The Family Skeleton

No matter what it was, any difference I had from my family I attributed to having a different father--a father I didn't know. I thought I was smart because of that father. I was outgoing because of that father. I wanted to go out all the time rather than spend time with my family because of that father. I never wanted to believe that father played any sort of role in my life. He was never there. I never knew who he was. I didn't even know of his existence until I was twelve.

I will never forget my mom calling me into the living room and telling me she had something to tell me. She was sitting in the wooden rocking chair, and she told me I was born of a different father. At the time, I reacted like it was nothing. I asked if my brother knew. He didn't. She asked if I remember being adopted by my dad. I didn't. It was such a seemingly unremarkable event. I wasn't mad or sad. I was more worried about hurting my mom. I thought it was ok. I think I said that it didn't change anything.

But it changed me.

I still wonder if she ever should have told me. By that time, it didn't seem very relevant to my life. I suppose she worried that I might find out elsewhere, or that I should know my family medical history wasn't complete. It's probably that someone might spill the beans to me that was the real motivator for her. I just wish if she were going to be honest with me, she had done it all along. Maybe she thought I knew somehow. I do have memories from all the way back when I was about one year old. I don't know. It's silly to speculate. The only way of knowing is to ask her, and I really don't want to bring up any more bad feelings.

The only other time I did bring it up was the only time I ever yelled at my mother. She found out I'd lied to her. It was in my big, bad lying days. I don't even want to go into the details of how it all came to pass. I was very, very sick though. And I told (yelled at, actually) my mother that I was the one who wanted to kill myself, not my friend who I supposedly stayed with that night. I don't know how the father issue came up, but she asked if I wanted to know whom he was. I swear, time stood still at that moment. I never even thought that she might offer that piece of information to me. I still believe that was my one moment in life to know. I turned down the offer. I told her it didn't matter.

I don't think it does matter who it is. The only good reason I can think of to know is for a medical history. Other than that, he has no bearing on my life. I don't want to know him. Knowing him might make me hate him rather than feeling indifferent. I don't need more hate in my life.

Sometimes I do wonder if he knows of me. At times I think there is no way he couldn't know since my mom lived in the country where everyone knows everyone else's business. But she worked in the city, and she obviously had military connections (my dad was military), so it could have been anyone. He might not have a clue. And I don't know if I have other half-brothers or half-sisters. But I don't feel like I need to know, and I don't feel any yearning to find him or them, if they are out there. It's all just curiosity. It comes up when a man that's my dad's age looks at me too long, like the man that used to come stare at me when I worked at the department store, or when the doctor asks me for my family history. That's when it comes up directly. I don't think I've ever admitted that there is an undercurrent flowing through my thoughts a lot of the time.

I do find myself thinking about it more now. I don't think of him more, but how the information has affected me. Everything wrong with me was pinned on him. Everything my mom doesn't like about me is his fault. I don't know if she thinks that way, but it's the way I think. I probably have always believed that's the way she thinks too. The worse I get in handling my life, the more I fulfill that belief that I'm not good enough and never will be. I can never not be a bastard child. I have made it real.