Thursday, June 24, 2010
Upward Over the Mountain
He had a stomach aneurysm. I know he felt pain but I don't know for how long. They found him in his car, pulled over, with a half-changed tire.
I thought he was immortal or something. I can't explain it. I thought he would never die, but I wanted him to. At least, I said so many times. He had more than one heart attack, I heard. He drank a pot of coffee a day and smoked two packs of unfiltered Luckies. At least, back when I was talking to him.
So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons are like birds, flying upward over the mountain
For such a strong presence he's always had in my life, I am almost in disbelief in that I had not spoken to him for the last eight or nine years. It's just that he's always been there, lurking in the shadows of my mind. And he's always been the thing I would want to protect myself from. Keeping a fake name on Facebook. Taking down my MySpace music page. Not wanting to publish my information on the UH Web site. I actually avoided it for awhile. On my department's page, I was responsible for the updates, and so when I would update the staff page, I always left my information off. The email address I checked was still there for the front desk, but not mine. One day, someone added me, though.
He never stopped trying. I received emails at my work email once it was published. Before then it was MySpace messages. Before then, he even called the business office at The Daily Cougar. Years ago, I had a talk with the Director of Student Publications, and some other people. I didn't want to but I thought it was necessary for my safety. I told all these people that if anyone got a call, to not give out any information about me; to not even confirm that I worked there. He tried other things, too. I once found an article I wrote on the DC's Web site. It was my review of Carlene Carter's CD, Stronger. I really related to that album. Carter talked in an interview about all this stuff she'd been through: heroin addiction, and losing her longtime lover, and her sister, and her stepfather. Just making the record was a real victory for her, not to mention cathartic. He read my story, and he put some comment on it at the bottom of the page. It had his real name there. One time he wrote to me about forgiveness. Another he simply said, "I need contact." Another time it was more like a threat: "Get it together, Sarelli."
No, YOU fucking get it together. You know?
I never said anything back. But for some reason, that line stuck with me. Sometimes, even now, when I'm in a rough spot, I say that calmly to myself. Get it together, Sarelli. Ain't it funny.
My father is dead and somewhere a little girl is crying over that. She's crying because she lost her daddy. But what the woman in her knows, is that he's been long long gone for awhile.
I wonder what parts of him are me. Half the crazy. Half the sense of humor. Half the smart ass. Maybe more. But I'm not like him, and I am already better than him. He died at 56, and I am barely over half that, and I am better than him. I am stronger, I am wiser, and perhaps more importantly, I am honest. I own up to my mistakes. I don't think the whole world is against me. I don't think people owe me something. And I don't prey on people. I don't manipulate people. I don't steal. I don't gamble.
So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons could be birds, taken broken up to the mountain
I hated him. I hated him, but I also liked him, and I loved him. This made things even more difficult. How can you like the man who beat your mother up in a ditch, and tried to gauge out her eyes with his fingers, and she had eye infections for six months? Who cheated on your mother, and would even come home with hickeys on his neck? Who, at the same time, accused her of cheating on him, and denied that their second child was his? Who actually made your mother make an appointment to abort your sister, but she couldn't; she knew if she put off the appointment until she was past 12 weeks they wouldn't do it, so that's what she did. Could you love the man, who in a delusional jealous rage threatened to abort his own baby himself with a coat hanger? Who isolated her until she had no one? Who would go to horse track and gamble all they had and more. My mother had to declare bankruptsy at 24 with three kids. She lost her house, her car, everything. Then even when she had nothing he sold their food stamps to his mother, and took that money to the track, too. He still loved to play the horses. One time he told me he had $30,000.00 one day and nothing the next. Only, he said it like he was bragging. Could you love a man knowing that not only did her fuck up your life, but he also had another daughter six years younger than you that he never supported or had anything to do with whatsoever? I didn't know about Christina until I was 20. I wanted to find her immediately. She and Renee found each other on the Internet a couple years later, miraculously, through some Italian heritage messageboard.
What about my grandparents? He once broke down their door and came in and took us. Dropped us off eventually in the back of my mom's cousin's car at a red light in a busy Chicago intersection. I was so disoriented. I just remember hearing the sirens. I remember the noise at the door. I remember so much it hurts. Too much. A lot of memories have faded, and I am no longer an insomniac, but my sleep is often interrupted by thoughts and memories that have echoed for years and there seems to be almost no escape. I can redirect, but they always come back.
What about the rest of my life? It's all his fault. So much of it is. The loneliness. The moving around. Having to live in the projects. The abuse. If daddy hadn't been a fucking nut job, maybe mommy wouldn't have had to leave him. Maybe she wouldn't have had to work all the time. Maybe we wouldn't have had to live in the projects, in black neighborhoods where our bikes and things would get stolen and the kids would throw mud at our windows. Maybe we wouldn't have had to live in the ghetto of Chicago, where there were bars on everything, and you were afraid to walk to the corner store because of the Cubans that liked to chase you and threaten you and corner you. They once waited for me outside the store and cornered me. I started to run, and then my babysitter, who was watching from the apartment's third story window, yelled and scared them off.
And maybe if we hadn't lived in that project then we wouldn't have met that family that eventually came to watch us while my mom was away at work, and maybe we wouldn't have had to experience the physical, mental, and sexual abuse that came along with that. I still remember my sister Renee with a bloody nose, and the father telling my mother that she fell down. I remember him having us watch as he hit her and accusing me of smiling and making me eat a bar of soap. That crazy fuck. He would always make us sleep on our stomachs and he would come into the room once in awhile, and say "Fakers," and most of the time we were faking sleep, because we were afraid, but even if we weren't we'd be awake in a moment, because he would say that and then slap us real hard on the ass, and it stung. And you were afraid to move. I fucking hate that man, but more I hated my dad. Because I blamed him for that, too.
I blamed him for something else, that I am only now in his death going to be released from except it is going to take a long time, and that is having to live in fear. Why did I go to 11 schools in three states? Because, after that fateful night when he came and broke down my grandparents' door and took us out into the Chicago winter with no jackets, we were all afraid he would do it again. Add that to his violent history, and we weren't entirely sure that he wasn't capable of hurting us or even killing my mother. Or grandfather. These are the things that go through your head. Even when you are four and six and eight years old. Kids understand a lot of things. I understood a lot. Once, he called my house when I was eight, and I answered the phone, and he said, "Cara, this is your father." And I slammed the phone down in his face, and ran out of the house. When I told my mother, who had recently been laid off, she freaked the hell out, told our landlord the story and asked that he let us out of the lease and not give out any information if anyone asked. Then we stayed at her boyfriend's house and then her aunt's house and she got everything ready and packed up the car and we drove to Florida.
