I thought today about the day my dad left.  And I realized that I hadn't really thought about that day before.  I mean, I have spent a lot of time thinking about the fact that he left, and I have spent a lot of time thinking about the days that followed (especially my grandpa's funeral...which was 10 days later; yeah, my dad had really good timing...), but I haven't really thought about that day specifically.  It's been a little over a year since it happened, and I hadn't thought about it once.

I was sitting on the couch working on my grad school applications; actually I was revising my essay for U of R.  My dad came in late from work, which was nothing unusual.  He was always late coming home.  I looked up from what I was doing and told him hey.  He asked where mom was.  I told him she was out in the yard.  He left to find her, and I went back to what I was doing.  The next thing I knew, my mom came in to the house hysterical.  I asked her what was wrong, and she told me to ask my dad. He told me not to worry about it, it was none of my business.  Then mom said that he was leaving, and she stormed out of the house, still hysterical.  That left me and my dad alone.  He tried to say something to me, I interrupted him and told him to go to Hell and that I didn't want to look at him.  He turned and calmly walked up stairs and started packing up his stuff.  I sat on the couch for about an hour.  I didn't move.  I finally got up and went to find my mom.  She was in the driveway with our neighbor, who is also one of her best friends, still sobbing.  I took her inside.  My dad slept in the guest room that night.  Wade and I slept with mom in her room.

He told me it was none of my business.  None of my business that he was ruining my family.  None of my business that my father had spent the last 5 years being a total jerk, and was now just walking away from all his responsibilities.  Right.  Awesome.

He was so. calm.  That was one thing that actually struck me when he first got home and asked me where my mom was.  He was calm.  How can someone be that way when they are destroying something so important?  

He stayed in the house that night.  No one wanted him there.  He obviously didn't want to be there.  Why the hell did he stay there?  Because he is a control freak; he wanted to lord over us all for one more day, and he wanted to continue to make his presence felt as long as he could.

I should have known it was coming.  I should have felt something different when I talked to him when he first got home.  I should have seen it coming, and I should have warned my mom.  Or done something. 

I'm glad I said what I did.  One of the reasons my dad and I butted heads so much for so long was because I would call him on his crap and tell him exactly how I felt.  Feelings always made him really uncomfortable, hence I always made him really uncomfortable.  That and I wouldn't let him push me around the way my mom did.  He was a liar, and I was honest. He couldn't control me and if he can't control it, he wants nothing to do with it.

I was totally paralyzed...physically for a while, and emotionally for a long time (I didn't even think about any of this for a year for Pete's sake).  And that surprised me, and scared me.  I have never been one of those people who loses their head in a crisis, and I am usually pretty good under pressure.  Plus, I had been telling my mom for YEARS that I didn't understand why she stayed with my dad; it used to make me so mad and frustrated that she let him treat her like crap.  I should have been relieved right?  His toxic energy was going to be gone from my home.  But no, I just sat there on the couch like a moron.  Also, I was an adult.  It's not like I was a little kid.  I was a big kid.  It shouldn't have affected me, an adult, as strongly as it did.  Why did it paralyze me?  It terrifies me that one person, one persons decisions, can affect my life and my emotions that much.  It's not fair, and I don't want anybody to have that much power over me ever again.  Even now, writing this is exhausting me.  I hate this feeling.

It is amazing how I went more than a year with out thinking about it, but as soon as I did think about it, the memories were so vivid and right there, easily accessible.

I had a hard time even wanting to post this.  I don't want to be melodramatic, and I don't want people to think I dwell or ruminate on this stuff.  Most of the time it is totally outside of my mental activity.  I just want people to understand what happened and why I was as angry as I was, and I want to understand it, too.  Anyway.  There it is.