Thursday-Friday-Saturday . . .

Sunday my father calls. Three days after the confrontation, Dad converses as if the life altering moment abracadabra-s and disappears. Will I go to the National Zoo with him to see the baby giraffe when he returns? As close to an apology as this man ever neared, I cave. “Of course, dad, I’d love to.”

As an 18-year-old, I fixate on parenting my parents. I am the counselor; the sounding board; the coach; the mediator; the witness; the voucher. In my attempt to shrink out of these roles, I require professional help. The first therapist takes on my mom and my dad individually as their personal therapist. Although not a fan of this shrink, I do feel wronged by their choice of taking on my parents as clients.

Upon switching counselors, I am amused when mom tells me my new therapist has a ‘Jesus Christ complex.’ Mary, a newbie, wants to help. Anorexia, the beast, stands strong despite this counselor’s best attempts. And, Mary decides confronting dad over years of abuse poses the best outcome. 

Entering the tiny office

in the same three-piece-suit debuted in the marble incident, dad pushes his combover back into place and seats himself in the main chair, the therapist’s chair. I begin. I barely utter one sentence before Dad jumps to his feet and screams in Mary’s face as she moves quickly behind the armchair.

Denied. He knew what was coming. The door slams.

The door slams. And when the door slams four days before Dad commits suicide, the power of the moment clings like epoxy to the 18 years of carefully crafted shame and silence.

“I killed my father,” my new mantra. 

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In retrospect the reasoning seemed logical: I parented, I confronted, I caved. Yet, flipping the logic on its head: I needed to be parented, I needed to tell, and I needed support. I am no more responsible for the abuse . . . as for my father’s suicide. Genuinely, the soul holds itself accountable when nothing makes sense.

What logic could you refute? Could you look at your life and all the ashes and flip the reasoning on its head? Would you impose blame and shame on any other human who wore your shoes? 

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the soul holds itself accountable when nothing makes sense