That was a really rough time, too. I had to move from a suburb of Chicago where I went to a relatively good school, to po-dunk fucking Florida, to live with my grandparents, and my sister and I shared the extra room. There were really good parts of that, but there was some shit, too. My grandmother took care of me and Renee. We had not really had that. It wasn't my mom's fault. She was just busy and clueless at times, but did the best she could with what resources she had. Grandma fixed my hair every day, and helped me pick out my clothes. She made oatmeal and waffles and things for breakfast, and packed me a lunch every day. Grandma made sure I did my homework every day. And Grandpa, he taught me how to fish. He took us for boatrides. He taught me some card games. He quizzed me on the state capitals I memorized from the back of the dictionary. And perhaps most importantly, he made me laugh.
Mom found a job working for a company that did work for NASA. To this day it was the best job she ever had. She was good at it, too. She won awards, and sometimes she got to travel. Well, to work this job she had to move two hours away. She rented a cheap motel room. It had a pool, but it always looked dirty. And my sister and I stayed at Grandma's house, because they thought two schools that year were enough, so I was to finish out the third grade in po-dunk Florida. Did I mention I had like no friends? I think I had maybe two. Kids are fucking mean. And they were always telling me I had an accent. I told them that they were the ones with an accent. Also, I swear that school did not have air conditioning.
We saw Mom on the weekends. Grandma and Grandpa would drive an hour to Daytona Beach -- actually, the Daytona mall, which was disgusting, and full of roaches -- but anyway, that was the halfway point. Grandma would have a bag packed for us, and we would get to hang with Mom and spend the night in her motel. I don't remember anything we did, but I do remember missing my Mom so much that the rest didn't matter. I missed my Mom so much, but I found out a way to see her more. If I was sick, she would come pick me up from school, because she was the only one who could. I was somewhat of a hypochondriac, and I was not a healthy kid anyway -- they were always concerned about me because of the Spherocytosis. It's a hereditary blood disease my Mom had. So, anyway, I could complain about a stomachache or earache or something, and my Mom would come. I wasn't exactly making it up, either. I think I really felt the things I thought I felt.
My stepfather called me last night. I never refer to him that way anymore, though. I'd say for about the last three years, to his face, he's been "Michael", but to everyone else, he's been "Dad". Because that's the way I felt, but also it made things easier. Before that, when I used to call him Michael, everyone would ask about my "real" dad. You get tired, you know?
But although Michael is "Dad", he wasn't always. We hated him, and in writing about my Grandparents I just thought of something I hadn't really thought about. We finished the school year at Grandma's, and my mother got an apartment in a little town called Titusville. It was great; it was several stories, had a pool, and sat on the Banana River. You could see the huge jellyfish looking from all the way up on our floor through the window. The apartment was two bedrooms. Renee and I shared a room, and Beckie shared a room. We met Michael one time. We spent a day at the beach, and it was great. Next thing we knew, though, he lived with us, and he and Mom were sleeping on the floor or a mattress or air mattress or something, but in the living room. And then, not long after that, Renee and I had to move from our room, and share a room with Beckie. A small room with two twin beds. Renee and I had to share one. And Mom and Michael took over the other bedroom. He didn't just take over our space; he also took over our Mom. It turns out they had been dating for awhile, and they must've been pretty serious because a year later we moved again when they bought a house together.
This story isn't about Michael, but suffice to say, you've got five people in an apartment with a lot of issues. Place may as well have been a Molotov cocktail. This is around when I started crying uncontrollably for no reason. I was incapable of understanding why, and I was driving everyone crazy, and that just made me cry more. I remember one time we went out for pizza or something and I starting crying all over my plate, even.
I felt that the world was unfair. By the time I was 10, and maybe because that was the first time we actually lived in a house and in a nice neighborhood, is when I started to realize that I really was different from other people. Physically, I was smaller than everyone. Girls were starting to shave their legs, and I was not even about to think about doing that yet. But more importantly, the had houses, too, but they had grown up in houses, and they had new shoes, and clothes, and there were suddenly "popular girls". People became categorized as cool and not cool, beautiful and not beautiful, things like that. But more importantly, in my brain, those who had parents who were married; those who had not been physically or sexually abused; those who had not been uprooted umpteen times. Those who had friends. I didn't. And my world started to crumble. I stopped trying. I still cried all the time. I started making Cs and Ds and just not doing homework at all, and I had always been an honor roll student before that. The crying and the not doing homework just meant more beatings from Mom and Michael, and being grounded. It was a vicious cycle. It was a dark time, and it got darker still.
Things got worse before they got better. Much worse. For each thing I'm even stating here there's probably another that is unsaid. There's just too much. But all this, two or three times as much, is the stuff that keeps me up at night sometimes. All this, is the stuff that I have been carrying around with me for almost 30 years. All this, these things, when they are stacked up upon themselves, amount to a lot of trash.
When I decided I wanted to play music again recently, I had no idea where my stuff was. All my writing, and all the tablatures, and I had forgotten so much. I looked through a crapload of boxes that are taking up space in our closet, literally, half the closet I realized, plus another huge stack in my corner of the bedroom between a dresser and my nightstand, was full of all this junk I'd been lugging around for years. And last time we moved, I got rid of as much. Next time, it is not coming with me. And there's just as much stuff swimming around in my head, in my heart, in my whole existence, and it is very heavy, and senseless.
My car accident was the beginning of all these realizations. The beginning of wanting to let go. The beginning of wanting a healthy, happy life. The beginning of knowing for once that I was worthy of one, and that I wanted one, and was capable of having one. I certainly did my share of backsliding, but between that, and between a fight I got in at school, I came to a crossroads.
Are you going to be happy, or are you going to be miserable your whole life? Are you going to be healthy, or are you going to keep abusing yourself? Are you gonna be a criminal like your old man? Are you gonna hit people like him? What else are you gonna do?
Then something else hit me. At the same time that it released some of this, it also added on another layer of self-hatred somehow. It's that somehow, my therapist probably brought it to my attention, but somewhere in there, I realized that no one was hitting me anymore. No one had touched me. No one had hit me for a long time. Even people I thought abandoned me; I abandoned them in many ways. It seemed that after so much of that was over the only thing I knew how to do was do it to myself because I didn't know any other way to live or feel. And I was still mourning. I was still so sorry for the little girl. That little girl never had a chance. So many things happened to her, and in such a short number of years, that she didn't know up from down. She made friends with anyone who accepted her. She rebelled against an establishment that she was outcast from since the very beginning.
