What really happened--Part 5
Wednesday, Jan. 22, 2003, 4:00 p.m.

And, for those of you just tuning in to Taliarant, this is part 5 of an ongoing series. Parts 1, 2, 3, and 4 are linked below for your ease. (But I will forewarn you that they're all VERY long-winded.)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

And, back to our regularly scheduled broadcast.

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Right. World War III. I remember getting a phone call from my grandmother, telling me to get over to her place, now. When I asked what was going on, I was told that Gramma had been talking with Mom this morning, throughout the day. I went over there with Anthony, in a funk, thinking that the whole thing was going to blow up in my face. The lies would be discredited, Anthony would leave, hating me, and Gramma would never want to speak to me again. (Yes, I truly thought in that melodramatic a fashion!) Instead...there was so much anger, and hurt and...rage that no one was listening to anyone else. And a part of me--horrible!--rejoiced that I wouldn't be found out, that I wouldn't lose Anthony or the family I had out here. And a bigger part of me was dying inside as I was faced with living the lie I'd told even longer, on an even bigger scale.

The phone was thrust at me. I could hear my mother screaming before the phone ever even reached my hand. "I can't believe this!" I brought the phone to my ear--or at least, the general vicinity--winced at the volume and said hello in the most muted voice I think I've ever used. I honestly don't remember what she said, or what I said. I know that, most of the time, I cried. I don't think I really said much of anything. I was trapped. I didn't know what to say. If I acknowledged that not all of what I'd said was true, I'd lose Anthony. If I didn't acknowledge that not all of what I said was true, I'd lose my parents. And in not being able to decide, I made my decision. I think, deep down, I was more terrified of losing Anthony than I was of losing my parents. I know that sounds awful... but there was a part of me that... felt safe and loved and taken care of with Anthony. And that wasn't there with my parents. I'm not writing this to be cruel, and (thanks to God) I'm not angry at them for that. But it definitely influenced my decision, or lack thereof. I finally couldn't take anymore. Something my mom had said made me angry, maybe denying that anything was wrong, I really don't remember. And I told her I couldn't take it anymore. I hung up on her. I handed the phone back to my grandmother and said that I wouldn't talk to my mom anymore. I remember feeling this finality to my voice when I spoke. I remember thinking, I should clarify, say, "right now" or something... and this total apathy and emotional exhaustion. I sank down onto the couch and sobbed quietly while Anthony held me. I heard my grandmother screaming at my mother, telling her awful, terrible things, hurtful things... and really, what it was all about, what it came down to, was my grandmother feeling guilty, as if she'd raised my mom wrong to cause this, and so she said things I know she regretted the second they were out of her mouth. Off an on throughout the day, different calls to different family members--all on my mom's side--both of her sisters. I remember talking to my aunt in Texas who told me one of the things Mom had told her, one of the things that burned away all the guilt I was feeling and turned me into a raging maniac for all of a minute.

"Theresa, she said that she had to try to keep you out of Larry's bedroom."

Three words only, but I have never felt such a terrible rage in my life. "I DID NOT!"

And then I began sobbing, hard enough that I felt like I was going to be sick. And the feeling of betrayal coursed through me again. (Nevermind that I'd just betrayed them with my lies. I didn't think of that.) She protected him instead of me. And disgust with myself for whatever was wrong with me that my own mother would defend someone like that at my expense. And then it dawned on me how terrible I was, anyway, for the lies that I'd told.

Later, after lots of talking with my Gramma, and the aunt who lives nearby, they determined that I'd never talked to my dad about what had happened. The campaign began to have me speak with him. Ten phone calls from my aunt in Texas resulted in hang-ups, at the end where the phone was only picked up and then hung up, never answered. Five calls (?) from my aunt nearby, also resulted in hangups. I don't know how many calls from Gramma until, finally, I got to talk to Dad.

"How could you do this?" Not angry, just... grieving, hurt, confused, and infinitely sad. "I don't understand why you would say these things, why you would lie."

I slid down the wall I was leaning against, huddling at the base with my knees against my chest. "But I didn't. Daddy... Daddy, I didn't. It really happened." I whimpered, feeling about five years old.

"I don't believe that. I don't believe anything happened." Still, no anger, just this terrible, terrible calm comprised of hurt and shock.

"Daddy..." The phone slipped from nerveless fingers, caught on my lap as I began breathing in little gasps, whispering, "He... doesn't... believe... me... Daddy... Daddy... He... doesn't... doesn't... doesn't... be... lieve... me." I remember rocking slightly, craving the security of being held and rocked and knowing I would never have it from my parents, ever again. I don't think I even started crying, at least not then. Just the gasping breaths and repeating my refrain, over and over. I rocked enough that the phone slipped from my lap and crashed to the hard wood floor. Anthony and Gramma had tried to give me some privacy, and were in the other room. They came running at the noise, asking what was wrong.

