Unraveling

Of course, she would ask that. My father was something I never wanted to talk about. Sometimes, it just felt easier to ignore the pain and pretend it never existed in the first place. When I was younger, I used to imagine I had a perfect family—one with an attentive father who had a knack for making the most stupid jokes at the worst times. There was this one scene I replayed in my head over and over again until I started to believe it was real.

The illusory truth effect at work again.

I would wake up on a Sunday morning and run into my parents’ room, jumping on their beds to wake them up. Mom would roll over, accidentally smacking dad in the face as he was awakened by the chaos that was ensuing. He would pull my arm, causing me to plop down on the bed as he tightly hugged me, saying Christmas would be canceled if I continued to disturb his sleep. Instead, Mom would barter with him, saying that was too harsh a punishment and it would be more fitting to have me cook breakfast for them instead. Of course, little me, not wanting to miss out on Christmas, would scurry over to the kitchen, grabbing pots and pans while spilling flour on the counters. Two bags of spilled batter, five dirty pans, and three cartons of empty eggs later, I would return with crunchy eggs, pancakes that were too crispy to have possibly been made with the correct ingredients, and orange juice, which was probably the only edible thing there. Dad would thank me while laughing hysterically, and Mom would wear a pained smile, trying to mentally prepare for the disaster that awaited them in the kitchen. They would pull me into bed with them as they both kissed my forehead and said they loved me.

That’s what I wanted, but instead, I got a broken family and a lifetime of pain.

“My dad’s.”

“What happened?” She shook her head slightly and spoke again, “I’m sorry. Again, you don”t have to talk about it if you don”t want to.”

“No, it’s fine,” I confessed. “I can’t avoid my past forever.” Lexi offered a sad smile and nodded. Taking a deep breath, I explained, “My father was never the type of man to show his emotions. He thought any type of affection was a sign of weakness,” I reflected, with a far-off look in my eyes. He never even said he loved me. Every conversation always ended with a simple ‘goodbye’ and nothing more. Frowning at the thought, I continued, “Things changed when I noticed him constantly sneaking off and smiling when he looked at his phone.” I wish I would’ve left it alone, but I couldn’t help my curiosity. “When we were at the dinner table one night, he left it sitting next to his plate while running to the bathroom. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. His phone was littered with texts from multiple women. I scrolled through dozens of messages and pictures until my twelve-year-old brain couldn”t take anymore. That”s when I walked into the kitchen and handed the phone to my mom. It was the beginning of the end.”

“You can’t look through a man”s phone, Claire,” my father yelled, snatching the phone out of her hands.

“Really, you think that’s the main issue here?” My mom asked with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, come on, don’t pretend like you didn’t see this coming…”

He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Flicking on the TV, he sat down on the couch with a huff. My mom followed, hot on his heels, and ripped the remote out of his hands. I tried to follow, but my mom ushered me back into the kitchen.

“No, Autumn!” She screamed. “We need to talk alone.” She pivoted and walked away again. Peaking my head around the corner, I watched as they continued to argue. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She slammed the remote onto the table.

Furiously rubbing his hands against his face, he groaned, “When’s the last time we had sex, Claire?”

My mom let out a low growl. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No!” He angrily shouted. “A man has needs, you know.”

“What kind of message does that send our daughter?” She whispered, probably more aware of the fact that I was in the next room over.

“That isn’t my problem,” he shrugged.

My mother sat on the couch beside him, her eyes glistening. “Not your problem? Really? If our family ‘isn’t your problem,’ what exactly do you care about then? Because it clearly isn’t raising your daughter. Do you even love us anymore?”

“Oh, come on, Claire. Men don’t need to vomit their feelings everywhere for their emotions to be known.”

“Really?” She nodded vigorously as the tears began to spill. “Because right now, I would say I”m getting the impression that you don’t want to be here at all.”

He sighed and put his head in his hands. “You know I want to be with you, Claire.”

Rolling her eyes, my mom laughed, although she was not amused. “Then you need to get your shit together and figure out what you really care about or get out.”

“Okay,” my father relented while flinging his arms into the air. “I mean, I married you, didn’t I? Isn”t it obvious I want this?”

Her face softened, then became firm once more. “Prove it,” she demanded. “Fix this, Michael, or we are done.”

I just wanted so badly to think that for at least one second of our twelve years together under the same roof, maybe he did truly love us. For a time, I actually convinced myself that he did.

But I was wrong.

“I know that feeling.”

