Demon 2: Divorce

  “So then, they are no longer two but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, let not man separate.” They said to Him, “Why then did Moses command to give a certificate of divorce, and to put her away?” 

—Matthew 19:6, NKJ 

 

Much of my outrage and rebellion in skipping kindergarten had to do with my parents’ divorce. Thankfully, I don’t remember much of it. If there were knock-out-drag-out fights, yelling, screaming, or cursing, I have no recollection. Mom and Dad divorced when I was two years old. Confusion is a symptom of the divorce. I am shuffled back and forth between Mom’s and Dad’s every other weekend; they split or work around holidays, so I can spend time with both sides of my families.  

The stress and anxiety that I feel plays a role in my subconscious. The outcome of the divorce creates mental blocks and barriers that kill my hope for the traditional American family in the early ‘80s. Because Mom and Dad divorced when I was young and are middle class citizens struggling to make ends meet, it gave me a sense of independence. Although raising an independent five-year-old can be deemed inappropriate, the innate ability to take care of myself flourishes and begs for attention throughout my adulthood.  

Mom worked the third shift most of my childhood as a nurses’ aid and couldn’t afford a babysitter. As a result, I entertained myself. Mom owned a little black-and-white television set. I’d crawl out of my pink bed tent in the morning, turn on the TV, and watch I Love Lucy (1951–1957), Leave It to Beaver (1957–1963), Mr. Ed the Talking Horse (1958–1966), Lassie (1958–1973), and Flipper (1964–1967) while eating ketchup sandwiches and jars of JIF peanut butter by the spoonful with much zeal and zest for life.  

I became very comfortable in taking care of myself, and I had no problem being alone with myself. In my alone time, my vivid imagination came to life. I harmlessly visualize my life opposite of my reality. As a product of divorced parents, I hope that Mom and Dad will get back together, and we’d live as one happy family. In this hypothetical situation, Mom works, Dad works, we eat supper together in our apartment at the end of the lane, and Mom has another child. This means I’d have a little brother or sister. 

In my imagination of this picture-perfect family scenario, it’s so real I can taste it, I can envision it, but I can’t feel it. I want it to be a genuine possibility in this God-awful-I-hate-my-life-as-I-know-it reality. To amuse myself or to bring a fraction of my imagination to life, I walk around with my favorite pair of jeans in my arms; pretending this pair of faded, tattered, stone washed jeans is my little brother or sister and it’s my job to take care of him or her. When I leave my pretend state of mind, I’m disappointed and disengaged with social interactions. 

The reasoning behind Mom and Dad’s divorce is not something out of the ordinary. But, for me, there is no excuse. Alcohol. My father, a mechanic, the epitome of a grease monkey, appears to be in control of his life. Behind closed doors, his life is complicated. Dad and Grandpy have a very distant father-son relationship; his sister has her own struggles; Uncle Larry, Dad’s youngest brother, deals with a plethora of medical issues and is considered a medical anomaly. There is no diagnosis for a chronic illness that plagues every joint, muscle, and hinge in his body. Yet, with a kidney transplant as a teenager, he has more gumption and motivation than a healthy twenty-something-years-old man. 

Dad. He is the eldest and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He is a man of very few words and works at the shop in his grubby clothes until the sun dies down. A workaholic, he is. And because of it, he cannot hold his liquor well. The temptation is much too strong to walk away. 

On the day I am born, April 30, 1983, Dad shows up to the delivery room drunk. He taps his foot to the heart rate monitor. He’s too skunked to witness me kick and scream my way into the world. As a young child, this means nothing to me. I just want Mom and Dad to work it out. There is always hope, right? During my senior year of college, I moved in with Dad, and after a few short months, I began to understand the dysfunction of an alcoholic. It’s an unhealthy lifestyle. I don’t say it out of judgement, rather from experience. 

Not everyone, but I’d say most of us who tap into our rebellious and carefree side can find ourselves in peculiar situations where we drink too much and are left with some kind of regret in the morning. My regret, in many of the drunken stupors I found myself in, is being escorted out of a club by bouncers speaking fluent Spanish. 

It’s nice to let loose to have and good time. But the next morning is awful. The vomiting. Dehydration. I guzzle water like a backed-up camel as I swallow two and three Excedrin Migraine tablets to alleviate a jackhammer drilling a hole in the back of my head, not enjoyable. Not to mention, the unexplained bills missing from my bank account due to the “I don’t care, it’s only money” attitude. 

There is nothing sexy in reliving this night after night after night. For an alcoholic, he can’t help it. It’s an addiction and nothing else matters. The wife. The child. At least nothing matters in that moment. Like a smoker feigning for a cigarette, an alcoholic wants his drink. The only thing that cures a hangover is the same thing that gives him a hangover.  

And, so, Dad searches for answers while drinking Budweiser, the King of Beers. Unfortunately, the King never gives a clear and precise answer. It’s always diluted with mischievous, inconceivable behavior like driving while under the influence. He thinks he is He-man. He, unfortunately, learns the hard way that there are consequences for his actions.  

Sure, Dad is disillusioned with his addiction. Mom may not struggle with drugs, alcohol or cigarettes; she does, however, have a strong personality to match. Somewhere between partying and becoming pregnant with yours truly, she finds Jesus. A person doesn’t become known as a holy roller unless they measure their life by their faith through Jesus and then compare someone else’s life only to make a judgement. My mother did this often. 

I can’t fault her for having a close relationship with God, but I can never understand how religion can consume someone so much that they feel they are better than someone else. And so here lies the oxymoron: My father, the alcoholic, and my mother, the holy roller. The divorce. If, God-willing, these two individuals are capable of meshing their separate lives together for the sake of me, imagine what this might look like. 

Mom and Dad sitting in the living room. Mom sitting in the rocking chair with the Bible open across her lap. She is feverishly praying and asking God for His mercy to sweep upon Dad’s soul to deliver him from his demons. Dad sitting adjacent in a lazy boy; swallowing bottle after bottle of the King of Beers. The TV is idle to the History Channel. And even that is fickle especially if the History of Jesus and His Disciples is the main event for the day, it doesn’t work. 

Unfortunately, by default, the person who is stuck in the middle of is me. The person who must make the biggest transition is me. My dreams of the picture-perfect family eating together and living together are shot. There is no hope in recovering or repairing two individual lives and meshing them into one. We all have our demons, demise, addictions, and anger; so, unless we want to change that for the better, we are never going to change. The all-knowing Brooklyn Gilmore, no matter how hard I try, fails to salvage Mom and Dad’s dysfunction. It’s not for the lack of tenacity.  

I own a Fisher Price red plastic rocking chair. Dad periodically swings by the apartment at the end of the lane to drop off the child support check. The moment Dad walks past the threshold of the apartment, I close the door, drag my chair in front of it, and sit demanding with all my might that he stay the night. But to no avail. My Dad, built of pure testosterone, picks me up, twirls me around, and says, “See ya later, kid,” and closes the door behind him. My poor little heart. I want my Daddy. Unfortunately for me, circumstances destroy any hopes that I have for this family unit to work. 

My mind cannot fathom that the best thing for all three of us, me especially, is that Mom and Dad divorce. Sometimes divorce is the only way to salvage a relationship. Forcing something to work can make the situation worse. Misery floats in the air like a dead skunk. When Mom is miserable, Dad is miserable; and when Mom and Dad are miserable, I feel all alone and unwanted, as though I’m a mistake.