Michael said, as he had said before, that he was sorry about so many things, that there were things he would take back if he could, but that one thing he never understood about my father, and one thing that he would never do, is leave us. He would always be there for us, and that even though he wasn't my father by blood he always thought of me as his daughter and always would. He said he wasn't sure how I was feeling, but that he didn't know the guy, and didn't know all of my relationship with him, but that he wanted to offer me his condolensces, if that was what I wanted. And that we can talk about it, or not, and he is here for me, and always will be. I thanked him, and told him I love him.
In 2007, my father found my sister and I somehow, on the Internet, like he always did. Every time this happened in my life, I lost my shit. Why? It suddenly makes sense to me. Because just his very presence, his whole being, his existence, his turning up from what seemed to be the underbelly of the Universe, the depths of the other side of good, for me, it was like an earthquake. Shattered glass. And I was the glass. It was the fear. It was the paranoia. It was the trauma of moving every single time he found us.
When he broke down the door to my Grandparents' house, I wasn't quite old enough to understand, but I do remember the loud banging. It was very scary and I was crying. My mother was on the phone to the cops. My sister was in her high chair. I didn't realize that when he came in he was the same person who had been making the loud horrible noise. I reached my arms up and said "Daddy!", and handed him my plate to put away. I thought he was home for dinner. I thought he had come to save us. He threw the plate at my mother, and I saw it shatter against the wall right next to her. She could do nothing as he picked me up, and took Renee out of her high chair, and ran out of the building with us.
That scene has haunted me for my whole life. For many years I could not forgive myself for being happy to see the man and hugging him, and then watching him throw a plate at my Mom. I got over that, but I don't know how and it took a long time. But really, how do you get over something like that?
I only met one other person who had been through this in my childhood. Her name was Kendra, and in sixth grade she came to my school in the middle of the year, and we became instant friends. Our stories were like mirrors, and we would cry together, and tell each other it would be OK. My teacher used to hold these meetings in class called trust groups, and sometimes Kendra or I would poor our hearts out, and everyone would look at us like we were aliens. Kendra, like me, was always afraid that He would come and get her, or she would have to leave again, or that her Mom would be killed. Renee and I were afraid of those things, too. At every school I ever went to, my Mom had to tell the Principal and the staff that No One Under Any Circumstances would be allowed to pick us up from school. The only person who would ever be picking us up would be her. Still, Renee and I were afraid he would come. We once confided in each other that we had devised evacuation plans in our head, all on our own, should Joe Sarelli ever show up in our classroom. Poor Kendra. Our worst fears were realized when one day, she just wasn't there. I imagined she and her mother were on the run again. She was only my friend for a couple months, and I will remember her for the rest of my life. I never remembered her last name, and she wasn't in the yearbook because she was there such a short time, and I don't even think anyone remembers her but me. I've always hoped she's OK.
A lot of stuff, right? It's like keeping a bunch of junk in an attic in case you will ever need it. When will I ever need this shit other than to beat myself up with it? I think I have done enough of that.
Even when I thought I had healed ... It's 2007. I'm in my therapist's office, and I'm crying. It was this one week I'm always referring to. It probably sounds dramatic, but this one week is some sort of marker in time for me. Here I am, narrating, going off about this happened and this happened and this happened, AND my father contacted me. He was like, "So? ... What does that have to do with you?"
It had never occurred to me until then that I could just not respond. That my life wasn't up to him anymore. Nothing was up to him anymore. He couldn't just be in and out whenever. I didn't have to take his lies. I didn't have to fall into his hands.
So, since I had just been burglarized and my roommate was a douche, I moved. Since my Mom was sick, I did what I could to do right by her, and starting trying to do better for my life (other than the fact that I started smoking again then, which I forgive myself for). And as for Joe, nothing. I had nothing for him. My sister Renee was pregnant with my niece Jackie at the time. He had left a number and wanted us to call him. She did that thing where she called but blocked her number from showing up on his caller ID so he wouldn't have it, and she gave him a piece of her mind. I don't even remember everything she said, but she told me. I do remember something though about how she was having a daughter, and he was never going to meet her. He was never ever ever going to have anything to do with his granddaughter's life. And she hated him.
My cousin Kerry actually brought that up last night when we were talking on the phone. Kerry is the only family member on that side that I talk to, although his sister is on my Facebook also. He found us on MySpace years ago, and tried to add me, and I wouldn't add him back, and he tried again, and eventually I perceived him as nonthreatening and trusted that talking to him wouldn't mean information leaking to my father. And in the meantime, my cousin's pretty cool, and I got sort of an inside view of a twisted family I never knew. I also learned that although there's some crazyness they're still a family. Joe was the first of seven brothers and sisters to pass away, and the family is taking it pretty hard. One of my aunts, the youngest, is retarded, and is taking it very hard. She talked to him all the time apparently, and it's hard for her to understand death.
Isn't it for all of us?
I got the news from Kerry on Monday night that Joe had died that morning. I hung up the phone, and the little girl lost her shit. The little girl who lost her daddy. And the grown woman did, too, the angry one who hadn't spoken to her father in nine years.
He tried contacting me since that time in 2007. That time when Renee bitched him out, and Kerry said he actually told his mother about that, and said Renee was right. That was news to me. This man so full of lies. Yesterday, Renee said to me, "I wonder if he has ever told the truth about anything in his life." I did, too.
So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons are like birds, flying always over the mountain
I don't know where to go from here except I've been playing guitar again. I haven't written a song in more than two years, but I am practicing, trying to build my callouses up, and learning some covers. I've been doing a lot of soul-searching about that. First off, I said I didn't like playing sad songs anymore. That's not actually true, I am finding out. Singing and writing was an outlet for me, and I think it still needs to be. I also didn't want to create and multiply negative energy. I was very concerned about that. Not just for me, but for those I play to. Even if some people like it, it might not be good. It might not be healthy. I also doubted my ability to play the instrument and sing, so the music snob in me also was knocking me down, telling myself I suck, telling myself there are many shitty musicians out there, and I was contributing to the ranks. It's funny, because I remember thinking the opposite years ago. I thought, "If all these jokers can play, then why can't I?"
At some point, I came to hate my music for another reason. Because all my songs were about pain and heartbreak and rejection. I thought they were about boys, but I decided somewhere that they weren't. I decided they were all recycled renditions of the pain felt by that little girl who lost her father. And then I decided I was a stereotype. I lost my shit last night like I have every day since Monday and my friend Lisa picked me up, and I hung out with her as she packed for her move to New York. I let all this stuff out. I've never told anyone everything, and this isn't everything, but it's enough. But that's part of the problem. Because these things I have carried with me my whole life have alienated me from almost everyone I've ever known. I've had friends for years and years who don't know any of this stuff at all. I take it all by myself, and I think it adds to the loneliness and emptyness I have felt for as long as I remember.
