Before I get into any details I want to talk about my Dad. One of the most important influences in my life. Some of what you will read, will make you think horrible things about him. But you need to remember, the Dad I will show you, was not the only Dad I knew. And I knew so very little about him.
When I was 27 years old, my father died.
When I was 29 years old, I learned I had a brother. My father had a son. Before he met my mother. A son nobody knew about but him. To be honest anger was my first response. I assumed some people knew. I'm sure some did, but I am not angry now. I have learned that when you get older, you more easily understand how someone could have been thinking they were doing the right thing, when in hindsight there may have been better options. Or not. Now that I mention it, probably not. I wouldn't wish the worst of my childhood on anyone, so maybe he scored. Either way, my father was asked to not be involved, and for my entire life, for my parents entire time together, for the rest of his life, he never saw his son. When I look back at my life, and how it intertwined with his, I see now that I saw the end result of a very hard life, some poor decisions, unfortunate circumstances, and genetics. When people who knew my father in his 20's speak of him, they speak of a happy man who had friends and would do anything for them, or his family. It used to make me feel guilty, knowing that when my story was told, he would appear to be the villain. It made me wonder if I wanted to change how these people remember him, because I am so happy he is remembered that way.
You would assume I would be angry with him. But I had him long enough before the addiction to know who I was missing. I saw the two people he was, and knew there was a better man in there somewhere. The man that helped me with my spelling homework. The man who was so happy to be a father (again) that he read to me so much, I had taught myself to read by the age of 3. My memories are precious to me because they are fleeting. I have one, though, at the age of 3, sitting on his lap, with a book about crocodiles. I started reading with him, and he let me finish the book. That was the first time I read alone. I remember him working so hard, at any job he could, sometimes all night, just to keep food on the table for us. He loved us. That I do know.
But he didn't know how. And he didn't know how to handle his demons. That, I also know.
So, yes, the majority of my memories of my father are terrifying, or heartbreaking, or just sad. But some of them remind me of who he was when he wasn't consumed by his addiction. And that is the man I mourn for. That is the father I lost forever. So when you are reading, please remember, this was not an angry, violent, aggressive man we are talking of. This is the result of addiction. This is what addiction does. This is what alcohol does. This is how decent people get addicted to prescribed medication and slowly lose themselves to a disease that ruins them. The beginning of my story is just the beginning of the end of his.
Maybe it's the healing time, or forgiveness, or the fact that he is dead, we always forgive the dead, but I can say now I do think both of my parents did the best they could with the skill sets they had. Maybe it's delusion. Probably a mix.
Finding peace with something like this is complicated. In one sense, I cannot blame them. Not only am I an adult now who knows better, as I said, I do think they did their best. They were just unqualified for the job. But on the other hand, I do know that a large part of who I am, is because of them. I do know that I left home at 19 because it was the first chance I got. I do know the first time my boyfriend backhanded me, I was not shocked because it was not the first time I was backhanded by the man in my life. I do know that I allowed and justified what I did because of what I saw and experienced. And I know that if I had parents who were mentally present and involved, I would never have been allowed to carry on with him like I did. Not as unchecked as it was. A large part of becoming a victim of DV is isolation from support systems and family. It was so easy to separate me from the people I lived with, they didn't give a crap what I was up to. But that all sounds like blame. Which is what makes it so complicated. What I am saying, is that I don't blame my father for how things were, but that does not change the fact that how things were shaped me, and set me on the path I took.
So, when you are reading, keep in mind the enormity of what addiction had done. Remember this is not just a story about my trauma, but of how it came to be, the root causes, and how my story can spread awareness on so many levels. If you are a parent, remember while reading about my father that you are that person to someone. You are the role model that good or bad, they will remember and be shaped because of. Remember that he was not always this, and that this can happen to anyone. And remember to make sure your children always have support and a place to go when they need help.
Because my dad, Robert Owen Decker, before addiction ravaged him, would have never let any of this happen to his baby.