But did she? Lexi had lived through her own trauma, but that’s just what it was—her own trauma. She never experienced my pain, and I never experienced hers. She could never understand how I felt, just like I could never understand how she felt. I knew she meant no harm in what she said, but the fact that she said it and thought it would help spoke volumes about how different we truly were.

“Turns out, not only was he cheating with multiple women, but he also had a gambling addiction and was betting money that we didn”t even have. My mom told him that he had a choice to make, but he didn’t take it seriously. I actually caught him having sex with another woman a week later.” One day after school, when I walked into the house, I saw my dad and some stranger fucking on the couch. I almost collapsed. They even saw me come through the door, but they didn’t care. That was the start of my bad relationship with sex. I was always terrified that men only cared about one thing—having a fuck buddy. Honestly, I don’t think my guess ended up being too far off. What I wouldn’t give to remove the image of them having sex from my head, but it was burned into my brain. Sure, I was never raped or forced into anything, but I still felt violated in a way that I was never able to articulate. Not even to my therapist. I looked down at my hands while fumbling with my fingers anxiously. Lexi put her hands over mine as a sign of support. “I couldn’t bear to tell my mom, so I didn’t,” I sighed. “A few months later, he had finally decided on his answer, so he packed his bags and left.” I refused to let the tears fall as I quickly blinked my eyes, willing them away. I will not give this man any more of my tears. “Five years ago was the last time we spoke on the phone. He called to say he was moving to California, and that was that.”

So much for having a picture-perfect family.The real story was much more depressing.

Even though he was around for my childhood, he never acted like a father to me. Did he know how much he hurt us? I used to sit up at night thinking about what he was doing in California. Was he happy? Was he still using women? Did he still prioritize his masculinity over real emotion? Did he blow all his savings by gambling it away? Did he get a new family and then leave them, too? Did he ever think about us? Did he ever really love us in the first place?

Lexi lifted her hands from mine as she spoke, “I’m so sorry all of this happened.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I deadpanned. “He’s dead. It’s over.”

But then, why do I still care so much?

“Even though you may feel like you”re wrong for mourning or shedding tears over someone who hurt you, that”s not a sign of weakness; it”s a sign of healing. With healing comes pain. It may feel like too much to bear right now, but with time, the pain will pass.”

If I could have a dollar for every time someone said that to me, I’d be fucking rich. I heard those words over and over again, “Grief takes time.” She told me that, in time, my sadness would fade…yet, nine years later, I was still in the same place as I started. It took me a while to even acknowledge that I was grieving in the first place. When my therapist tried to explain it to me, it didn’t make any sense. I always thought that in order to grieve someone, they had to be dead. That’s when I learned that loss didn’t equate to death. The repressed emotions I had been holding onto bubbled to the surface like a pot overflowing on a stovetop. I tried to search for the lid or at least turn the burner down to simmer, but there was no use. The last thing I needed was advice about how to live with my own problems. If anyone could figure a way out of this situation, don’t you think it would be the person who’s experienced it firsthand for years? I didn’t want any advice, and, honestly, did she really think I hadn’t considered what she said before?

“Time heals all wounds? Is that really your advice?” I let out a dry laugh. “You don’t know me, Lexi.”

Shaking her head, Lexi shrugged at me. “Then don’t listen to me. If you want to continue to be unhappy, then, by all means, go ahead.” She pursed her lips and added, “Whatever. It doesn’t affect me anyway.” Her eyes glossed over as though she had become blind to my presence. She sat with her arms pulled against her chest in a ridged manner. Without looking in my direction, she whipped out her phone, seemingly trying to end our conversation.

I was slapped in the face with the reality of what I had said. I offended her when she was only trying to help.

Yeah, I’m definitely a shit friend.

Anytime someone tried to lend me a hand, I’d cut it off with a butcher”s knife. I guess it was in my DNA. What if Lexi was right in what she said and I was too caught up in my own narrative to even realize? Maybe happiness was a choice. It didn’t matter, though, because even if I tried to be happy, I would still only be lying to myself. Every time I tried to move on, I was only burying my past, not growing from it.

But what’s the difference?

“I’m sorry,” I sighed. “You were just trying to help. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

“Autumn, I’ve said way worse things to the people who tried to help me, so I get it. I just don’t want to waste my breath if you don’t want to listen,” Lexi voiced while still scrolling through her phone.

