I went to check my mail today and found a letter from my father. As I had French lab in five minutes, I decided not to open it. I would wait until later to call my mother and read it to her as I read it myself. That way, she'd be there for the support and to put it in perspective. As a result, I spent the next 45 minutes in that class with my heart pounding, sweat on my brow, sick to my stomach at the prospect of what was held within that envelope.
It's been four days since the blow-up. I haven't spoken to my father in four days. For a bit of perspective, understand that this is the longest I've ever gone without speaking to him. Usually he'd call me up and pretend like nothing had ever happened. Then the game would begin anew. But then again, I'd never said anything as frustrated and hateful to him as I did last Saturday. I thought it, but never said it.
The man is so twisted. All he does is sit there in the dilapidated pigsty of his kitchen and pity himself. He thinks about me every second and waits for my calls, and when I forget to call him every other day he's hurt. Deeply. And that hurt very quickly turns into vicious hatred and resentment at my hateful ingratitude after everything he has done for me. "I busted my ass for you," he's been fond of repeating for these past five years. "You promised you would call me soon, and your promises are shit, John."
Then come the threats. When I was little and I thought he alone controlled the rising and the setting of the sun, his favorite threat would be "I think maybe it's time that you lived with your mother permanently from now on." Then after he fell down the steps, nearly killing himself, I did just that (at her insistence, of course). So when I went to private school, it became, "Maybe I won't send in your tuition check." And then college came, where I was accepted thanks to his college-teacher status into a special scholarship enrollment program that paid my tuition. One time after I hurt him especially badly, he drafted a letter that read, "Dear Mr. so-and-so, I am writing to inform you that I want to cancel my son's involvement in the program," along with another letter that warned us, as if we couldn't figure it out on our own, "I can send this off at any time."
Every time, I had to swallow my pride and go back to him. And I told myself that it was because of the money, because I knew, no matter what she said, there was no way in this world that my mother ever would have been able to pay for my expenses alone, and neither could I. But that wasn't it at all, I've come to fear. It was because he always knew, no matter how in the right or blameless that I was, how to make me feel like absolute, miserable shit.
And so I wondered, at this stage of the game where things have never been this bad, what his letter to me would say. Would he threaten to disinherit me? That's the next logical step. Maybe disown me completely? Or maybe he would just spend a few pages to express the utter ingratitude and hurtfulness of my actions, how he has nothing left and all I can do is to shit on him, as he's said so many times before. When I got back to my room, no less stressed and anxious, I called my mother up and opened the envelope.
It was a bill. From Geico. My car insurance. The message was simple: I (or my mother) could pay for it now, not him.
My mother, matter-of-factly, said she'd pay for it. It was just a bill, that's all. After so long of watching it build and build, I was so terrified that the worst had come. Yet this, this is nothing. I'm like, "That's all?" I even smiled in relief, can you believe that? He really has nothing to use against me, practically speaking. There's nothing he can do anymore, if there ever was. I keep forgetting that he has no power over me.
But that's the kicker, isn't it?
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