“How do you depersonalize people’s treatment of you? Realize that people can only give you what they’ve got. If a person has filled himself up with disrespect for years, how’s he going to give you respect? It’s not about you. So step aside. Learn the art of spiritual aikido instead.”
I don’t know about you, but disclosing family secrets is something that I have put off for quite awhile. I kept thinking that I didn’t need to, nor wanted to drudge up memories of past pain. Never mind, going against the unspoken parent rule: What happens in the “family,” stays in the family. My father brought that to life one day on one of our many private walks together. I was about eleven. We were speaking about the movie, “Mommy Dearest.” It was a best selling memoir, turned motion picture about the abusive relationship between Hollywood actress, Joan Crawford, and her adoptive daughter, Christina Crawford. My father was appalled that Christina would expose such things, even though her traumatic upbringing didn’t have a fairytale ending. As he ranted with each step, I looked up at his 5’9 stature and thought, “I am going to write about you one day...”
My dad was older than most of my friend's parents, and due to his white hair, I was often asked if he was my grandfather, a continual source of embarrassment. Due to my grandfather’s alcoholism and some time in jail, my father was raised mostly in Ireland by my grandmother whom I have never met. His stories were often of the days he would caddy in the rain at the local golf course in Skerries during The Great Depression. He spoke about having to walk miles in the rain with holes in his shoes in order to bring home a paycheck for his mother, younger brother, and sister. He was teased by other classmates for being "poor as a church mouse" and seemed to have created embarrassment, shame, and a lack of abundance programming that lasted a lifetime. A way of being that I accepted as my own.
By the age of fourteen my father left school, moved to London, and worked as a Barback during the Blitz. After some time in Canada as a bus driver, he eventually made it to America where he became the owner of Bay Cities Fire Extinguisher Company in Santa Monica, servicing fire extinguishers to the Hollywood elite. I even got to tour the home of the comedian, Jerry Lewis. One of the actor’s sons gifted us with a bright yellow parakeet that my dad (who had a strong affinity for birds) named, Woodstock. I grew up on Yale St. until the age of nine at which point my father moved the family up to the central coast of California and commuted for most of my upbringing. Gambling the ponies was his shtick, and he was quite good at it. Being an inveterate horseplayer, he even named me after a racehorse (Kathleen) who won at Santa Anita Park the day I was born.
Hiding money was the game he played with us kids. My brother, friends, and I created so much joy when we would finally find the ten or twenty dollar bills hidden under a rock by some “mysterious” one-eyed pirate at the beach. Sometimes even a “Benjamin” would peek out, and we would yelp with enthusiasm. His generosity seemed over the top, proving that things are often not what they seem. His personality captivated a room, and to me, he knew how to schmooze better than Clark Gable himself. True or not, the story is that he had a passionate night with the famous actress, Natalie Wood. I still don't know for sure, but he did dream of her death on the actual night of her drowning.
While I was growing up, my father spent many hours studying the racing form. Regardless of his lack of accessibility, I created him as my dictator and God, “thinking” that I was responsible for his happiness and needed to comply to his demands. When we were alone, he would often complain to me. By the age of seven, it seemed that I had become his therapist. A role that I later resented. As I grew older, it became harder to describe my disheartening relationship with my father to others because it was hard for outsiders to understand his passive aggressive behaviors towards me. My friends would often call to speak with him on the telephone just to hear what he had to say, thinking that he was the “coolest” dad on the planet, some were even jealous of what seemed to be my perfect childhood. I would inevitably roll my eyes and think, If they only knew.
