FaThEr'S dAy AwKwArDnEsS =p -- AND -- A Confession That Stings Afterwards

Father's Day Awkwardness:

Yep, it's true ... I cracked on Father's Day. I had to leave the sanctuary so that I didn't begin to sob in the middle of the whole congregation. My mom and I sat outside at the pavillion and talked about it, and I was able to go back inside without losing it all over again.

It felt so wierd. My dad showed up for church for the first time in almost a year, and it was like he wasn't even paying attention. He was too busy trying to figure out what my mom was doing out of the sanctuary during the sermon.

Grr.

I pray that he will be more open-hearted to God ... that man needs some Jesus in him!!!!!! =)

Afterward was worse. While I stood in the Narthex and talked to Sam, he was at the steps watching me. It felt so creepy ... I HATE the feeling that I'm being watched. After that, we went out to lunch.

Most. Awkward. Day. EVER.

We talked about stuff. I tried to joke around like I always do. I tried to make things comfortable. That's the kind of person that I am ... I think that I can fix everything. and I meddle wayyy too much in things that don't concern me. We had a full-blown convorsation about me and Jeremy, and THAT was wierd. Jeremy had actually called me last Wednesday night after class to tell me that my dad came into CFA and stood in his line. He asked me if that bothered me at all.

YES!

My dad is not allowed to talk to my possibly future boyfriend! He's ... he's ...

HE'S FIRED!

Whew. Glad I got that out. Whoooooooo ...

**~__~__~__~__**

A Confession That Stings Afterwards:

I think that the truth is that during lunch, I just wanted us to be a family again. I wanted us to talk again. I wanted us to laugh again. I longed for us to be able to sit down and have a meal together without having to worry about yelling or cussing or hitting ...

I had kept that in for so long. I was so afraid to tell my mom that she would act on it, and I didn't want that to happen ...



