I'm an imperfect person, and don't play well with others. From a childhood where I pretty much reared myself, I taught myself to tie my shoes, put myself to bed, say my prayers, and make myself as invisible as possible. Isolation doesn't breed a well-rounded child. It doesn't help that kid make friends or take care of themselves. It doesn't teach them how to cut their nails or wash their hair, bathe correctly, or have the kind of manners that people like. Surviving that kind of childhood is an achievement, but you get no trophies for it. People can't understand why you're cold, have no feelings, can't maintain friendships, or sometimes disappear. These are part of my toolkit, and they don't work well in the World. They don't make for good marriages or parenting.

Those of us packing that toolkit don't want it. We want to be the friend everyone wants to have, the lover no one would ever leave, the parent that no child ever would abandon. But we're imperfect, scarred and scared. We will always have a bit of us who hides under the bed, in the closet, or runs away. That's how we've coped, and hopefully someone falls in love with us despite our toolkit and personal crap, and sees beyond the walls we've put up.

Sometimes just surviving is an act of defiance, a middle finger pointed at life.

My father abandoned us when I was a baby. It was my parents' second marriage to each other, and we were disposable. By the time he passed away, he'd married about 6 times, including twice with Mother.  When I was almost five my parents finally got a divorce, probably so he could remarry for the fifth time. They're not alive anymore for me to ask why it took so long to get around to doing it. I can't even find a record or photographs of that second marriage.

My mother was rearing another daughter when she and my father remarried. Mother knew his track record. She knew he had a horrible temper, knew he could go from charming to frightening fast. I didn't see that side of him for years, but even as a little kid knew they were awful together. There was one other divorced family in our north Louisiana town. It just wasn't done back then. Ridgid, hardcore Protestants back then thought it sinful to end an marriage. Wife beating? She must have done something to deserve it. We were a prime source of gossip. 

My father lived miles away in Monroe then, and for a long time we only saw him at Christmas. He bought expensive cars every other year, spoiled his mother, and liked nice suits. When Patrick showed up, he expected female adoration and flattery, having been a spoiled son, and anything else infuriated him. This is what I knew before eight years of age. That and don't sit outside and wait for him to show up as promised. Don't cry yourself to sleep after being around other kids' dads.

Over ten years ago my mother died of lung cancer and pneumonia, and less than a year later my father died. She started smoking at fifteen, and had quit a few years before she died, but the cancer cells hadn't cared. She was Stage IV and wanted to die. My father's health had been crappy for years, my last stepmother was more of a nurse than wife. When he died, she was financially worse off than when he'd married her as a young widow, not that much older than me.

I refused to sit at his bedside as he died.  I'd had enough therapy to know how to protect myself from him, and the other toxic people in my life. There was no way I would sit at his side and pretend to be sorry he was going. 

Patrick abandoned wives and children, physically abused some of us, and had tried to sexually assault me. I was glad he was dying. Could not wait to hear that the monster had finally gone.

On the day of his funeral, my husband, small sons, and a childhood friend went with me to the cemetery. No one talked to me except my stepmother, who'd always had a kind heart. 

A cousin gave a eulogy about a great Christian son, brother, husband , and father. I shot a glance at my husband to see his expression. He rolled his eyes at me and squeezed my hand. He knew, he lives with the broken person I am, and knows where most of it came from.

My sisters, their children, my aunts, uncles, and cousins were full of  righteous anger. How dare I not love the man they'd invented, the broken, sick, unrepentant one who caused so much misery?

Misinformation, prejudice, hate, alienation, propaganda, ill wishes fill life. Love, unconditional love, which never wavers, never abuses, never forgets, gets us through life. Makes it bearable and worth living.