When the front door of our home closed, my father’s true colors would reveal themselves, especially when my brother was not present. My mom and I would sit with him and he would begin to complain about the very people with whom he’d been laughing just moments prior on our living room couch. Inevitably, he would angrily turn to my mother, raging at her for not keeping her mouth shut and worrying that she may have offended HIS guests with her socially awkward and blunt dialog. His friends would walk away, “thinking” that he really enjoyed their company. I confused myself with his inauthentic and dualistic behavior, and yet, it was all I knew. He expected the family to act and be what he wanted, and I began to protect myself by becoming one hell of an analytical mindreader and control freak. He often said, "What are people going to think if you act or look this way?" He often threatened the family by implying that he would die of a heart attack or simply leave because of us. I feared that he would if I didn’t do as told, and that we would be left emotionally and financially broke. My mother was certain of it. There were times that she would retaliate by screaming back and crying while throwing an ashtray across the room. But then, life would go on as usual. In private moments, she would tell me to "not worry" about my father and to “just ignore him.” Just like she learned to live in a bubble and ignore life. “Checking out” may have seemed to work for her, but living emotionlessly was not a life that I wanted to emulate. So, I overcorrected and became an adrenalin junkie, instead. Neither extremes serve. I resented my mom for not sticking up for me, but even worse, I would spit venom when she lectured me on what I needed to do in order to fix the situation and make my dad happy. I have no doubt that she did this to get him off her back. A secretive classic triangle of insanity in which we all participated, for forty years.
Although I had everything a kid could want materially, I never created the experience of feeling good enough. I "felt" that something must be wrong with me since I didn’t totally appreciate all the “things” I had been given. More than anything, I wanted for my parents to say, “I love you.” When I was given a compliment, my father would say...“She’s alright, don’t give her a big head.” My brother, who was seven years older, seemed to have disappeared into the magical world of Dungeons & Dragons, a game that seemed to help him escape the chaos of our family life and his young pesky sister. I chose Barbie and Ken and their three story doll house, which I stored in my walk-in closet. My fantasy world that I called home.
Chapter 1, PREADOLESCENCE- Walks With My Father
“Sometimes the mind refuses to notice the extraordinary ways that love is not present in our relationships because it’s frightening to think, ‘I’m living nose to nose with somebody and yet I am not close to them.’ You may have gotten so used to being joyless that you don’t even recognize what I’m talking about.”
When I was seven years old, I went on a family vacation to Lake Tahoe with my dad, mom, and brother. After a day of fishing, my father took me for a walk along the quiet streets lined with sugar pines, log cabin homes, and vacation rentals.
When I was seven years old, I went on a family vacation to Lake Tahoe with my dad, mom, and brother. After a day of fishing, my father took me for a walk along the quiet streets lined with sugar pines, log cabin homes, and vacation rentals.
He lowered his voice and said, "I need to tell you something, Kathleen."
By his tone, I knew that it was not going to be anything I wanted to hear. With my tiny heart pounding, I held my breath. What could it be?
And then, he said it. "Your brother is not my child. He is only your mother’s.”
What?!?
I did not understand. In a split second, I created confusion, awkwardness, and sadness. My brother had always called my father, “dad.” There was no other father present, and my dad’s proclamation did not make any sense. In that moment, I learned that my mother had been married before. And that my two other brothers, one who had been abandoned for being a "bad seed," were also not my dad’s biological children. As we returned home to the log cabin, I remember looking at my clueless mom and HALF brother cooking fish that they had caught that morning. If they only knew...
My dad instructed me to not divulge this information. It was our secret pact. Since I was my father’s true “blood” relative, I created a feeling of needing to be on his side and do as I was told. Not even my mother had his blood. It felt like it was us against them. I "felt" special and created discomfort all at the same time. Talk about confusion.
This was just the beginning of long walks through varying neighborhoods with my father. Just he and I and our secrets. He was steady and fast, out-walking anyone who challenged him. During those times, he often used me as a sounding board, complaining about my mother and creating so much fear that HIS money would not be distributed correctly when he died. He feared the lack of control and that she would portion out the inheritance amongst the four children, leaving me with only a quarter of his hard earned money. He would say that he hoped that my brother would get my mother's half, but that his half was to go to me. He did not want the other two boys that were raised by their biological father to get a cent, but said that the decision would be up to my mother. He sternly reinforced that I needed to make sure that his wish was fulfilled. Again, creating awkwardness that no one knew about our "special" walks, I created the experience of having to fulfill my dad's desires and told myself a story that I was, again, responsible. Such a burden to bear at such a young age. For I was the only “blood” relative that he claimed to have, and I didn’t want to let him down.