Now, I am not as lonely and empty. I am happier than I've ever been, and I say that all the time. I have a wonderful husband. I have a wonderful dog. I have a wonderful life. It has it's hardships, but mostly, it's wonderful.
But I keep finding reasons to hate myself, you know? The hate runs deep and it's very sneaky. So sneaky I don't even know all the time. Here I was thinking I didn't want to play my music because I was healed, or at least I kept saying that, but the real reason was because I couldn't take myself seriously anymore. Because when I played I just thought about where all those songs came from. I told Lisa that I'm just another girl with daddy issues and a guitar.
What if I don't want to be that? What if that's what I am? What if I play sad songs because that's the songs that are in me? What if I am just a folksinger. Someone who writes and loves to sing and picked up guitar along the way so I could express myself?
Lisa said I'm not a cliche. Lisa said people can relate to that stuff. Lisa said if it helps to write it, I should, because I need to get it out. Now that I think of it, LaShic told me that once, too. She said, Cara, who do you talk to about these things? Do you have a journal? Maybe you should write it. You've got to get it out. Lisa said she always liked my songs, and you know what? I did, too. I found one last night that I had written five years ago, and it was just as relevant to how I am feeling right now to how I was then. It came from me. I shouldn't throw away the things that come from me. I'm not going to do that anymore.
Lisa said I need to break that tie that I've created -- the tie that binds my father and my music, because that is not really true. And if it ever was, it is not anymore. It doesn't have to be because he is dead, and I need to move on with my life.
There is not going to be a funeral. He is going to be cremated and buried in St. Mary's Cemetary outside Chicago with his parents. They say he never wanted a funeral. Maybe one day I will visit his grave. I wasn't able to forgive him while he was alive, but I hope I can someday.
As tired as I am, I can't wrap this up without saying one more thing. I have said that this is a man like no other in my life. I have loved him, liked him, and hated him with everything I've got, and I almost let it tear me apart several times. The old me would have used this to go on a drinking binge or not get out of bed for three weeks, but not now.
Still, he wasn't all bad. As much as I would sometimes call him evil, as much as I would sometimes wish he were dead, especially once my mom got sick. I was like, that motherfucker better not outlive my mother, you know? Still ... he had a good side. My cousin told me last night that he wanted me to know that. That they found out he had all these friends he'd made out at the V.A. in West Virginia, where he lived. They were really mourning his loss. His girlfriend, too. That he had helped these guys find jobs, and helped them with other things. I'd never really heard of him doing anything nice for anyone out of the seemingly kindness of his heart in my life.
My father was a Vietnam vet. He served in Okinawa, though. He was a marine. I don't really know if it's true or not, but he once told me that he didn't actually have to do anything while he was there. He said he made friends with the higher-ups and played the organ a lot. There was a chapel there, and he played for that, too.
Of the very few talks we had, I miss the small talk the most. I miss how this one time he told me he could never drink. He thought he'd be cool to have things like scotch and soda, but they'd make him puke his guts out. I miss when we would talk about the movies. He loved movies. Not so surprising, being Italian, we both loved Mafia movies. His favorite director was Martin Scorcese, or at least, he liked him a lot. He said Martin wrote the way things really were. He asked me if I'd seen Casino and when I said I hadn't, he said I had to see it. I told him I liked to play pool and he told me to watch The Color of Money. I told him I liked old movies and he told me to watch The Maltese Falcon. I watched them all.
He was sort of a history buff, too. He liked to give me history about when his grandparents came to Chicago from Italy. His views weren't always on solid ground. He was into WWII. He was like, "Mussolini!" Like he was cool or something. But actually I learned about Mussolni in my propaganda class, and right or wrong, he was kind of a badass if you can say that about a Fascist dictator. Some of these things have double-edges. Like the day he kidnapped us all those years ago, he did that on Dec. 7. Pearl Harbor. He did that on purpose. What a nut.
The fact that he was so ridiculous in some ways still makes me laugh. The night before he died, oddly, I was lying awake thinking about the time I "met" him when I was turning 21. He drove down from West Virginia. Renee and her boyfriend at the time, Wes, and I met him at House of Pies on Westheimer. He had a big curly Italian mop of hair. He wore a black shirt with the neck sorta open and you could see curly chest hair poking out, and he wore a heringbone gold chain. And the way he sat. He was like so proud, you know, arrogant, almost, I can't explain it. I know he was real happy seeing Renee and I and all, but yeah. He gave us both jewelry boxes with necklaces in them, and under the necklaces, there was money. He counted out hundred dollar bills on the table. He took one bill at a time and pounded them on the table while he counted: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 ..." $1200. Renee got $500. He said the extra $700 for me was from his Vet benefits. He had told me before that I was entitled to money for college since he was a Vietnam vet. He had me fill out a form to get it so I could mail it to him. I never knew if the money was really from that, or if it was his way of conning me to get my social security number.
We found out not long after that about the cell phone. My mom applied for a car and was denied because there was like a $2000 cell phone bill in her name. Except it wasn't in her name. It was in the name she had when she was married to him. She hadn't used that name since 1983. Add to the fact that the account was opened in the same city in WV where he lived, and we knew it was him. Cops couldn't do anything though because they said it was conspiracy to commit fraud, and that he had to have a female accomplice to do it; and since they didn't know who the female accomplice was, they couldn't hit him with a conspiracy charge. It took my mom two or three years to dispute it and finally get it off her credit. I also have an exceptionally large cell phone bill on my credit. I have never done anything about it, but it is in collection. Renee got rejection letters from cell phone companies that she didn't apply to.
But to bring it back, the stuff I need to remember, the conversations I cling to, are the ones where I liked him. I'm just as sad about losing that than anything. And even though he fucked everyone over, he was pretty clever. Pisses me off. Kerry's point when he talked to me was that he wasn't all good or bad. I told him I knew that. The good part was the one I loved and the bad part was the one that barred him from access to me eventually.
I spent the last couple years asking myself if I had any last words for him. I had a feeling that one day he would die, and I would get the call. I was waiting for that call. I fished inside myself to see if there was anything that needed to be said before that time came. I never could think of anything. And even if I could, I never thought it would really benefit either of us. And I never had the emotional energy. If he hadn't changed in nearly 20 years, what reason did I have to believe that he would be any different in another 10? None. And so there was nothing. I thought I was still trying to decide, but in the end, I had already decided.
Joseph Edward Sarelli, you were a bastard but somehow I loved you. I hope now that you are dead, I can forgive you.
