An Explanation

Nov. 29, 2006

I can remember the last time I saw my Dad. I remember looking at him; a small, broken man, sitting patiently in a borrowed suit that was, clearly, too big for him. His hair was short, shoulder length instead of his normal middle of the back look, and his eyes seemed glazed over. Had this meeting been under any other circumstances, I would have assumed him to be high; his eyes were unable to focus, and seemed to look through everything and everyone.
Although the courtroom was full, I felt as if it were just the two of us, sitting on opposite ends of a never-ending room, facing one another, but both of us too afraid or ashamed to look directly at each other. The conviction had already been made; he was found guilty of all counts, now we found ourselves sitting, waiting, anticipating the sentence.
As the judge began to speak, I felt a hand reach for mine, and I remembered that I was not alone. I glanced around the courtroom, looking for familiar faces, friends or relatives. Everything seemed to blur as my eyes darted around. The hand in mine must have felt the confusion, and squeezed, as if to remind me that it would all be over soon. Hmm…it would all be over soon. The judge continued speaking. His voice was stern as he addressed the court.

“I have been judging criminal cases for many years, and unfortunately I have come across many child molestation cases. However, this particular case has affected me on a personal level. Sir, it is my every intention to make sure that you never breathe free air again. This is why I have decided to implement the maximum sentence for each count of which you have been convicted. Children are a gift, sir, and instead of cherishing the gifts you were given, you destroyed them.”

The words echoed in my mind; what did it mean? “You destroyed them.” Destroyed them. Destroyed.
The judge continued to speak, this time more pointedly, naming the sentence for each count. My legs began to tremble, and I felt the weight of my body disappear. My eyes, still darting around the room, began to fill with tears as I realized that everything was supposed to be over. Why did it still feel unsettling? Why couldn’t I be relieved, excited, angry… anything but confused. And, what would happen now? I stared across at my father, trying to understand the monster he had become. Trying, endlessly, to see him, not as my Dad, but as the label he was given: a convicted sex offender. A man who would be spending the rest of his life in a State Prison. It was over. This was his funeral, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about that.

MY TURN
After what seemed like hours, I realized that it was now my turn. The folks in the legal field call what I was to do a victim’s impact statement. It is supposed to allow the victim to feel empowered by having the final word; by being able to let the offender know just how much the crime affected them.
I had serious problems with this. When I tried to write out how the crime had affected me, I couldn’t help but find it hysterically ridiculous. How the crime had affected me? Maybe I could break more ground by naming how it hadn’t. It was just always there. A scar. An ugly, grotesque symbol of something that would never fully heal. I realized quickly that the crimes committed had an effect on every single part of my life, but it was surviving the crimes that really made me who I was. And, for some reason, this conclusion pissed me off. I am the product of survival: any great quality that I possess, any terrible fault that I can call my own, each one of my virtues, my secrets, all are a product of my surviving years of abuse. I am the creation of a monster. As I began to speak, I felt my voice tremble. Recollecting myself, I started over.
“Dad. There are so many things that I want to say to you. I cannot continue this without telling you first that I still love you - I don’t know why but-,”
“I love you too, baby girl, “ he interrupted.
He interrupted me? What the hell was going on? He continued to speak, and I stood there, in sheer astonishment. What a bold move! Here he was, decreed to multiple life sentences for crimes that can’t bear repeating, and he has the audacity to interrupt me!
I felt the confusion return. Was this real? For many months, throughout the hours of depositions, re-creations, therapy sessions, I had truly believed that I was dreaming. I developed a habit of pinching myself, literally, in order to decipher reality from memory. Was this one of those dreams?
Since I was a kid, I have always had the kind of dreams that were very emotion-filled, but I never possessed the ability to do anything about it. I once had a dream that I was being beaten, seriously thrown around by this unidentifiable image. I kept trying to hit it back, to run away, to move at all, but I was unable to. I awoke, crying and tense, every muscle in my body was aching. It always bothered me that I wasn’t even able to be in control of myself in my dreams. And now, I saw myself losing that control again.