I was hungry for once in my life, and decided to act on it before I changed my mind. I headed for the pantry; down the hallway, through the living room (my dad was watching golf on TV ... eeew, Snore-Fest) through the kitchen, into the dining room, and open the pantry door. As I reached into a Pop Tart box (empty ... darn that Hannah!) I heard my dad get up off the couch and walk into the kitchen. I shrugged off the sound and turned to go back to my room.
My dad was waiting for me to do just that. He walked up to me, and I felt fear creeping along every inch of my body ... he looked so angry ... so ... evil. ...
"What're you looking for?"
The voice chilled me somewhat. I felt like there was a psychotic killer standing in front of me, not my own father.
"Somethin' to eat . . ." I answered, wishing he would go away. I heard him mumble
something about my mom not having to worry about that since her boyfriend was buying her lunch.
"'Scuse me?" I asked innocently, acting as though I thought that he had been talking to me instead of himself. I knew that was a bad move, but I didn't care. I felt brave.
"Nothing," He snapped. He seemed like a volcano, awaiting eruption. I pictured smoke arising from his ears, and had to surpress a laugh. I felt braver, but still knew better than to say anything.
I thought about my situation. He would not leave the room, and I was about to say
something to him that might just make molten lava pour from every word he yelled in my face, as he always did. What would I do if he blew up? Renee was up in her room laying down and resting . . . she had just gotten her alergy shot, and wasn't feeling well. Hannah was in the laundry room with the door closed, playing Spyro and blaring Skillet. I was alone.
No I wasn't. My Father was here, right beside me.
My dad muttered something else, then turned to face me again. "Where is your mother anyways?"
I gulped. I shouldn't have. It was way too loud. I shouldn't be scared; after all, he was just a volcano that I could run away from if necessary. Then I remembered what my mom told me to say.
"If you want to know, then ask her yourself." I said firmly, as if I was talking to a stubborn horse and not a volcano.
He took a step closer. I backed against the pantry door. (OF ALL THE FLIPPIN TIMES FOR ME TO REMEMBER TO CLOSE THE FREAKING DOOR . . .) I felt trapped. This was not
good. I was going to suffocate. I thought about calling for Renee, but that was ridiculous. I had nothing to fear. Mommy had promised me that I had nothing to fear. That meant that I was safe.
He repeated the question. Suddenly I felt instead of a trapped animal, like a lion, and I was braver then I had ever been before. Part of me wanted to spit in his face . . . the other part of me knew that he would kill me if I did this. So instead I drew myself up to my full height, took a deep breath, and very firmly and unshakingly spoke.
"I'm not going to tell you anything."
The next thing happened so quickly I had no chance to do anything. To my dying day, I wish
I would have called for Renee.
WHACK.
The strong, firm hand connected with the side of my face with a force that made my head snap sideways with a tiny crack. My face went hot. The whole right side of it stung. I
felt my mouth go open in surprise and shock, mixed with fear and agony of the heart. I couldn't believe it.
Oh God. He was going to beat me. I always knew it. I had thought that it would be Renee,
but it was going to be me. I wished that I would disappear into nothingness; that the ground would swallow me whole; that God Himself would send something down and take me up into Heaven, like he did with Elijah.
My eyes filled with hot tears. They prickled around every edge and curve of my eyes, until I could see nothing but blurrs. I waited for the next blow . . . would he punch me next? Kick me to the ground? Smack me again? Would he even kill me? Pictures of the people I loved flashed on my blind eyes . . . My mom, Renee, Hannah, my grandparents, Sam, Rachel, Lindsay, Rachel, Alysia . . . (I didn't know Jeremy yet, or he would be on this list too.)
It never came. He walked out of the room, back into the living room, and flopped down on
the couch and resumed watching golf as if nothing had happened at all.
I stood, paralyzed with fear, for what seemed like eternity. My face went numb, and I
reached up a shaky hand that didn't feel as thought it belonged on my hand and felt it. It was hot, and when I pressed down on it hard enough, it stung twice as much. I wondered if there was a mark. Half of me wanted there to be a bruise. The other half of me wanted there to be no evidence that it had ever taken place. But it had . . .
The impact of that made it seem as if he had smacked me all over again. My knees shook, and I gave in to what they wanted me to do. I sank down to the ground, my fingertips still on my face, and curled up on my side with my head cradled in my arms. I wanted to block everything out . . . everything from the birds singing merrily outside, to the sound of Skillet drifting from the laundry room, to the sound of people on the TV clapping for Tiger Woods' perfect put.
I hated this feeling. I wished that I would die. I considered death . . . maybe it wasn't so
bad . . . Sam's email flashed before me, and I decided against it. He had given me a reason to stick around last December . . . why would I betray that and go against it?
And then came the rain. I sobbed until there was literally a puddle gently soaking my stinging face where the tears had been shed onto the tile. Didn't he care? Didn't he regret what he did? No, he was too busy watching TV. I wanted to go in and smash it into a million peices. I
hated this feeling of so many mixed emotions . . . pain, grief, rage, then pain again . . . I wished that it would just make my mind explode and be done with it.
After what I decided afterwards had to be about ten minutes, I got up, ran out of the dining room, into my room, and slammed the door behind me. Then I collapsed onto my bed and sobbed more bitter tears . . .
Two hours later Hannah came in from the laundry room and found me, still sobbing, on my bed. She asked me countless times what was wrong. But and hour and a half ago, I had decided firmly that I would never tell anyone of this. It was nobody's business, and I didn't want to make things worse for us. I didn't want attention; that was too much. I hated having the spotlight on me anyways.
Not a single soul in the world would ever know that I, Megan Brittany, had just been physically abused by my father. And a slow, steady rage began to build in me . . . a rage that, weeks later, I would pray for God to take out of me, so that my consience could finally be clear. I hated him more than anything in the world. Nothing would change that.
Hannah finally left. I sat up and tried to pull myself together. For the first time since that morning, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Only my eyes and cheeks were red from crying. There was no trace nor was there any evidence that my dad had hit me. Half of me hated him for it even more. The other half was thanking God that there was nothing to be asked more questions about.
I sat down on my floor and tried not to cry. I tried not to think about it. I tried to clear my mind completely. It didn't work. I refused to close my eyes; that made me relive the moment.
I wished that someone was here to wrap their arms around me and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I thought of Renee . . . she would get into it with him and end up
getting hurt too . . . no, no one could know. EVER.
God, I prayed. Please let this go away.
And for one moment, I swear I felt Him wrap His arms around me and hold onto me. That was what it meant to be held. . . .

I will try to post more later tonight ...

PEACE OUT Y'ALL!
~ Meggyyy
O HUGZ O