I am finding that some stories are easier to tell than others. I thought that enough time had passed to allow me to tell the details of the stories without reliving the pain. While sometimes that is true, some stories are just so traumatic that when I start to write them, I have a physical pain in my heart and thus, they take a longer time to write. And I am also mindful that many of my Daddy's relatives read here and for some of them, this is the first time they have heard these stories. I can imagine how hard it must be for them and I am truly sorry. I love and respect my family and never want to hurt them, but I promised to be honest and that is what I am doing. I believe the underlying theme of this blog is forgiveness and I have forgiven my Daddy for the things he did. I loved him dearly, but it does not change the facts, and the story I am about to tell reveals just exactly how an addiction can tear into a man's very soul.
My parents divorced in 1979 when I was 12 years old. Sadly, ending her 19 year marriage to my Dad was probably the best decision my mother ever made. She couldn't take the chaos and abuse caused by Daddy's alcoholism any longer and so she made a difficult decision and they divorced. Little did she know that dealing with Daddy was going to get much worse before it got better.
I saw my Daddy, but not regularly. Most of the time, he could not stay sober long enough to come pick me up on his visitation nights. He definitely hit rock bottom for quite awhile. A few years passed and he eventually moved to Dallas and was seemingly doing well. He had a good job, a nicely furnished apartment and (to a little girl from Midwest City, Oklahoma) what appeared to be an exciting life in Dallas. He would call and tell me stories of the places he went and the restaurants where he ate. He talked about the beautiful flight attendant he was dating and made everything sound so glamourous. I missed him. I had just turned 16 and was hitting a rebellious stage. I thought I was an adult and even though my mother was extremely against it, I decided I was going to Dallas to see him.
I flew out on a Friday afternoon and Daddy picked me up at the airport. He was sober and delighted to see me. From the airport he drove us straight to (what I thought at the time) was a fancy restaurant called The Crazy Crab. He let me order anything I wanted and I ate crab legs until I could eat no more. I felt special and like an adult. He drank a few drinks with dinner, but honestly seemed fine and we had a wonderful evening. By the time we were finished with dinner, it was late and we went back to his apartment where he continued drinking and I fell asleep.
Daddy lived in an apartment complex called The Way in Dallas. The apartments certainly were not upscale like he had said, nor were they in a good part of town, but his apartment was nice and he had decorated it like a swanky bachelor pad. The complex had three levels and Daddy lived on the third floor. There was one staircase that led to each level and once you reached the top floor, there were two apartments that shared the balcony. The apartments also had a private back balcony with a sliding glass door.
On Saturday morning, he drove us all over Dallas while he showed me the sights. To hear him talk, "the Big D" was his town and he was enthralled with everything about it. He even took me to the bad part of town where I saw prostitutes being arrested. He wanted me to see it all, the good and the bad, and love the city the way he did. Those of you who knew him, can probably hear his voice talking about Dallas now. He genuinely loved it, and I loved seeing all the places that we had talked about. After a wonderful morning though, things began to decline rapidly.
We returned to the apartment late that afternoon. Daddy immediately opened a huge bottle of whiskey and began drinking. He had a few drinks and I begged him to slow down and not have any more. He was upset with me and said I was accusing him of getting drunk and he wouldn't be accused in his own house. I went into the kitchen and began making dinner while he went to the back balcony to light the grill. I thought if I could get him to eat something, he would be okay. I was wrong. All through dinner, he continued to drink until the majority of that big bottle of whiskey was gone. He was staggering and slurring his words and becoming more and more belligerent. I tried to stay out of his way, but the apartment was small and there was really no place to go.
I was reading a book in the bedroom when he came in with the gun. As I looked up and realized just how drunk he was and what he was holding in his shaking hand, I knew that I was in great danger. He was making no sense and kept waving the gun in the air, cursing, and occasionally pointing at a spot just over my head. He screamed and said that everytime he looked at me, he saw my mother and he wanted to kill her. I was frozen with fear but I knew I had to get out of that apartment. I ran into the living room and immediately called a taxi company whose number was on the front of the phonebook. My dad was outraged that I would try to leave. Calling me every bad name he could think of, he ripped the phone out of the wall and threw it across the apartment. His wallet was on the couch and I took $20 out of it, grabbed my bag, and ran out the front door.
My dad was right behind me and he was raging. He grabbed me by my arm and twisted it as hard as he could as I screamed in pain. And when I jerked away from him, he picked me up and hung me over that third floor balcony, upside down, holding me by my feet. I remember immediately becoming very still and feeling extremely cold. Somehow I knew not to move. I remember looking at the cars so far down in the dark parking lot. I remember thinking he hadn't changed at all. I remember being sure I would never see my mother again. He was screaming at me, telling me that the only way I would leave his apartment was in a body bag and for a minute I was certain that he was correct. His screams caused the lady who lived in the apartment on the shared balcony to open the door and inform him that she had called the police. He cursed at her, pulled me back onto the balcony, and went into his apartment, slamming the door as I ran down three flights of stairs into a dark parking lot just as the taxi pulled up.
I think about this night sometimes and can't believe that I survived it. I was barely 16 years old, and was in a big city, alone, injured and terrified. When the cab driver asked me where I was going, I asked him to take me to the airport. I had a return ticket for the following night, and I hoped I could get on a flight. I paid for the cab with the money I had taken from Daddy's wallet and walked into the airport, holding my broken arm tightly by my side. The airline allowed me to change my ticket and to use their phone to call my older sister, who in turn, found my mom and Poppa to tell them to meet me at the airport. I was one of the last passengers to board the plane and was seated in the middle of a group of Navy men. It was obvious that I was injured and upset. The older of the men immediately got up and put my bag away for me. He sat back down beside me and took my broken arm between his big hands and held it steady throughout the flight as I sobbed the entire story to him. Once we landed, he took me to my mother and Pop and stayed for a few minutes to be sure that I was okay. That kind man was a Godsend to me that night.
The physical wounds healed, but the psychological ones still remained and I was even more scared of exactly what Daddy was capable of than ever before. I think, had he been mean all of the time, it might have been easier, but because he was so wonderful when he was sober, I kept getting lulled back into a false sense of security. In any event, I vowed to never see him again after that night, a vow I kept for a year and a half until I found out he had once again remarried and that I had a baby sister on the way. I know for a fact that this incident is the reason I have always been so protective of Stormi. And I can assure you, had her mother not been a good woman, I would have taken her from that home myself. Stormi is the reason I had any relationship with my Daddy after that night and while I went through Hell with him many more times, having my baby sister made it all worthwhile. I know without a doubt, my experiences with him made me stronger and more confident and for that I am thankful.
Daddy lived in the third floor apartment directly above the yellow Corvette.