He had a stomach aneurysm. I know he felt pain but I don't know for how long. They found him in his car, pulled over, with a half-changed tire.
I thought he was immortal or something. I can't explain it. I thought he would never die, but I wanted him to. At least, I said so many times. He had more than one heart attack, I heard. He drank a pot of coffee a day and smoked two packs of unfiltered Luckies. At least, back when I was talking to him.
So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons are like birds, flying upward over the mountain
For such a strong presence he's always had in my life, I am almost in disbelief in that I had not spoken to him for the last eight or nine years. It's just that he's always been there, lurking in the shadows of my mind. And he's always been the thing I would want to protect myself from. Keeping a fake name on Facebook. Taking down my MySpace music page. Not wanting to publish my information on the UH Web site. I actually avoided it for awhile. On my department's page, I was responsible for the updates, and so when I would update the staff page, I always left my information off. The email address I checked was still there for the front desk, but not mine. One day, someone added me, though.
He never stopped trying. I received emails at my work email once it was published. Before then it was MySpace messages. Before then, he even called the business office at The Daily Cougar. Years ago, I had a talk with the Director of Student Publications, and some other people. I didn't want to but I thought it was necessary for my safety. I told all these people that if anyone got a call, to not give out any information about me; to not even confirm that I worked there. He tried other things, too. I once found an article I wrote on the DC's Web site. It was my review of Carlene Carter's CD, Stronger. I really related to that album. Carter talked in an interview about all this stuff she'd been through: heroin addiction, and losing her longtime lover, and her sister, and her stepfather. Just making the record was a real victory for her, not to mention cathartic. He read my story, and he put some comment on it at the bottom of the page. It had his real name there. One time he wrote to me about forgiveness. Another he simply said, "I need contact." Another time it was more like a threat: "Get it together, Sarelli."
No, YOU fucking get it together. You know?
I never said anything back. But for some reason, that line stuck with me. Sometimes, even now, when I'm in a rough spot, I say that calmly to myself. Get it together, Sarelli. Ain't it funny.
My father is dead and somewhere a little girl is crying over that. She's crying because she lost her daddy. But what the woman in her knows, is that he's been long long gone for awhile.
I wonder what parts of him are me. Half the crazy. Half the sense of humor. Half the smart ass. Maybe more. But I'm not like him, and I am already better than him. He died at 56, and I am barely over half that, and I am better than him. I am stronger, I am wiser, and perhaps more importantly, I am honest. I own up to my mistakes. I don't think the whole world is against me. I don't think people owe me something. And I don't prey on people. I don't manipulate people. I don't steal. I don't gamble.
So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons could be birds, taken broken up to the mountain
I hated him. I hated him, but I also liked him, and I loved him. This made things even more difficult. How can you like the man who beat your mother up in a ditch, and tried to gauge out her eyes with his fingers, and she had eye infections for six months? Who cheated on your mother, and would even come home with hickeys on his neck? Who, at the same time, accused her of cheating on him, and denied that their second child was his? Who actually made your mother make an appointment to abort your sister, but she couldn't; she knew if she put off the appointment until she was past 12 weeks they wouldn't do it, so that's what she did. Could you love the man, who in a delusional jealous rage threatened to abort his own baby himself with a coat hanger? Who isolated her until she had no one? Who would go to horse track and gamble all they had and more. My mother had to declare bankruptsy at 24 with three kids. She lost her house, her car, everything. Then even when she had nothing he sold their food stamps to his mother, and took that money to the track, too. He still loved to play the horses. One time he told me he had $30,000.00 one day and nothing the next. Only, he said it like he was bragging. Could you love a man knowing that not only did her fuck up your life, but he also had another daughter six years younger than you that he never supported or had anything to do with whatsoever? I didn't know about Christina until I was 20. I wanted to find her immediately. She and Renee found each other on the Internet a couple years later, miraculously, through some Italian heritage messageboard.
What about my grandparents? He once broke down their door and came in and took us. Dropped us off eventually in the back of my mom's cousin's car at a red light in a busy Chicago intersection. I was so disoriented. I just remember hearing the sirens. I remember the noise at the door. I remember so much it hurts. Too much. A lot of memories have faded, and I am no longer an insomniac, but my sleep is often interrupted by thoughts and memories that have echoed for years and there seems to be almost no escape. I can redirect, but they always come back.
What about the rest of my life? It's all his fault. So much of it is. The loneliness. The moving around. Having to live in the projects. The abuse. If daddy hadn't been a fucking nut job, maybe mommy wouldn't have had to leave him. Maybe she wouldn't have had to work all the time. Maybe we wouldn't have had to live in the projects, in black neighborhoods where our bikes and things would get stolen and the kids would throw mud at our windows. Maybe we wouldn't have had to live in the ghetto of Chicago, where there were bars on everything, and you were afraid to walk to the corner store because of the Cubans that liked to chase you and threaten you and corner you. They once waited for me outside the store and cornered me. I started to run, and then my babysitter, who was watching from the apartment's third story window, yelled and scared them off.
And maybe if we hadn't lived in that project then we wouldn't have met that family that eventually came to watch us while my mom was away at work, and maybe we wouldn't have had to experience the physical, mental, and sexual abuse that came along with that. I still remember my sister Renee with a bloody nose, and the father telling my mother that she fell down. I remember him having us watch as he hit her and accusing me of smiling and making me eat a bar of soap. That crazy fuck. He would always make us sleep on our stomachs and he would come into the room once in awhile, and say "Fakers," and most of the time we were faking sleep, because we were afraid, but even if we weren't we'd be awake in a moment, because he would say that and then slap us real hard on the ass, and it stung. And you were afraid to move. I fucking hate that man, but more I hated my dad. Because I blamed him for that, too.
I blamed him for something else, that I am only now in his death going to be released from except it is going to take a long time, and that is having to live in fear. Why did I go to 11 schools in three states? Because, after that fateful night when he came and broke down my grandparents' door and took us out into the Chicago winter with no jackets, we were all afraid he would do it again. Add that to his violent history, and we weren't entirely sure that he wasn't capable of hurting us or even killing my mother. Or grandfather. These are the things that go through your head. Even when you are four and six and eight years old. Kids understand a lot of things. I understood a lot. Once, he called my house when I was eight, and I answered the phone, and he said, "Cara, this is your father." And I slammed the phone down in his face, and ran out of the house. When I told my mother, who had recently been laid off, she freaked the hell out, told our landlord the story and asked that he let us out of the lease and not give out any information if anyone asked. Then we stayed at her boyfriend's house and then her aunt's house and she got everything ready and packed up the car and we drove to Florida.
