I've been searching them for years. I'm sure that might sound morbid, and perhaps it is, but what I was searching for wasn't death, but... PEACE. I knew I would eventually discover that my tormentor and abuser, my biological father, had died. No one lives forever even if they try to in your nightmares. His increasing age along with years of alcohol abuse and pack-a-day habit led me to keep digging. I heard a rumor a couple of years ago that he had died. I never found an obituary, so I thought the information was a mistake or miscommunication. His current address was still listed online, as well, so I dismissed the information. A couple of weeks ago, I continued my random (yet routine) online search. No obituary. Something prompted me to keep searching. I proceeded by looking up addresses just in case he moved. Several websites had his name, current age- 78, last known addresses, and listed people with whom he might be associated. I was about to give up, but then came across a lone obscure website. His name. "DECEASED. Age-74." No addresses. No people. No dates. No associations to verify that this was actually him. It was, however, the first thing I'd ever come across that might verify the rumor of his death that I had received a few years prior, so I kept on. I checked the county records where I believed he last resided to see if a death notice had been posted. No luck. I would have to go to the courthouse, pay their fees, and also prove that I was his biological daughter, and I didn't know if I had that in me. It would have been a huge ask of myself. I got IronMan involved and he paid to access the obscure website that listed my biological father as deceased. Even behind the paywall, there was no additional information. I kept thinking to myself, this is just the way of it. Why would I ever expect anything to be clear? Of course it would be like this and wouldn't be simple. I was conflicted with weird emotions of not knowing how to feel. Is he dead? Is he alive? How in the world would I even begin to process the "probably" but we don't know for sure? I was home alone and I shouted out loud, "Tell me, SOMEONE, how to feel!" There was no PEACE.
Several years ago, a stranger messaged me on Facebook 0n behalf of my biological father (I will call her Jane to protect her real identity). She told me that she had been looking for me. My father told her all about me (what he knew anyway). She assured me in desperation, "He's a changed man! Will you please pray HARD about contacting him?" She sent a picture of him playing with her small kitten as if that would be evidence I could weigh against the life I lived with this man. Those hands that gently held her kitten were never gentle with me. I told her that I was sincerely glad he had someone in his life that cared about him, but to me he was a monster who had damaged me for life by his violence against me and my mother. I would not be reaching out. He left my life for the most part when I was nineteen due to the long, overdue divorce. I only saw him a handful of times when I was in college. After I had been married for a few years, I started to feel GUILT about being the "only person" that could possibly reach him. Christian evangelicalism had poisoned my perspective at the time and I now understand that it would have been OKAY, possibly even necessary, to protect myself, but I didn't then. That unpacking is for another time, but it informed my decision-making in my young adult life. It felt more like an "eternal" pressure that I was responsible for him, my father...my ABUSER. Regardless, I knew I wouldn't have PEACE if I didn't try. IronMan supported me, and we met my father two or three times, but it was abundantly clear fairly quickly that he had not changed... at all. I tried to facilitate some type of closure with him from the years of HORROR while simultaneously trying to extend grace so I could move on. I didn't know the clinical terminology at the time, but it was a textbook example of gaslighting. He abused me the entirety of my growing-up years, and he not only denied it, but made me feel it was wholly my fault. The good news is that I finally felt RELEASED from the burden that he needed ME to save him from something. As a result, I physically distanced myself from him. However, traumatic nightmares continued into my mid-life. The nightmarish daydreams still continue, but when I'm awake, I have a little more control to try to change the re-runs in my mind. It might not make sense to some why I would care if this man was still living. I can't explain it, and I believe each victim will likely have a different experience. For many years, I thought it would be a relief to find out he could no longer come after me to hurt me or try to kill me. It became important for me to know if this man was dead or alive and HOW I would verify that beyond doubt. The random message that I had received from Jane seven years prior came to mind.
