Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Pivotal Moments
Pivotal Moments
Everything that we knew to try had been tried. Everything that we knew to say had been said. Trial separations and new beginnings had not worked. It was time to go. It was over. All that was left were the children.
Everything that we knew to try had been tried. Everything that we knew to say had been said. Trial separations and new beginnings had not worked. It was time to go. It was over. All that was left were the children.
I remember standing there. Staring numbly at the family that was my heart and soul and my life. Helpless, frightened, depressed, disbelieving . . . numb. But one more decision remained; and for these last few minutes at least, it was still my job to make the decisions. And I had to decide now. My mind raced through the alternative scenes.
I could take Michael with me . . . if she would honor the agreement. That would mean Michael would be raised apart from his mother and his brother; David would be raised apart from his father and his brother. I would miss David; and his mother would miss Michael. Six strikes.
Besides, I knew that she would not be able to bring herself to honor the agreement. She would say “No” and cry and get hysterical if I pressed the issue. I would hire a lawyer and go to court. She already had a lawyer. I would lose. This was 1968. The woman always won in court.
I could pretend to go along with visitation until the time was right and plans were complete; then, the kids and I would go away and we would be together and my heart would not be broken. It was 1968; it was not yet a cyber world; it could be done and I could make it work. The kids would miss their mother, but they were very young and would adjust. She would miss her children. Only four strikes.
But her heart would be broken.
The third alternative was to leave the family as intact as possible: the three of them, together in the house they were used to, with their familiar beds and toys and routines as undisturbed as possible. Whatever suffering was coming, I would take as much of it as I possibly could off of them and upon myself. I was the strongest and I could bear it and I would live through it. The kids would miss me . . . especially Michael, he was the oldest and we were very close. And I would miss them, terribly. But again, only four strikes.
And I would be with the children regularly, on visitation days, so that I could continue to raise them as much as possible and be their daddy. And I would stay in the children’s lives forever.
All of these thoughts and scenes went through my mind in what may have been seconds or minutes as I stood alone in the kitchen looking at the three of them in the living room. I weighed the pros and cons, did the calculations, and made my last decision as the head of my family. I hugged my children and said goodbye. Then I turned around and left.
As I walked to my car, got in, and drove away, my heart began to fill with overwhelming feelings of despair. The feelings filled me to the bursting point. I began to cry as I had never cried before. Racking sobs and pain and tears tore at my very existence. I had to pull the car over and cried and sobbed in the greatest pain that I had ever felt. All I could see, shimmering in my mind’s eye, were my two boys. I wanted to hold them and protect them and love them; but I could not reach them.
After several hours, when I was finally and totally exhausted, I stopped crying and drove home. I don’t remember where home was.
For months after this, I cried for about two hours at a time about twice a day. This eventually tapered to two hours once a day. Then an hour. Now, almost forty years later, I usually only cry for them for twenty minutes or so about once or twice a year.
My children are grown men now and have their own families and lives. My eternal sadness only surfaces these days when I know or sense that they are having a hard time and I can’t comfort them or help them through it. It peaks whenever I feel estrangement and rejection from them. I love my two boys as much as any person could possibly love his children . . . and we are estranged. I learn a little better each year how to partition-off that part of my heart and soul so that I can be here now for my dear sweet wife and the rest of my loving family and my good friends. That tragic learning, that partitioning, will never be complete; but I continue to work at it because my friends, my family, and especially my wife deserve for me to be there for them.
I pray that I will live to see both of my children strong and thriving and that reconciliation will have taken place before any of us die—for only that will bring peace to our hearts.
Our one chance for peace lies in the truth and power and love of these words: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
http://www.cwo.com/~pentrack/catholic/healforgive.html
I could take Michael with me . . . if she would honor the agreement. That would mean Michael would be raised apart from his mother and his brother; David would be raised apart from his father and his brother. I would miss David; and his mother would miss Michael. Six strikes.
Besides, I knew that she would not be able to bring herself to honor the agreement. She would say “No” and cry and get hysterical if I pressed the issue. I would hire a lawyer and go to court. She already had a lawyer. I would lose. This was 1968. The woman always won in court.
I could pretend to go along with visitation until the time was right and plans were complete; then, the kids and I would go away and we would be together and my heart would not be broken. It was 1968; it was not yet a cyber world; it could be done and I could make it work. The kids would miss their mother, but they were very young and would adjust. She would miss her children. Only four strikes.
But her heart would be broken.
The third alternative was to leave the family as intact as possible: the three of them, together in the house they were used to, with their familiar beds and toys and routines as undisturbed as possible. Whatever suffering was coming, I would take as much of it as I possibly could off of them and upon myself. I was the strongest and I could bear it and I would live through it. The kids would miss me . . . especially Michael, he was the oldest and we were very close. And I would miss them, terribly. But again, only four strikes.
And I would be with the children regularly, on visitation days, so that I could continue to raise them as much as possible and be their daddy. And I would stay in the children’s lives forever.
All of these thoughts and scenes went through my mind in what may have been seconds or minutes as I stood alone in the kitchen looking at the three of them in the living room. I weighed the pros and cons, did the calculations, and made my last decision as the head of my family. I hugged my children and said goodbye. Then I turned around and left.
As I walked to my car, got in, and drove away, my heart began to fill with overwhelming feelings of despair. The feelings filled me to the bursting point. I began to cry as I had never cried before. Racking sobs and pain and tears tore at my very existence. I had to pull the car over and cried and sobbed in the greatest pain that I had ever felt. All I could see, shimmering in my mind’s eye, were my two boys. I wanted to hold them and protect them and love them; but I could not reach them.
After several hours, when I was finally and totally exhausted, I stopped crying and drove home. I don’t remember where home was.
For months after this, I cried for about two hours at a time about twice a day. This eventually tapered to two hours once a day. Then an hour. Now, almost forty years later, I usually only cry for them for twenty minutes or so about once or twice a year.
My children are grown men now and have their own families and lives. My eternal sadness only surfaces these days when I know or sense that they are having a hard time and I can’t comfort them or help them through it. It peaks whenever I feel estrangement and rejection from them. I love my two boys as much as any person could possibly love his children . . . and we are estranged. I learn a little better each year how to partition-off that part of my heart and soul so that I can be here now for my dear sweet wife and the rest of my loving family and my good friends. That tragic learning, that partitioning, will never be complete; but I continue to work at it because my friends, my family, and especially my wife deserve for me to be there for them.
I pray that I will live to see both of my children strong and thriving and that reconciliation will have taken place before any of us die—for only that will bring peace to our hearts.
Our one chance for peace lies in the truth and power and love of these words: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
http://www.cwo.com/~pentrack/catholic/healforgive.html
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