That was a really rough time, too. I had to move from a suburb of Chicago where I went to a relatively good school, to po-dunk fucking Florida, to live with my grandparents, and my sister and I shared the extra room. There were really good parts of that, but there was some shit, too. My grandmother took care of me and Renee. We had not really had that. It wasn't my mom's fault. She was just busy and clueless at times, but did the best she could with what resources she had. Grandma fixed my hair every day, and helped me pick out my clothes. She made oatmeal and waffles and things for breakfast, and packed me a lunch every day. Grandma made sure I did my homework every day. And Grandpa, he taught me how to fish. He took us for boatrides. He taught me some card games. He quizzed me on the state capitals I memorized from the back of the dictionary. And perhaps most importantly, he made me laugh.
Mom found a job working for a company that did work for NASA. To this day it was the best job she ever had. She was good at it, too. She won awards, and sometimes she got to travel. Well, to work this job she had to move two hours away. She rented a cheap motel room. It had a pool, but it always looked dirty. And my sister and I stayed at Grandma's house, because they thought two schools that year were enough, so I was to finish out the third grade in po-dunk Florida. Did I mention I had like no friends? I think I had maybe two. Kids are fucking mean. And they were always telling me I had an accent. I told them that they were the ones with an accent. Also, I swear that school did not have air conditioning.
We saw Mom on the weekends. Grandma and Grandpa would drive an hour to Daytona Beach -- actually, the Daytona mall, which was disgusting, and full of roaches -- but anyway, that was the halfway point. Grandma would have a bag packed for us, and we would get to hang with Mom and spend the night in her motel. I don't remember anything we did, but I do remember missing my Mom so much that the rest didn't matter. I missed my Mom so much, but I found out a way to see her more. If I was sick, she would come pick me up from school, because she was the only one who could. I was somewhat of a hypochondriac, and I was not a healthy kid anyway -- they were always concerned about me because of the Spherocytosis. It's a hereditary blood disease my Mom had. So, anyway, I could complain about a stomachache or earache or something, and my Mom would come. I wasn't exactly making it up, either. I think I really felt the things I thought I felt.
My stepfather called me last night. I never refer to him that way anymore, though. I'd say for about the last three years, to his face, he's been "Michael", but to everyone else, he's been "Dad". Because that's the way I felt, but also it made things easier. Before that, when I used to call him Michael, everyone would ask about my "real" dad. You get tired, you know?
But although Michael is "Dad", he wasn't always. We hated him, and in writing about my Grandparents I just thought of something I hadn't really thought about. We finished the school year at Grandma's, and my mother got an apartment in a little town called Titusville. It was great; it was several stories, had a pool, and sat on the Banana River. You could see the huge jellyfish looking from all the way up on our floor through the window. The apartment was two bedrooms. Renee and I shared a room, and Beckie shared a room. We met Michael one time. We spent a day at the beach, and it was great. Next thing we knew, though, he lived with us, and he and Mom were sleeping on the floor or a mattress or air mattress or something, but in the living room. And then, not long after that, Renee and I had to move from our room, and share a room with Beckie. A small room with two twin beds. Renee and I had to share one. And Mom and Michael took over the other bedroom. He didn't just take over our space; he also took over our Mom. It turns out they had been dating for awhile, and they must've been pretty serious because a year later we moved again when they bought a house together.
This story isn't about Michael, but suffice to say, you've got five people in an apartment with a lot of issues. Place may as well have been a Molotov cocktail. This is around when I started crying uncontrollably for no reason. I was incapable of understanding why, and I was driving everyone crazy, and that just made me cry more. I remember one time we went out for pizza or something and I starting crying all over my plate, even.
I felt that the world was unfair. By the time I was 10, and maybe because that was the first time we actually lived in a house and in a nice neighborhood, is when I started to realize that I really was different from other people. Physically, I was smaller than everyone. Girls were starting to shave their legs, and I was not even about to think about doing that yet. But more importantly, the had houses, too, but they had grown up in houses, and they had new shoes, and clothes, and there were suddenly "popular girls". People became categorized as cool and not cool, beautiful and not beautiful, things like that. But more importantly, in my brain, those who had parents who were married; those who had not been physically or sexually abused; those who had not been uprooted umpteen times. Those who had friends. I didn't. And my world started to crumble. I stopped trying. I still cried all the time. I started making Cs and Ds and just not doing homework at all, and I had always been an honor roll student before that. The crying and the not doing homework just meant more beatings from Mom and Michael, and being grounded. It was a vicious cycle. It was a dark time, and it got darker still.
Things got worse before they got better. Much worse. For each thing I'm even stating here there's probably another that is unsaid. There's just too much. But all this, two or three times as much, is the stuff that keeps me up at night sometimes. All this, is the stuff that I have been carrying around with me for almost 30 years. All this, these things, when they are stacked up upon themselves, amount to a lot of trash.
When I decided I wanted to play music again recently, I had no idea where my stuff was. All my writing, and all the tablatures, and I had forgotten so much. I looked through a crapload of boxes that are taking up space in our closet, literally, half the closet I realized, plus another huge stack in my corner of the bedroom between a dresser and my nightstand, was full of all this junk I'd been lugging around for years. And last time we moved, I got rid of as much. Next time, it is not coming with me. And there's just as much stuff swimming around in my head, in my heart, in my whole existence, and it is very heavy, and senseless.
My car accident was the beginning of all these realizations. The beginning of wanting to let go. The beginning of wanting a healthy, happy life. The beginning of knowing for once that I was worthy of one, and that I wanted one, and was capable of having one. I certainly did my share of backsliding, but between that, and between a fight I got in at school, I came to a crossroads.
Are you going to be happy, or are you going to be miserable your whole life? Are you going to be healthy, or are you going to keep abusing yourself? Are you gonna be a criminal like your old man? Are you gonna hit people like him? What else are you gonna do?
Then something else hit me. At the same time that it released some of this, it also added on another layer of self-hatred somehow. It's that somehow, my therapist probably brought it to my attention, but somewhere in there, I realized that no one was hitting me anymore. No one had touched me. No one had hit me for a long time. Even people I thought abandoned me; I abandoned them in many ways. It seemed that after so much of that was over the only thing I knew how to do was do it to myself because I didn't know any other way to live or feel. And I was still mourning. I was still so sorry for the little girl. That little girl never had a chance. So many things happened to her, and in such a short number of years, that she didn't know up from down. She made friends with anyone who accepted her. She rebelled against an establishment that she was outcast from since the very beginning.