“I want to believe you, but after nine years, don”t you think enough time has passed? Grief and pain are different for everyone, but nine years seems like a bit too long. If I really am ‘strong,’ then why haven”t I moved on already?”

“Are you actually asking?” She lifted an eyebrow and looked up at me.

“Yes?” I answered unsurely. “No,” I sighed. “I don’t know.”

Lexi put her phone on the floor next to her and looked at me understandingly. “There is no ‘one’ solution,” she sighed. “But you”ll figure it out.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know,” she huffed. “Go meditate, or climb Mount Everest, or help the blind…”

She was still angry.

“Lexi,” I flicked my eyes toward the back of my head. “Seriously.”

“I can’t live your life for you, Autumn. That’s something you’re going to have to find out for yourself.”

“And if I can’t?”

Her eyes softened once again. “You will.” Huffing out a breath of air, I nodded slowly, unconvinced of her words. “I’m serious,” she argued. “It might take two weeks, six months, or five years, but you’ll get through this. I barely know you, and even I can tell you’re too stubborn to give up without a fight,” Lexi laughed softly.

She was right about that. I had been fighting for years, but it felt like I was losing. Every punch the world threw seemed to knock me off my feet, and I was tired of having to get back up. I didn’t know if I could keep going. None of this felt worth it.

“And if there is no solution?”

“Then that is your answer.”

It didn’t feel like an answer. I needed something concrete and certain, not abstract and poetic. But what if there really wasn’t an answer?

“Earlier, I spoke to my mom on the phone and told her I didn”t want to go to the funeral anymore. I want to believe I was just being dramatic, but deep down, I can”t help but wonder, ‘why would I go to a funeral for the man I hate?’” I confessed.

“It may seem like you hate him now, but dealing with the guilt and the regret of not going to his funeral will cause your pain to get worse. Even if you never forgive him, you owe it to yourself to get closure with the person who hurt you,” Lexi sighed. “Go to the funeral. Say goodbye to your dad the way you wish he said goodbye to you.” Lexi’s tone stiffened, and her face became firm as she began to speak again, “Then leave. Leave and close that chapter of your life.”

“Is it really that easy?”

“No,” she responded immediately. “But it will get easier.”

“Did it for you?”

“Honestly, I thought I had moved on from my father, but maybe I wasn’t as healed as I thought I was. Sometimes repressed shit still creeps back up,” she admitted. “But I think talking to someone who’s lived through something similar is helping me more than I realized.”

“Why? Because I’m more fucked up than you ever were?” I joked.

“No,” she laughed. “Because I finally feel like I’m not alone.”

That’s when I figured out why she wanted to help me so much. She was trying to help herself, too. The advice she gave me were the words she so desperately wanted to hear when her father died.

“But you have friends, and your sisters, and your fans.”

“My friends don’t understand what it feels like to lose a father, my sisters were never close to him, and my fans try to support me, but they will always be an arm”s length away.”

“What about your mom?”

She shrugged. “Why didn’t you talk to your mom?”

“I—uh,” I stuttered. “I don’t know.”

“Because you didn’t want her to see how broken you truly were.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but couldn’t. “Lexi,” I frowned, “You know we aren’t the same, right?”

“And that’s exactly how we help each other.”

I stared at her, still confused. “You want to help me after I just treated you like shit?”

She rolled her eyes. “Get over yourself, Autumn. Do you really think you’re the only one who’s ever pushed people away or refused to take advice? Do you really think that makes you unworthy of having friends?”

“I guess not,” I mumbled.

“The correct answer is ‘Hell no!’” She yelled. “Try again with feeling,” she motioned for me to continue.

Rolling my eyes, I glared at her and dryly said, “Hell no.”

“That was pathetic.”

“Well,” I shrugged hopelessly.

“Look, Autumn, I’ve played this game before. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you think that’s going to stop me from trying to get to know you. I’m not so easily discouraged.”

“And neither am I.”

“Then stop trying to fight me and focus on what’s actually upsetting you,” she suggested. “Your story isn’t over, so don’t give up on the possibility of healing.”

“Fine,” I huffed out. “But only if you promise not to give up either.”

Lexi looked at me daringly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I felt a smile creep its way onto my lips. “Why are you trying to help me so much?”

“Because you clearly won’t do it yourself.”

“Touché,” I narrowed my eyes at her.

If I had talked to someone about my pain sooner, then I would’ve been able to begin healing instead of constantly hurting. Or maybe being with stuck in an airport bathroom with Lexi was exactly the therapy I needed.