"Daddy... Daddy... he... he... doesn't... be.. lieve... be... lieve... mmmmme. Doesn't... doesn't... Daddy..." Anthony gathered me up and held me. Gramma picked up the phone. And I just kept rocking and gasping and staring without comprehending the world around me. Some part of me had always thought that all I really had to do was tell him and he would come and rescue me. And in the back of my heart, I knew that's not how it would have worked out. So I never said anything to him, too afraid to hear my mom's answer coming out of my dad's mouth, or to hear, like I just had, that he didn't believe me. There was a childish part of me that still saw my dad as the shining hero, a knight on a white horse who had only to hear of the injustice and it would be remedied. And it hurt to have that dream shattered, even as I realized that I didn't deserve to have him rescue me for the lies I'd told.

The day, mercifully, ended. I went home to find my answering machine full of messages from my mother, some screaming and ranting, some calm and composed asking me to please call her and explain, one that broke my heart as she started crying and sounded as devastated as I felt. My pager went off almost continually for the next week. I ignored it. I deleted the messages and never called back. I didn't know how. I didn't know how to deal with my guilt and their guilt, their pain and my pain...I didn't know how to fix it. So I ignored it, buried my head in the sand hoping, somehow, that if I pretended it wasn't there for long enough, it really would go away. But it didn't and I lived in constant fear that the truth would be discovered.

I started going to counseling to help me with "what had happened" but all I could think about were the lies I'd told and we didn't get anywhere. I was attending Alpha throughout this whole process and about... I guess a year later, I was going to Alpha as a helper. They have this thing called a "day away" where we basically spend the whole day learning about the Holy Spirit, and there's a prayer ministry time where the two leaders were supposed to pray for all the guests at the table. We hadn't had all that many guests come, so the my leaders actually pulled me over to pray for me too. I found the whole story (in shortened form) spilling out of my mouth with an equal mixture of horror and relief. There, I thought as I sat back after vomiting out all the information, with a vague sense of "now they can fix it and I won't have to handle it."

The leaders looked at each other, faces pretty bewildered, and then back at me. "I'm going to go get someone else to help us pray for you. This is a bit over my head." I sank down in the chair feeling... as if I was too big a problem. The someone else came, asked me if I'd discussed my problems with a counselor. Upon finding out that I was involved with the church's ministry program and had not yet told my counselor about me lying, I was patted on the head and told to toddle off to discuss my problems with the counselor. "If you can't straighten things out there, feel free to come back to me."

I know they were only trying to redirect me to where I could get the most help, but...it hurt, and it made me feel like a freak who was such a big problem that a) no one wanted to deal with me, and b) as if I couldn't actually get any help. I know now that God was directing me where I needed to go. The problem was, I kept wanting to hand it off to someone else, not resolve anything myself, but expecting some one else to take the responsibility, just like I had with Jolene. (Look at this entry: Butterflies.)

I promised to tell my counselor about everything, and left feeling very dissatisfied and unsettled. It took me several tries, but I did finally manage to tell my counselor about the lies and things proceeded much better from there. I still hadn't told Anthony or Gramma and was dreading it. I kept feeling more and more trapped with pressure from my counselor and the table leaders to talk to them and knowing, soul-deep, that I would lose what was left of my family if I told them. I couldn't see anyone feeling anything for me but anger and hate for the problems I'd caused... and yet I felt God leading me to tell the truth. I was so scared.

Sometime last year, I don't know when exactly, I went home from work feeling very numb. I wasn't thinking about anything. I took a huge handful of aspirin--about half the bottle--and then laid down. I felt a little weird but... didn't really think about it. When Anthony came home, I went over to his place to snuggle him, thinking it would be the last time I would be close to him without him hating me. The funny thing is, I never even thought about committing suicide. I just... took the pills. And I thank God that there was nothing worse than aspirin in my apartment. I thank God that I didn't take the whole bottle. I thank God for my life because--even though it was only aspirin--there were probably 500 pills in that bottle.

And what scared me most was the fact that I'd felt no emotion about it all. None. I thought I might die when I went to sleep and it meant nothing to me. And I'd decided that I would tell him about the lies the next day. Except... the next day I felt so weird, so bad. I called in sick, stayed home and slept. Anthony called to make sure I was ok, several times. I felt this terrible apathy and I just couldn't bring myself to care enough to actually tell him. It went on like that for a while. I started snapping out of the apathy and then I started getting really scared. I'd come so close to crossing that line and I hadn't even cared! It felt nothing like when I was in college, nothing at all.

I told my counselor about taking the aspirin about 2 weeks later. She started crying and that startled me. She begged me not to do anything like that again, to please call her if I was feeling like that. I agreed--but couldn't help thinking in the back of my mind that if I felt like that again, I probably wouldn't call for the simple fact that I hadn't cared about anything at all, and that I hadn't thought about what I was doing at all. Just... feeling trapped and terrified of losing everyone... and feeling like I'd been a wire strung too taut for too long, like I was going to snap--and yet, even that feeling was... muffled, swathed in cotton, distant, and unreal. She brought someone else in on our sessions--with my permission--to start trying something new, something called Theophostic Ministry, something that was more God-focused than the regular way of counseling. And we made amazing strides... it really is a wonderful program... but what it all kept coming back to was me needing to tell Anthony and Gramma about the lies, to seperate the truth of what had happened from the story that had taken on a life of it's own.

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I'm late, dear folks, quite late. I'm going to see my Gramma, actually. To have dinner with her and discuss wedding plans. Sorry to leave this hanging, but... there will be more coming. Promise. :)

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