I tried to prepare myself for several different outcomes. If I contacted Jane, maybe she wouldn't respond at all? If she did respond, was I prepared for the conversation? I wasn't sure, but I was at a dead end, and this seemed like the only real possibility to get the information I was seeking. Heart pounding, I courageously typed, "Hello, Jane. I know this is out of the blue, but would you be willing to answer a few questions for me?" In less than five minutes my notifications chimed. She had kindly responded. I apologized for the possible abruptness of my question, but proceeded, "Did my father pass away?" Her immediate response unexpectedly jolted me, "Yes." This is a person that evidently cared about my father. As far as I knew, she hadn't experienced the man that I did, and the manner of which I asked her for difficult details could honor her for her extension of kindness that she gave to another person no matter who it was... even if it was HIM. I would also try to dig deep and honor the fact that he was a human being created by God. I could offer that, albeit undeserved, crumb as his biological daughter as the conversation continued. THAT IS GRACE. It turns out, my father wasn't anywhere near his last known address which is likely why I was having trouble finding a death notice or obituary. He had been living in an RV for a few years and after some kind of disagreement (allegedly not his fault- bless Jane for thinking this) was kicked out of the RV park where he lived in Georgia (where Jane had met him) and had to move to Alabama to a different RV park. I couldn't quite figure out how he managed such a move in his seventies, failing health, and mostly alone, but apparently he had some "truck driver friends" that helped as they were passing through. He had gotten into a serious fight a few years prior to all of this (also allegedly not his fault) that resulted in serious bodily injuries and left him with scars on his face. He still smoked like a "freight train," and all I could think of were his yellow teeth, pungent breath, and nicotine stained walls in the house where I grew up. As an adult, I've often thought that I must have reeked like stale-alcohol vomit and cigarette smoke when I went to school as a child, but it was truly the least of ALL of it. The conversation continued and revealed that he had suffered with Alzheimer's. The image became sad as I questioned how a man in his seventies living in an old RV with a broken mind could care for his own basic needs. Jane is the only person I was aware of that had helped him in a practical way, and she lived a state away from him. As for the very end of his life, it was difficult to piece together conflicting details, but with certainty, he died alone. The state of Alabama took over upon his death, and according to my research, he was either cremated and ashes scattered, or he was buried in an unmarked grave. That was the sum of his seventy-four years. Jane told me she saved a few items that were his and asked if I wanted them: two necklaces, a couple of broken watches, and a harmonica that belonged to his father. I told her, initially, that I would accept them. The irony wasn't lost on me- watches that were once used to mark time that had stopped, necklaces he wore around his neck, when his hands were around mine? These were things he wore against his skin, and wore daily. It felt way too intimate. I had a sinking feeling and felt nauseous. Accepting his personal things was a dignity I felt I could not give him. I messaged Jane and told her to keep the items. Perhaps they were even sentimental to her? I thanked her for taking care of him (and I meant it), and I also thanked her for taking the time to kindly answer my questions, and the conversation ended.
...Then out of nowhere from a soul-deep place I wept and wept... and wept. Something broke inside of me. The man who nearly destroyed me was dead. It wasn't the relief or peace I thought it would be. Flashes of his abuse projected scenes through my mind as waves of anger, blame, and regret gripped me. I wept for what should have been, the father I SHOULD HAVE had. There was no tenderness or care in him. He was a selfish hothead that created an atmosphere of violence in our home. I didn't feel safe or secure, ever. How empowered he must have felt making me flinch and cower under his fist and by his words. He threatened to kill me so many times, and I believed him. My own father was the SOURCE of my fear. I had no father to swoop me up and carry me on his shoulders, no father to teach me how to ride a bike, dribble a basketball, or hit a softball. The shame in gym class and on the playground was embarrassing, and added to my already gaping lack. I had no father to play games with me or sit down to have a tea party with me and my dolls. He didn't read me bedtime stories, tuck me in, or give me hugs and kisses goodnight. He didn't train me, encourage me, or give me guidance. The truth is, I wouldn't have minded the lack in these things if the void was covered in love, but it wasn't. The only things he DID give me were violence and abuse in nearly every form. Whatever was broken in this man is what wielded the weapon that broke me. He was a thief that robbed me of the childhood that should have been and left me with the one that shouldn't. And... I... wept. Sadly, he single-handedly destroyed every gift he did have in his life and ended up as scattered ashes in an unknown grave without an obituary. Was it worth it? He, to say the least, did not leave people BETTER for being in their lives, with the possible exception of Jane, and that's heartbreaking. He was a human being born a tiny baby that needed fed, bathed, dressed, and diapered. He learned to crawl, toddle, run, and talk. He made his way and made his choices... for seventy-four years. He met a sad, broken-minded end, and died alone, NOT surrounded by love, and for that, too, I wept. So maybe I don't have the PEACE I was searching for in this, but I have found a way to GRACE. I can try to lay him to rest in my heart and know I offered him some measure of human dignity by honoring Jane, the person that did care about him, and for me, that matters more than peace in this. All of this was further evidence of what I know deep in my soul-bones that EVERYTHING IS GRACE, and in every single aspect of humanity, it is THE most important thing.
Always grace,
Shanda
p.s. For those who don't know my whole story, I have a BEAUTIFUL redeeming father story that I shared several years ago. It's called "Twice Adopted" and you can FIND IT HERE. I miss my adopted dad every single day, and I am grateful for his generous, selfless love. I'll see you in a minute, Dad. 🤍