Michael said, as he had said before, that he was sorry about so many things, that there were things he would take back if he could, but that one thing he never understood about my father, and one thing that he would never do, is leave us. He would always be there for us, and that even though he wasn't my father by blood he always thought of me as his daughter and always would. He said he wasn't sure how I was feeling, but that he didn't know the guy, and didn't know all of my relationship with him, but that he wanted to offer me his condolensces, if that was what I wanted. And that we can talk about it, or not, and he is here for me, and always will be. I thanked him, and told him I love him.
In 2007, my father found my sister and I somehow, on the Internet, like he always did. Every time this happened in my life, I lost my shit. Why? It suddenly makes sense to me. Because just his very presence, his whole being, his existence, his turning up from what seemed to be the underbelly of the Universe, the depths of the other side of good, for me, it was like an earthquake. Shattered glass. And I was the glass. It was the fear. It was the paranoia. It was the trauma of moving every single time he found us.
When he broke down the door to my Grandparents' house, I wasn't quite old enough to understand, but I do remember the loud banging. It was very scary and I was crying. My mother was on the phone to the cops. My sister was in her high chair. I didn't realize that when he came in he was the same person who had been making the loud horrible noise. I reached my arms up and said "Daddy!", and handed him my plate to put away. I thought he was home for dinner. I thought he had come to save us. He threw the plate at my mother, and I saw it shatter against the wall right next to her. She could do nothing as he picked me up, and took Renee out of her high chair, and ran out of the building with us.
That scene has haunted me for my whole life. For many years I could not forgive myself for being happy to see the man and hugging him, and then watching him throw a plate at my Mom. I got over that, but I don't know how and it took a long time. But really, how do you get over something like that?
I only met one other person who had been through this in my childhood. Her name was Kendra, and in sixth grade she came to my school in the middle of the year, and we became instant friends. Our stories were like mirrors, and we would cry together, and tell each other it would be OK. My teacher used to hold these meetings in class called trust groups, and sometimes Kendra or I would poor our hearts out, and everyone would look at us like we were aliens. Kendra, like me, was always afraid that He would come and get her, or she would have to leave again, or that her Mom would be killed. Renee and I were afraid of those things, too. At every school I ever went to, my Mom had to tell the Principal and the staff that No One Under Any Circumstances would be allowed to pick us up from school. The only person who would ever be picking us up would be her. Still, Renee and I were afraid he would come. We once confided in each other that we had devised evacuation plans in our head, all on our own, should Joe Sarelli ever show up in our classroom. Poor Kendra. Our worst fears were realized when one day, she just wasn't there. I imagined she and her mother were on the run again. She was only my friend for a couple months, and I will remember her for the rest of my life. I never remembered her last name, and she wasn't in the yearbook because she was there such a short time, and I don't even think anyone remembers her but me. I've always hoped she's OK.
A lot of stuff, right? It's like keeping a bunch of junk in an attic in case you will ever need it. When will I ever need this shit other than to beat myself up with it? I think I have done enough of that.
Even when I thought I had healed ... It's 2007. I'm in my therapist's office, and I'm crying. It was this one week I'm always referring to. It probably sounds dramatic, but this one week is some sort of marker in time for me. Here I am, narrating, going off about this happened and this happened and this happened, AND my father contacted me. He was like, "So? ... What does that have to do with you?"
It had never occurred to me until then that I could just not respond. That my life wasn't up to him anymore. Nothing was up to him anymore. He couldn't just be in and out whenever. I didn't have to take his lies. I didn't have to fall into his hands.
So, since I had just been burglarized and my roommate was a douche, I moved. Since my Mom was sick, I did what I could to do right by her, and starting trying to do better for my life (other than the fact that I started smoking again then, which I forgive myself for). And as for Joe, nothing. I had nothing for him. My sister Renee was pregnant with my niece Jackie at the time. He had left a number and wanted us to call him. She did that thing where she called but blocked her number from showing up on his caller ID so he wouldn't have it, and she gave him a piece of her mind. I don't even remember everything she said, but she told me. I do remember something though about how she was having a daughter, and he was never going to meet her. He was never ever ever going to have anything to do with his granddaughter's life. And she hated him.
My cousin Kerry actually brought that up last night when we were talking on the phone. Kerry is the only family member on that side that I talk to, although his sister is on my Facebook also. He found us on MySpace years ago, and tried to add me, and I wouldn't add him back, and he tried again, and eventually I perceived him as nonthreatening and trusted that talking to him wouldn't mean information leaking to my father. And in the meantime, my cousin's pretty cool, and I got sort of an inside view of a twisted family I never knew. I also learned that although there's some crazyness they're still a family. Joe was the first of seven brothers and sisters to pass away, and the family is taking it pretty hard. One of my aunts, the youngest, is retarded, and is taking it very hard. She talked to him all the time apparently, and it's hard for her to understand death.
Isn't it for all of us?
I got the news from Kerry on Monday night that Joe had died that morning. I hung up the phone, and the little girl lost her shit. The little girl who lost her daddy. And the grown woman did, too, the angry one who hadn't spoken to her father in nine years.
He tried contacting me since that time in 2007. That time when Renee bitched him out, and Kerry said he actually told his mother about that, and said Renee was right. That was news to me. This man so full of lies. Yesterday, Renee said to me, "I wonder if he has ever told the truth about anything in his life." I did, too.
So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons are like birds, flying always over the mountain
I don't know where to go from here except I've been playing guitar again. I haven't written a song in more than two years, but I am practicing, trying to build my callouses up, and learning some covers. I've been doing a lot of soul-searching about that. First off, I said I didn't like playing sad songs anymore. That's not actually true, I am finding out. Singing and writing was an outlet for me, and I think it still needs to be. I also didn't want to create and multiply negative energy. I was very concerned about that. Not just for me, but for those I play to. Even if some people like it, it might not be good. It might not be healthy. I also doubted my ability to play the instrument and sing, so the music snob in me also was knocking me down, telling myself I suck, telling myself there are many shitty musicians out there, and I was contributing to the ranks. It's funny, because I remember thinking the opposite years ago. I thought, "If all these jokers can play, then why can't I?"
At some point, I came to hate my music for another reason. Because all my songs were about pain and heartbreak and rejection. I thought they were about boys, but I decided somewhere that they weren't. I decided they were all recycled renditions of the pain felt by that little girl who lost her father. And then I decided I was a stereotype. I lost my shit last night like I have every day since Monday and my friend Lisa picked me up, and I hung out with her as she packed for her move to New York. I let all this stuff out. I've never told anyone everything, and this isn't everything, but it's enough. But that's part of the problem. Because these things I have carried with me my whole life have alienated me from almost everyone I've ever known. I've had friends for years and years who don't know any of this stuff at all. I take it all by myself, and I think it adds to the loneliness and emptyness I have felt for as long as I remember.
