By Whitney...
Some stories are too hard to tell in the way they need to be told. Many of the things that happened when I was young are etched vividly in my mind and I am able to remember even minute details. But some of our stories were so traumatic that, while I remember what happened, my mind has shut out some of the story because it was just too much. This is one of those stories. I had to have my mother help fill in some of the details because I want to be honest and open and I knew I could not trust my recollection this time. I appreciate her willingness to talk about something that was terrifying for her in order to help me. Once again, she is taking care of me.
My parents divorced the summer of 1979 when I was twelve years old. Daddy did not take the divorce well, although my mom really had no choice but to get us out of the situation. At that time, he was constantly drunk, even drinking while at work. He had become more violent and she feared for our safety if we stayed. But Daddy was not at all in agreement with her divorcing him and he let it be known. There were many late night phone calls threatening everything from burning down our house with us in it, to kidnapping me from school. Daddy didn't want me, he wanted to hurt my mother in any way that he could because with his warped way of drunken thinking, she had hurt him first by making him leave our home. He constantly told my mom that he was going to "blow her head off" the first chance he had and she believed him. He would drive slowly by our house at night, drunk and intimidating. My mother started sleeping in the front living room on the couch, with a pistol by her side, never sleeping more than a few hours a night because she kept getting up to check all the doors and windows. She was fearful for our lives. I knew she was scared, but I had no idea just how terrified she was, because she was protecting me. When Daddy was drunk, he was capable of anything. Once he was sober, he would have been sorry, but that would not have brought either of us back.
At that time, we attended a small Methodist church in the country. Due to the threats Daddy was making, our minister and his wife had begun following us home after each service to be sure we were safe. Most nights, everything was fine, but this night was different. This night my mother knew as soon as she opened the door that something was very wrong, because she could hear the window unit air conditioner in the upstairs bedroom running. She knew, without a doubt, that it had not been on when we left. In desperate fear, my mother reached underneath the couch for her pistol and, with me on her heels, walked slowly up the wooden staircase. It seemed like such a long walk up those creaky stairs. My heart was pounding and I know hers was too. We had no idea of what we would find, or if we would find anything at all. We gingerly walked into the room. At first, everything seemed in order, but suddenly my dad rose up, facing us, from where he had been hiding between the wall and the bed. My mother pointed the pistol at him, but as soon as she realized he was unarmed, she lowered it and yelled for me to go call the police. My dad, in his drunken slurred speech, said, "She can't call. I cut the phone lines." And he had. So there we were, the three of us, no longer a family, but instead players in a horrifying, crazy situation. In sheer terror, my mother and I ran downstairs to get our minister who had been waiting in his car outside. My dad was right behind us. He burst through the front door, almost knocking down our minister, as he ran out into the darkness.
At some point the police were called. We found out that Daddy had borrowed a crowbar from our next door neighbor and pried open the back door, after cutting the phone lines, all in preparation to be in hiding in our house when we came home. I don't know why our neighbors loaned him a crowbar, but I am sure he had a convincing story as to why he needed one. The police did nothing. Even though my parents were divorced, the house was in my mother's name only, and my dad had clearly broken in, they said it was a "domestic issue" and they would not arrest him. The lack of police support was something that I didn't remember. I cannot imagine how utterly scared my mother had to have been, knowing that even the police were not going to help protect us.
My mother recently told me that she was not sure what she would have done if he had been armed that night. She said she knew she could never shoot him in front of me. The truth is, if he had been armed, she probably would not have even had a chance to shoot first. He was a crazed man at that time, and he had been drunk for days. If my dad had a gun that night, I know without a doubt, that my mother and I would not be here today. My mother always protected me and she did it well. She remains an incredibly strong lady and I am proud to be her daughter.
Some stories are too hard to tell in the way they need to be told. Many of the things that happened when I was young are etched vividly in my mind and I am able to remember even minute details. But some of our stories were so traumatic that, while I remember what happened, my mind has shut out some of the story because it was just too much. This is one of those stories. I had to have my mother help fill in some of the details because I want to be honest and open and I knew I could not trust my recollection this time. I appreciate her willingness to talk about something that was terrifying for her in order to help me. Once again, she is taking care of me.
My parents divorced the summer of 1979 when I was twelve years old. Daddy did not take the divorce well, although my mom really had no choice but to get us out of the situation. At that time, he was constantly drunk, even drinking while at work. He had become more violent and she feared for our safety if we stayed. But Daddy was not at all in agreement with her divorcing him and he let it be known. There were many late night phone calls threatening everything from burning down our house with us in it, to kidnapping me from school. Daddy didn't want me, he wanted to hurt my mother in any way that he could because with his warped way of drunken thinking, she had hurt him first by making him leave our home. He constantly told my mom that he was going to "blow her head off" the first chance he had and she believed him. He would drive slowly by our house at night, drunk and intimidating. My mother started sleeping in the front living room on the couch, with a pistol by her side, never sleeping more than a few hours a night because she kept getting up to check all the doors and windows. She was fearful for our lives. I knew she was scared, but I had no idea just how terrified she was, because she was protecting me. When Daddy was drunk, he was capable of anything. Once he was sober, he would have been sorry, but that would not have brought either of us back.
At that time, we attended a small Methodist church in the country. Due to the threats Daddy was making, our minister and his wife had begun following us home after each service to be sure we were safe. Most nights, everything was fine, but this night was different. This night my mother knew as soon as she opened the door that something was very wrong, because she could hear the window unit air conditioner in the upstairs bedroom running. She knew, without a doubt, that it had not been on when we left. In desperate fear, my mother reached underneath the couch for her pistol and, with me on her heels, walked slowly up the wooden staircase. It seemed like such a long walk up those creaky stairs. My heart was pounding and I know hers was too. We had no idea of what we would find, or if we would find anything at all. We gingerly walked into the room. At first, everything seemed in order, but suddenly my dad rose up, facing us, from where he had been hiding between the wall and the bed. My mother pointed the pistol at him, but as soon as she realized he was unarmed, she lowered it and yelled for me to go call the police. My dad, in his drunken slurred speech, said, "She can't call. I cut the phone lines." And he had. So there we were, the three of us, no longer a family, but instead players in a horrifying, crazy situation. In sheer terror, my mother and I ran downstairs to get our minister who had been waiting in his car outside. My dad was right behind us. He burst through the front door, almost knocking down our minister, as he ran out into the darkness.
At some point the police were called. We found out that Daddy had borrowed a crowbar from our next door neighbor and pried open the back door, after cutting the phone lines, all in preparation to be in hiding in our house when we came home. I don't know why our neighbors loaned him a crowbar, but I am sure he had a convincing story as to why he needed one. The police did nothing. Even though my parents were divorced, the house was in my mother's name only, and my dad had clearly broken in, they said it was a "domestic issue" and they would not arrest him. The lack of police support was something that I didn't remember. I cannot imagine how utterly scared my mother had to have been, knowing that even the police were not going to help protect us.
My mother recently told me that she was not sure what she would have done if he had been armed that night. She said she knew she could never shoot him in front of me. The truth is, if he had been armed, she probably would not have even had a chance to shoot first. He was a crazed man at that time, and he had been drunk for days. If my dad had a gun that night, I know without a doubt, that my mother and I would not be here today. My mother always protected me and she did it well. She remains an incredibly strong lady and I am proud to be her daughter.