Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Years Long Broken Goodbye

I remember goodbye...

Over and over again. But I especially remember the fracture that took a whole and made it half. Sundays. Mom said we could visit Dad on Sundays (or was it every other Sunday?). Where did Daddy go anyway? No one told me he was leaving. Why doesn't Daddy live here anymore? 

And so my little brother and I would climb into the backseat of our father's sedan once a week (or every other), and drive away from our mom's house - the home we previously shared with both of our parents. I remember driving away from our mother with a kiss and a hug. And a vague memory of our home slipping from view as we pulled away. 

Broken goodbyes, leaving Mommy. And then leaving Daddy.

And then came the violent shattering...

Two halves no longer, but lives broken into a million pieces. Slivers scattered invisible, like traces of glass left after an unexpected spill. Unnoticeable, until a tiny fragment embeds deep into the sole mid-stride. Acute, shocking, unexpected pain. 

I don't remember anyone telling me we were leaving. Not until that evening. Mom took us to say goodbye to our aunt and uncle. My mom and Aunt Pat were particularly close sisters-in-law. I don't remember much about the visit, but I remember leaving. Dad arrived to drive my brother and me home from there... So he could say goodbye to us too. 

I remember hot tears...

sliding down my face. I'd only seen my dad cry one time before - when he told me my grandma had gone to Heaven. He comforted me then with words of hope. She's with Jesus. You'll see her again one day. But this time, his tears fell hopeless.

My stomach reeled with each sway and bump of the car. I'm going to be sick. He pulled the car to the side of the road. He got out, opened my door, and helped me out. In the night, my dad picked me up and held me until waves of nausea abated. I clung tight to my dad's neck. I don't want to go! Will I ever see you again? But he eventually put me back in the car and took me home.

Palm trees loomed large...

above my grandparents' car as they drove us to their house, a new school, a new room with two twin beds  (my brother and I shared). A room void of toys, makeshift enough for two young children to sleep, but little else. Our mom slept in a room next to us, and we all shared the hallway bathroom. My grandparents occupied the master bed and bath in the front of the house. 

What happened in this home, stayed in this home for many years. In the darkest recesses of my little girl heart. I tried to speak in my truest voice. Once, and never again. Until many years later. 

And now I'm writing publicly for the first time...

and writing with my truest voice. I'll end here for today. But you need to know, I would not be here, telling my story if it weren't for God's intervention. And it is for that reason alone I share here, in this very humble place - a blog I deserted years ago. 

I thought I was finished writing. 

I did. 


Megan DiMaria said...

I'm so happy to see you writing. I'm so encouraged to see your strength and bravery in following this thread. I pray it will lead to further healing -- for you and other victims. Bless you, Sharen!

Sharen Watson said...

Thank you, Megan for being here, and for your encouragement. As you know, I've shared my story many times over. But this is the first time I've done so in writing for anyone to read. If it can bring hope to one, this will be worthwhile. My prayer is that no one will read malice, vengeance, or attack of any kind here. It is simply an unveiling of my story. Hope, healing, and forgiveness. Truth, courage, and vulnerability. Trusting God.