NO THANK YOU
As Dad continued speaking, the judge stared back at him, frozen and looking equally as confused as I; he seemed completely amazed at the spectacle in front of him. I looked around, should I keep talking?
Finally, the judge broke in. My father stopped talking, but my moment was over. When offered to continue, I felt my composure crumble. “No thank you,” I managed to say before bursting into tears and out of the courtroom. It was over. It was over, the case was over. We were supposed to feel vindicated, renewed. We were supposed to feel as though we had triumphed, yet it was inevitably clear to me: the man in shackles, the man without freedom, had won.
I got into the car and stared out the window at my family, smiling and laughing, they were crying, tears of joy, at what was now my father’s fate. I looked at them, my Mom, Step-Dad, Grandparents, Aunts, and Uncles: This truly was a victory in their eyes. And why shouldn’t it be? It was a victory for the legal system; society in general was now a better place because he would be locked up.
Of course I agree with this, but for me, and my siblings, this was a loss. We knew at a relatively young age that our Dad was different. But, he was ours. Children love their parents no matter what they do. I now understood this.
I looked at my Mom what redemption must she have felt. She was a victim of his, as well. I cannot imagine the grief, the guilt, and despair she must have felt when she found out that he had been abusing us for years, right under her nose. She must have walked through every memory she had, wondering if there was some sort of sign she had missed. I looked at her, a pretty woman with a kind face and tired eyes. This truly was a victory for her, and for her, I felt unbelievably happy. I turned to see my sister, who had undergone the same abuse as me. There was no joyful expression on her face, but her face didn’t bear the same emotion as mine. She was angry. She was pissed, and couldn’t help but show it.
“What are they doing,” she said out loud.
“This isn’t good! This isn’t about you,” she screamed over to them.
“THIS ISN”T ABOUT YOU!”
The group looked over at her.
“I hate them. I hate them,” she said, quietly, this time.
She walked away, angry. This was even more of a loss for her. We had lost our father, but we had also lost his sisters, our aunts and cousins. Claudia was always extremely close to each of them, especially my Gram. Thank God, she didn’t have to be here for this. I looked at her again.
“She must feel so lost,” I thought. But what did I feel?

GRUESOME DETAIL
I pulled down the make-up mirror from the passenger visor and gasped at my disheveled face. I must have been crying much harder than I thought. It’s like wearing make-up in a swimming pool, you know it’s going to ruin, but you wear it anyway. I wiped my eyes with a tissue, and reached for my compact, trying to smooth its ivory powder over my red and swollen face. Why was I so good at hiding things?
Matt looked at me. He once had a way of looking at me that made me feel like everything was going to be okay. He had been with me through everything; two years of depositions, one suicide attempt, the trial. He knew every gruesome detail, and he still loved me. For now.
“You okay,” he asked.
“God, why didn’t you tell me I looked so shitty?”
Apparently, that was supposed to mean yes. But, I wasn’t. We started driving toward Interlochen. The plan was to meet at Grandma’s Kitchen, a local restaurant that my family frequented. Matt hated the place and always refused to eat there. We pulled into the parking lot, and the caravan of family pulled in all around us. I felt dizzy, and remembered that I probably should have something to eat. I had just found out, only a few weeks earlier, that I was pregnant. Being able to think about taking care of my unborn child had made the entire trial much easier to get through. But, at this moment, I could think of nothing but my Dad, spending the remainder of his life in a cell.
“I think I might throw up,” I said to Matt.
“Just take it easy. Do you want to get back in the car? Do you want to go home?”
“No, I’ll be alright. I’m sorry.”

MY FAMILY
We walked into the restaurant and saw my entire family. They were supposed to be there to support us, but I didn’t feel supported. They were there for my Mom, and she needed them, but they were not there for us.
Claudia, Joe and I sat together, with Matt. Claud was even more upset now, but she hid it well. I know that she hated the idea of sitting amongst 20 celebrating members of our family. My brother, Joe, who had been such an inspiring individual for his entire 16 years, now struggled with is own demons. He tried to stay optimistic, but I could see it fading from him, fast. Even though he shared in the abuse, he couldn’t help but feel guilty that he couldn’t protect us; Claudia and me.
“I’m your brother. I was supposed to protect you.” I remembered his words. He was so angry, so disappointed in himself.
Then there was me. The big sister. The eldest child. The one who told. There were no more secrets. Claudia hated me for that, and I didn’t blame her. She felt that she was dragged into talking about her baggage before she was ready. And, she was. Counselors, therapists, detectives; everyone had pushed her into talking about what had happened too quickly. I will never forgive myself for that.
I feel that there are many sides to a person. It is true that you cannot pick your parents. You cannot pick your lot in life. All you can do is play the hand you’re dealt, take risks or be conservative, and hopefully, you come out on top in the end.
For me, my father was a child molester. A pedophile. For many months leading up to his trial, I tried, desperately to look at him the way everyone else did: in disgust. I wanted to hate him, wanted his entire life, and each of my memories to be only the ones that hurt, only the ones that were painful. As I began to collect the memories of my childhood, I realized that the abusive memories didn’t hurt nearly as much as the good ones. The fun times, the hilarious stories; each of these are etched separately in my brain, all too confusing to embrace. Pain is easy because pain is explainable, and pain is forgivable.
I know that my father is sick. He has an imbalance in his brain that makes him attracted to children. It may have been something he was born with, it may have been a result of his own abuse, nobody knows. But “it” is somewhat explainable.
What I cannot grasp, however, are the good times. He did love us, as best as he could. He was always proud of me, always supportive. How can a person hurt a child one day, and then tell her she is amazing and perfect the next? He possessed a Jekyll and Hyde sort of personality trait. I remember being able to tell who was present and who was hiding. Something in his eyes, his voice would change. Even the way he moved would be different when Mr. Hyde was around. That is when I knew to prepare for the pain. But, when Dr. Jekyll was around, I was caught off guard. What would happen next? Is this a trick? Why are you being so nice to me?