Now, I am not as lonely and empty. I am happier than I've ever been, and I say that all the time. I have a wonderful husband. I have a wonderful dog. I have a wonderful life. It has it's hardships, but mostly, it's wonderful.
But I keep finding reasons to hate myself, you know? The hate runs deep and it's very sneaky. So sneaky I don't even know all the time. Here I was thinking I didn't want to play my music because I was healed, or at least I kept saying that, but the real reason was because I couldn't take myself seriously anymore. Because when I played I just thought about where all those songs came from. I told Lisa that I'm just another girl with daddy issues and a guitar.
What if I don't want to be that? What if that's what I am? What if I play sad songs because that's the songs that are in me? What if I am just a folksinger. Someone who writes and loves to sing and picked up guitar along the way so I could express myself?
Lisa said I'm not a cliche. Lisa said people can relate to that stuff. Lisa said if it helps to write it, I should, because I need to get it out. Now that I think of it, LaShic told me that once, too. She said, Cara, who do you talk to about these things? Do you have a journal? Maybe you should write it. You've got to get it out. Lisa said she always liked my songs, and you know what? I did, too. I found one last night that I had written five years ago, and it was just as relevant to how I am feeling right now to how I was then. It came from me. I shouldn't throw away the things that come from me. I'm not going to do that anymore.
Lisa said I need to break that tie that I've created -- the tie that binds my father and my music, because that is not really true. And if it ever was, it is not anymore. It doesn't have to be because he is dead, and I need to move on with my life.
There is not going to be a funeral. He is going to be cremated and buried in St. Mary's Cemetary outside Chicago with his parents. They say he never wanted a funeral. Maybe one day I will visit his grave. I wasn't able to forgive him while he was alive, but I hope I can someday.
As tired as I am, I can't wrap this up without saying one more thing. I have said that this is a man like no other in my life. I have loved him, liked him, and hated him with everything I've got, and I almost let it tear me apart several times. The old me would have used this to go on a drinking binge or not get out of bed for three weeks, but not now.
Still, he wasn't all bad. As much as I would sometimes call him evil, as much as I would sometimes wish he were dead, especially once my mom got sick. I was like, that motherfucker better not outlive my mother, you know? Still ... he had a good side. My cousin told me last night that he wanted me to know that. That they found out he had all these friends he'd made out at the V.A. in West Virginia, where he lived. They were really mourning his loss. His girlfriend, too. That he had helped these guys find jobs, and helped them with other things. I'd never really heard of him doing anything nice for anyone out of the seemingly kindness of his heart in my life.
My father was a Vietnam vet. He served in Okinawa, though. He was a marine. I don't really know if it's true or not, but he once told me that he didn't actually have to do anything while he was there. He said he made friends with the higher-ups and played the organ a lot. There was a chapel there, and he played for that, too.
Of the very few talks we had, I miss the small talk the most. I miss how this one time he told me he could never drink. He thought he'd be cool to have things like scotch and soda, but they'd make him puke his guts out. I miss when we would talk about the movies. He loved movies. Not so surprising, being Italian, we both loved Mafia movies. His favorite director was Martin Scorcese, or at least, he liked him a lot. He said Martin wrote the way things really were. He asked me if I'd seen Casino and when I said I hadn't, he said I had to see it. I told him I liked to play pool and he told me to watch The Color of Money. I told him I liked old movies and he told me to watch The Maltese Falcon. I watched them all.
He was sort of a history buff, too. He liked to give me history about when his grandparents came to Chicago from Italy. His views weren't always on solid ground. He was into WWII. He was like, "Mussolini!" Like he was cool or something. But actually I learned about Mussolni in my propaganda class, and right or wrong, he was kind of a badass if you can say that about a Fascist dictator. Some of these things have double-edges. Like the day he kidnapped us all those years ago, he did that on Dec. 7. Pearl Harbor. He did that on purpose. What a nut.
The fact that he was so ridiculous in some ways still makes me laugh. The night before he died, oddly, I was lying awake thinking about the time I "met" him when I was turning 21. He drove down from West Virginia. Renee and her boyfriend at the time, Wes, and I met him at House of Pies on Westheimer. He had a big curly Italian mop of hair. He wore a black shirt with the neck sorta open and you could see curly chest hair poking out, and he wore a heringbone gold chain. And the way he sat. He was like so proud, you know, arrogant, almost, I can't explain it. I know he was real happy seeing Renee and I and all, but yeah. He gave us both jewelry boxes with necklaces in them, and under the necklaces, there was money. He counted out hundred dollar bills on the table. He took one bill at a time and pounded them on the table while he counted: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 ..." $1200. Renee got $500. He said the extra $700 for me was from his Vet benefits. He had told me before that I was entitled to money for college since he was a Vietnam vet. He had me fill out a form to get it so I could mail it to him. I never knew if the money was really from that, or if it was his way of conning me to get my social security number.
We found out not long after that about the cell phone. My mom applied for a car and was denied because there was like a $2000 cell phone bill in her name. Except it wasn't in her name. It was in the name she had when she was married to him. She hadn't used that name since 1983. Add to the fact that the account was opened in the same city in WV where he lived, and we knew it was him. Cops couldn't do anything though because they said it was conspiracy to commit fraud, and that he had to have a female accomplice to do it; and since they didn't know who the female accomplice was, they couldn't hit him with a conspiracy charge. It took my mom two or three years to dispute it and finally get it off her credit. I also have an exceptionally large cell phone bill on my credit. I have never done anything about it, but it is in collection. Renee got rejection letters from cell phone companies that she didn't apply to.
But to bring it back, the stuff I need to remember, the conversations I cling to, are the ones where I liked him. I'm just as sad about losing that than anything. And even though he fucked everyone over, he was pretty clever. Pisses me off. Kerry's point when he talked to me was that he wasn't all good or bad. I told him I knew that. The good part was the one I loved and the bad part was the one that barred him from access to me eventually.
I spent the last couple years asking myself if I had any last words for him. I had a feeling that one day he would die, and I would get the call. I was waiting for that call. I fished inside myself to see if there was anything that needed to be said before that time came. I never could think of anything. And even if I could, I never thought it would really benefit either of us. And I never had the emotional energy. If he hadn't changed in nearly 20 years, what reason did I have to believe that he would be any different in another 10? None. And so there was nothing. I thought I was still trying to decide, but in the end, I had already decided.
Joseph Edward Sarelli, you were a bastard but somehow I loved you. I hope now that you are dead, I can forgive you.
Labels: Abuse, Deadbeat Dads, Depression, Healing, Iron and Wine, Movies
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