I’m afraid my last blog brought up a bunch of memories I’d forgotten, or pushed down, last night. One in particular, was of my son, not long before I left my marriage. I walked into his room and he had his shirt off, and was bruised all down his left side. I gasped and asked him what happened. He said “oh it was at hockey mom.” and went on to make up some story, which I can’t remember, all I can remember is the mass of purple bruises on his chest. But I believed him, even though he’d never had any thing like that in all his years of playing. And it didn’t really make sense, when I thought about it later, a hockey player is well padded from head to toe. But apparently ignorance was bliss at the time, I was planning my escape, I just accepted it.
A couple years later, when he moved in with me, we were talking about his dad, and how he never talked to him, and maybe he should try forgiving him. I said something to him about his father never hitting him. He just looked at me. Then he said quietly, “Mom, remember when you walked in my room and saw those bruises on my chest?” Of course I did. He said, “Dad did that. He didn’t like the way I practiced, so on the way home he was hitting me with his right hand/arm all the way home while he was driving.”
My ex was a big very strong man. He had arms the size of some people’s thighs.
I thought I would die. I wanted to crawl in a hole for not figuring that out. And it was apparently not the only time his father did something like that. He swore my son to secrecy, somehow. Threatened him if I ever found out. Because he knew if I found out I would have had him arrested. No doubt.
The night before I started my job, my first job outside our family business in 30 years, he started a huge fight with me, I’m sure because he was losing control of me. He flipped a salad out of my hands so it flew all over the kitchen. Then he started walking toward me, drunk. I had my phone in my hand, and I said, “Go ahead, hit me. I’d really like to see you in jail tonight.” And he stopped and turned around and walked away. Because he knew I meant it. So he knew without a doubt, if I knew he’d hit our son I’d have called the police too.
But the guilt I felt over what he did to my son, on top of all the berating and belittling, trying to break his spirit, stayed with me for so long, and it easily still comes back. It’s hardest to forgive yourself. And last night I had to somehow get through that all over again.
I am so grateful and blessed that my son is such a good kid today. I am so glad that I finally realized I had to get out of there, even though I had to leave him with his father for a time, I got through it, we got through it. We have dealt together with what our lives were back then, I made him talk about it.
So many people feel like I should make him somehow talk to his father. I just can’t, no one can understand what that was like for my son, and the fact is, he has a great life now, sans father. I don’t know that his father could add anything but more chaos to his life. I leave it up to him to deal with as he sees fit. He tells me he’s not angry at his father, nor hates him, he just doesn’t want what his father brings to his life.
So, it was hard to get to sleep last night, remembering this. Related to that abuse, I guess, in my head, was S’s ease of betrayal of me recently. Wondering if I’d ever find an honest true loving man. It all seemed to fall in the same pot of abuse.
This morning, I still believe he’s out there. I still believe I’ll find him. The pull to Florida and a new life is strong.
Feeling blessed, that my son is a strong, healthy, wonderful kid. And that I have a wonderful life now, with all good things in my future.
Love and light, all.