's been on my mind a lot lately. One of those great "singing through tears" songs, filled with raw emotion.

"It took so long just to feel alright, Remember how to put back the light in my eyes...and who do you think you are, running 'round leaving scars, collecting your jar of hearts, and tearing love apart?"

Rachel

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